Working Woman's
Wife
by Walt
Giersbach
According to The New
York Times news service, “Now that women
have solidly earned their place in the work force,
many find themselves still yearning for something
men have: wives…. With both men and women
working a record-breaking number of hours, the
question has become how to accomplish what used
to be a wife’s job.”
I couldn’t get rid of the vendor on line 1,
there was a call hanging on line 2, I was ten
minutes late for a conference call from Tokyo,
and the senior VP was tapping his foot in my
doorway. Worse, I had just spilled a four dollar
latte on my white Ralph Lauren skirt.
“Just a minute!”
I shouted at the SVP, “Goodbye!” I
screamed at the vendor, and “Wait!” I
demanded of the caller on 2.
“You should have worn
a beige skirt to match your coffee,” the SVP
snorted. “See me when you calm down.”
“What is it!” I
demanded of line 2. My husband, David, on 2, was
patient. He didn’t deserve my animosity, but
he happened to be in the line of fire. Collateral
damage.
“Well, the baby sitter
called,” he said. “Jamie fell down and
whacked his head, there’s no more formula
and the smoke alarm is going off.”
“That’s all!”
I screamed. “I work ten-hour days, my boss
is telling me to get on a plane to Atlanta
tomorrow, and I still have to make dinner when I
get home. I haven’t had time to wipe my butt.”
“I’m sorry,”
he said. “Is it your period?”
That did it. I threw the
telephone, which bounced back and hit me in the
knee. “I need a wife,” I cried, putting
my head in my hands.
That night I broke down in
tears again. “What are we doing, David?
Where is this heading? At this rate, we’ll
be toast before we’re forty.”
“Different subject,”
he answered. “I had an offer today. About my
job.”
He knew I loathed neurotic
responses that didn’t answer my questions,
but he’s always persisted in irritating me.
“I make a seventy-five
thousand,” I said, ignoring his interruption.
“A third of it goes to pay the sitter. I
make the meals, I wash the dishes, I bathe the
baby.”
“I pay the mortgage,”
he offered. “Take out the garbage. Hang
pictures and unclog toilets.”
“What offer?”
“Oh,” he said,
his mind replaying the thread of our conversation.
“Yeah. We’re downsizing, and Bill
Monaghan suggested I try working from home as an
alternative to reducing workforce. I’d send
in my reports. Do all my legwork on a telephone
and computer.”
My mouth fell open.
“You could work at home? You’d help
with Jamie?” Then reality slapped me on the
forehead. “You can’t handle being a
stay-at-home dad. You’d go crazy, kill me
with a meat tenderizer or something.”
“No, really.
This’d be a good experience. You could
concentrate on your job and try for that
promotion. My commission would balance out my
salary by me not having to commute. And,” he
paused, a bit nonplussed, “I really like to
cook, but you intimidate me ’cause
you’re better than I am.”
“No, you cook, please,”
I murmured. I was struck dumb. The Hallelujah
Chorus went off in my head. Freedom to have a
career and a family and home had just waltzed in
the door of my life.
“We have a great child,”
he continued, “and we love each other
but….” He looked cautiously at me.
“Just one thing.
“What? What’s
wrong?”
“It’s just this.
Some women don’t respect a stay-at-home
husband. That’s why I hesitate telling Bill
I’ll do it. You’re a Type A personality
and I’m more of a B type.”
“Oh, God, David, I
love you. Do you really mean you’d be….”
Then the thought blasted me. “That means
you’d be my wife!”
“Well,” he said,
scratching his ear, “I can cook and clean
house and take care of Jamie, but I absolutely
refuse to wear your nightgown to bed.”
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