What to do about the other woman in my bedroom

My wife is mad at me.

Again.

All I did was bring another woman into our bedroom.

She’s still there, actually, standing at the foot of the bed when we go to sleep.

She’s still there when we wake up.

In fact, she stands there all day, every day. Just looking.

If my wife has to get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, she’s resorted to crawling over me to get out of bed.

Otherwise, she’ll literally come face-to-face with the other woman in the dark — and at this point, I wouldn’t put it past my wife to punch a hole in the other woman’s head.

The other woman isn’t real. (Well, not to my wife, anyway.)

It’s actually a life-size replica of Rosie, the robot maid from “The Jetsons,” made from cardboard boxes and blue wrapping paper.

You might have seen her, er, it in the entrance this summer of the Jefferson Public Library.

The library’s summer reading program was all about science and robots, and volunteer Bessie McClelland Sayre — the local library’s Friend of the Year for 2013 — stepped up to the plate in an amazing way, crafting Rosie all on her own.

I spotted Rosie on a visit to the library and was immediately floored.

She might have 20-ounce pop bottle caps for eyes, but there’s no denying the likeness — Bessie’s Rosie is spot-on.

Suspecting that it might wind up in the trash at the end of the summer — it is, after all, just cardboard and paper — I put dibs on it.

Several weeks ago, I got the call I’d been waiting for.

If I still wanted Rosie, she was all mine. I was free to come and take her to my very own Skypad Apartment.

Of course, I never bothered at any point to tell my wife about our new decoration.

And there was another hitch — our house is in the throes of a pretty extensive remodel.

To be brutally honest, our house right now is pretty uninhabitable except for the bedroom and the living room.

But with the dinner table and chairs in the living room and boxes of food and kitchen supplies everywhere, space is at a premium.

So imagine my wife’s displeasure at me bringing home a 4½-foot-tall cardboard replica of a cartoon robot.

“It’s going down to the basement when it’s finished,” I argued. “I want it for my man cave.”

I use the phrase “man cave” loosely because, well, it’s me.

And it’s a cardboard replica of Rosie the robot.

A cardboard replica of RoboCop it ain’t.

Not long after its arrival, though, we had to make space for a drywaller to work — and that’s how Rosie ended up lording over our bed.

The room is dinky to begin with.

With Rosie in the way, my wife has about a foot and a half of space to access her side of the bed.

A couple of weekends ago, as I was putting away a shirt in the closet, I tripped and fell into Rosie.

But I’ve so far resisted my wife’s calls for her ouster.

You see, when it comes to pop culture artifacts, I’m sort of like a crazy cat lady. I can’t resist taking them in.

My wife breathed a sigh of relief when I was finally outbid on eBay about a decade ago for the giant ceramic mold from which they cast the latex head for the Metaluna Mutant, the iconic monster from the 1955 sci-fi movie “This Island Earth.”

She rolled her eyes when I asked about buying a clump of yak hair purportedly used for the Wolf-Man’s makeup in “Abbott & Costello Meet Frankenstein.”

For my wife, the Rosie saga has reopened old wounds from the time I had a vintage, upright “Space Invaders” arcade game delivered to our then-one-bedroom apartment.

Like every kid who grew up in the ’80s, it had always been my dream to own my own arcade game, like Ricky Schroder on “Silver Spoons.”

We were married for barely a year when I found one for sale — and at a reasonable price — at an antiques mall.

I phoned my wife, who was at work that afternoon, for permission to buy it.

Being a newlywed, she didn’t want to disappoint.

The thing is, growing up and playing arcade games at the skating rink or the bowling alley, it was difficult to gauge just how big an arcade game was.

But in a one-bedroom, second-floor apartment?

It was like having a battleship moored in our living room.

I’m just relieved it never fell through the floor.

After a move to another apartment, I finally sold the game.

And now I’ve found myself at a similar crossroads.

I’m torn between two women.

One brings an instant smile to my face and reminds me of a time when life was free and easy.

The other’s my wife.

And on that note, I guess it doesn’t matter that Rosie the robot is in our bedroom — because I’m now going to have to find a new place to sleep.