Why I need a husband. Or a personal assistant. Or at least a dishwasher.

A while back I wrote about why I never want to live with someone ever again. I still do love living alone, having my own space, doing my own thing. But, I do still hope to find someone I love and get married someday. And, I mean, sometimes, it would be nice to have someone else there. Someone to come home to. Someone to talk to. Someone to cuddle with. Someone to share life with. Someone to share responsibilities with. Someone to pay half the rent. Someone to do the dishes. Someone to clean the toilet. Someone to fix things. Someone to do all that other crap I don’t want to do…

Sigh.

I mean, really, that’s the only reason why I need a husband… or, at least, a live-in boyfriend. But, maybe, what I really need is a personal assistant?

Though, I’d settle for a dishwasher at this point.

Anyways.

All I’m saying is it would be nice to have someone around the apartment who could do stuff for me.

I mean, if I had a husband…

 

A husband can do the dishes.

The thing that sucks most about living alone is that you have to do all the household chores yourself. I’m always the one who has to cook. I’m always the one who has to do the dishes. I’m always the one who has to scrub the bathtub and toilet. I’m always the one who has to Swiffer the floors.

I don’t get a break.

I would hope that if I had a husband he would share the responsibilities and do half of those things and all of a sudden I would have so much more free time in my life. Of course, sometimes I’ll mention this to a married friend and she’ll just laugh and tell me, “honey, my husband does shit around the house.” So, maybe I just need a maid?

I should get a maid.

I can’t afford a maid.

I should get a higher-paying job.

 

A husband can call Comcast… and my building manager.

True story: in college, way back when, in a time before GrubHub and phone apps, I used to make my boyfriend who lived across town call the pizza place to have food delivered to my apartment because I hated using the phone that much.

I still hate using the phone and so if I have to call to get something done, it doesn’t often get done.

And because of that I’ve been way overpaying for cable for the past year because I’m too scared to call Comcast to negotiate. And also because of that I let things go broken in my apartment for way too long.

One day, months ago, it was raining hard outside and water started pouring all down the wall of my living room. I did call on that right away because “raining in my apartment” trumps “Val’s fear of the phone” on the scale of things that are important. And my management company (eventually) fixed the roof and it’s stopped raining inside but my wall has been pretty fucked up and probably growing all sorts of mold ever since and no one came to fix it like they said and I have been pretty lax about calling and getting it done…

So, wouldn’t it be great if I had someone else living with me who could just deal with these things so I didn’t have to? Would could just deal with things so they’d actually get dealt with?

That would be so great.

 

A husband can put my air conditioner in the window.

I was at dinner with two women and, when I mentioned that the lightbulb in my bedroom had burned out and that I was waiting for my male friend to come over to help change it, they gasped. “If I can’t do it myself it’s not getting done,” one of them declared.

And not to sound totally un-feminist but, sometimes, I have to admit that there are certain things some men can do that I can’t. Like, be tall.

If I was tall enough to reach my ceiling I would have changed that damned lightbulb myself. But I’m 5’5″ and my step ladder only has two steps, and the jump and twist and pray technique doesn’t seem so safe. So I called on a man who had the great skill of being taller than me.

I like to think that I’m a strong independent women. But there are things that even the strongest most independent women shouldn’t attempt to do by themselves. Things like, install a window air conditioner. Because, let’s face it, if I tried to install an air conditioner myself I would probably throw out my back, drop the thing out the window, and kill someone enjoying an al fresco meal at the Indian restaurant downstairs.

I can’t install an air conditioner myself.

Luckily, I can usually get my best friend’s husband to come over and do it for me. But he has an actual child with needs to take care of now so I try to limit what I make him do for me.

 

A husband can make me pancakes and other food.

I love to cook, don’t get me wrong. But, sometimes, it would be nice to have someone to cook for me. It would also be nice to have someone to share food with so I don’t have to eat the same meal six times in a row when I want to make a pot of curry or a tray full of lasagna.

And then there are those meals that I just can’t make, no matter how to the T I follow the recipe or how many times I attempt to make them.

Like poached eggs.

And Swedish pancakes.

Granted, maybe I’ll fall in love with a guy who also can’t poach an egg or make pancakes or, God forbid, not cook at all.

Just kidding. Inability to make me pancakes is a total deal breaker.

Maybe I just need a personal chef? Or to just give up and order out?

Can you GrubHub a poached egg?

 

A husband can be my Instagram husband.

Not going to lie, I would really love to put up more cute photos of me looking cute drinking coffee or looking cute eating scrambled pancakes or looking cute sitting on my couch looking contemplative. But you need someone to take those photos. And, when you live alone, there’s no one to take them. So I usually just end up using awkward selfies that no one really wants to see.

If I had a live-in man he could totally be my Instagram husband and I could give him my camera and he could take all the photos of me doing all the things all the time and then I’m sure I’d get all the followers on my Instagram account.

And that would rock.

 

Unlimited access to sex.

OK, so unless I put an add out on certain areas of Craigslist I probably wouldn’t have unlimited access to sex with a personal assistant. And certainly not with a dishwasher because I’m not on some weird TLC reality show.

But, if I had a boyfriend or husband who lived with me he would probably share the same bed and probably want to have sex with me sometimes. Preferably often. And that’s a pretty good argument for living with someone right there.

Just sayin.

 

So, I guess, maybe, I’d be open to living with someone someday. Maybe. For now, though, I’ll just suck it up, call my building manager (again) (at some point) and eat my scrambled pancakes all alone in bed.