Back in pre-feminist days, busy women used to lament that they needed a wife to do all the sundry work associated with being a housewife. Now in our more enlightened days, some women might still love a wife, but a lot of us just need a clone. I am one of those women.
If I had a full time mini-me who possessed all of my housekeeping skills, knowledge and the stamina that is necessary to run my household I could spend my free time doing anything I wanted. I could wile away the hours by sitting in front of my computer communing with my Muse. Together, my muse and me, would create Pulitzer Prize-winning prose and thought-provoking, life-changing novellas. Then at the end of our fruitfully artistic and profoundly insightful days, Muse would go to wherever it is that all of the other Muses go after a rough day of work, while I could unwind in front of my romantically lighted fireplace, enjoying an aromatic glass of vintage wine and a deceptively lo-cal gourmet dinner with the man of my dreams.
Or maybe I could spend my free time perusing online travel agencies in search of the perfect sun-drenched, tropically located and cabana-boy-abundant beach in which to vacation. Once opulently settled, I could sip umbrella-topped drinks while soaking up local color and collecting attractive characters who would add charisma and charm to my first of many, great Golden Globe winning made-for-TV movie script which I would sell to the Hallmark Channel for mega-bucks.
Alas, I do not have a wife, or a clone or a mini-me. The man of my dreams has run off with my muse and they were last seen hitching a ride on old Route 66 with a blurry-eyed, leathery-skinned, former cabana boy. That leaves me with a sink full of dirty dishes, a ring around the bathtub, an empty fridge and a hungry husband. And so I bid you, dear reader, a fond bon voyage as I sail off into the Realm of my Reality!