On Mrs. Cleaver (or Why I Need a Wife)

Today at work, I was ridiculously busy. Which is not surprising, considering I put time in on both Saturday and Sunday to keep a project moving forward. I left the office at six, returned to the office "virtually" at 6:45 and left again at 8:30. But I still had a square meal - crab-stuffed tillapia, stir-fried vegetables, cous-cous. And when I go to bed, my sheets will be clean. Tomorrow, I'll put on freshly-laundered clothes.

These perks come with living at home. Mama kindly fixes dinner every night - and it's usually balanced and nutritious. And I confess - and here, I admit how very spoiled I've become - she packs my lunch. She does the laundry - and she's a fanatic about it. Even though she showed me how to use the new washing machine, she doesn't want me to use it. Because she likes the laundry done a certain way. If she goes to Wal-Mart, she calls to see if I need anything: shampoo, mascara, granola bars.

And so, since I've moved home, I'm eating better - not that it was hard to surpass Cheerio's and Alfredo Broccoli Lipton Noodles most days. I'm clean and pressed - an improvement over not having a washer and dryer and trying to get by with wearing that shirt onemoretime. I'm stocked up and haven't been to Wal-Mart in weeks. And I figure, this is how men have it all. It's not because they're men. It's because they have wives.