No, this is not a rhetorical question. Seriously. While hanging out a a GR thread thingie, the subject came up. About a hero. A hot Alpha, hero with all the right moves and just the right touch of swag.
MY first thought? Honestly? Totaly M/F/M threesome. Then I thought, well DH won't so much go for that one so maybe I'll just keep Hunky Alpha 2 (not to be confused with Hunky Alpha 1, who is DH) in the closet. You know with the other . . .ahem, toys. (Oh please, like you don't have your own? Pffftt . ..)
But then, THEN, I go to really thinking. IF I had another man around the house, I'd want a wife. A wife? Absolutely. A normal afternoon and evening (who has those?) goes something like this.
I smile a greeting to the three beautifl children climbing into the mini van. At last, my day is complete. My angels have returned. The ablsolute joys of my li . . .
"I get front seat!"
"What's for supper? I'm starved?"
My heart breaks. Not one, "Gee, Mom. I sure did miss you" or any "Did you have a swell day, Mom?" Nope. Not a one.
I manage to make it home with the little darlings in one piece. There was a slight delay as we nearly ran off the road because of a vision impairment. Mainly the orange crayon drawing of me. In my face. I don't remember getting that round.
In a mad race to be the first one in the house, all of the van doors are left standing open. As I make my way round the van, closing the doors, I follow the paper trail. Obviously, it's clean out the backpack day. In the yard. For mom to clean up. Or the dog to chew. Then for dad to yell. At the dog. At the kids. At the mom. Because, ultimately, it was her job to clean it up. Right?
The paper trial leads right into the house and stops at the kitchen table. Along with everything else that comes in the door. It all stops at the kitchen table. It's not wonder the light bill isn't paid on time. It's not like it's in the proper To Be Paid folder. It's on the kitchen table. With everything else. Duh.
I make the mistake of asking The Brat what she would like for supper. To the other two, that means they get a choice as well. Amid shouts of "hot dogs", "ice cream", "pizza", and "oreos" I decide on what we'll have.
At this point, what they or the DH want is irrelevant. They're lucky they're getting fed anything.
Supper is done, kitchen is halfway clean and somebody needs a bath. Nobody wants a bath. They'd all rather remain stinkingly filthy. Girls. All three of them. In a fit of bad parenting, I decide it doesn't mattery. They are, after all, the ones who will stink and become "stinky kid".
I am a firm believer in choices. When it suits me, anyway.
DH has managed to find the time to make it home, have his supper and his shower. Did I forget to mention it was Tuesday? Tuesday is "new hunting show night" on the Outdoor Channel. Yeah. He is no help at all.
I begin our nightly After Supper Ritual. I shout at the kids to get their things up for school. I shout at the kids to get ready for bed. I shout at the kids to get their things up for school, again. I shout at the kids to get ready for bed, again. I tell the DH to help me out. He shouts at the kids to 'listen to their mother'.
Yes, I am aware that somewhere during all of this I could get up off the couch and actually go into their rooms. But what's the fun in that? This way, DH can't hear Michael Waddell and I get to indulge in my laziness.
Finally, the children are asleep and I have five wonderfully, quiet minutes to myself before I have to get up and find the broom and dustpan. They have feet and are never where I left them.
On a night like that, HA1 and HA2 are both SOL when it comes to getting the nookie. So my HA2 would absolutely have to be the wife. Because I'm just too tired to be the wife and the sexy mistress. And somebody has to be the sexy mistress. That's always more fun.