Sixteen, Sixteen Minutes, Sixteen Minutes Gotta Get It Right

Thank heavens for No Shave November. The stubble!

Every now and then I like to do really nice things for The Holbsplaya. You know, cute little wife stuff, like cooking him up a tasty dinner, or collecting his thirty trillion pairs of shoes from under the coffee table and putting them away for him without even complaining once, or like tonight, like how I let him take me to a junior high school basketball game. Just because he is so red-headed. These are sacrifices, you understand, and I make them willingly because usually I can hold them over The Holbsy's head someday and use them to get stuff that I want. Win-win, is what that's called. (That's not manipulative, that's just good sense.)

Slightly related: you know, I have this theory about women, which is that once they are married it is like a secret door is opened in the back recesses of their brain, and behind that door is the secret room where all of the generations-old women tricks live, tricks you didn't know you knew because you didn't need to know them at the time, but now that you are married and you need them suddenly there they are, available and at your service. Kind of like the fursploding in New Moon on account of those handsome Cullenses. (You knew I was going there.) These are tricks such as this little gem: Pay half cash, half credit, smuggle shopping bags in through the back door. Or this one: When he asks how you are feeling, say "fiiiiiiiine," look at the floor, and sigh until he offers you a back rub. You know, woman stuff. I know you know.

So, junior high basketball games. I mean, what is there to say about them really, except . . . huh. I got nothing.

First I played a really fun game where I tried to count the number of boys that had already gotten armpit hair. A diverting game, but not terribly appetizing really.

Then I played another really fun game that I like to call "From Whence Armpit Is That Smell Emanating?" I had it pretty much narrowed down to #16.

I tried to remember my junior high but then remembered quickly why I choose not to remember said period and changed the subject in my brain.

I counted the bricks in the wall until that got old.

I hummed the Star Wars theme under my breath for a little bit just to see if I knew it. Turns out, I do.

I drained the last of my can of Diet Dr Pepper and announced somberly, "The soda is gone, time to go home." When that didn't work I pestered The Holbs to go out into the lobby and buy me a Diet Coke. He obliged, he really is a good little redhead, and when he came back, icy coke in tow, I told him all of the thoughts I had that he had missed out on while he had left the room. (My thoughts usually warrant narration, my brain is a fascinating place.) This time my thoughts were about the teenage son I hope to have one day, and how once we have one I can send him to get the Diet Cokes instead, and won't that be nice? Son, go fetch Mama's medicine, I'll say. But doesn't that sound marvelous?

I sipped my soda and thought for a bit about my hair, then about the girl's hair in front of me, and also about her jacket, which was cute and very red. Then I thought about all the smelly candles I have at home and how I hardly ever light them. This struck me as an odd thing for me to be thinking about, for whatever reason. I solemnly vowed to light them more often. That made me feel better. My soda was already half gone, and I was starting to have that funny feeling like maybe I was going to be desperate for a bathroom in about ten minutes. That is a dreadful feeling, you know. Because who knows where the closest bathroom would be in ten minutes? Who can know these things?

I asked The Holbs "How much longerrrrrrrr?" and then frowned down at my boots. Then I had my boots do a little dance for me, and that was interesting for a minute or two.

"Man, it is such an advantage being tall!" The Holbs suddenly declared, interrupting my two-footed puppet show. "How would you know?" I asked and then giggled at my own cleverness. But then, how would I know either? Basketball games can be such tragic reminders of our own shortcomings, you know.

So I decided to send some harassing text messages to the Bishop, who was sitting three rows behind us. That was really fun. But also not, because you can't really tease your bishop too much without tempting the righteous anger of the fates or of God or of someone like that. I mean, for all I know he could be the type of Bishop to lash out at you all passive-aggressive like and call you to be an early morning Seminary teacher, or something even worse, like the Compassionate Service Leader or something. And then I'd have to live with the knowledge that I had done that to myself. Can you imagine? So, just one harassing text message, sent while hiding behind The Holbs, then playing all innocent - What, me? The Holbs made me do it, I swear!

Then I decided to practice my comedy routine. My comedy routine is something I'm pretty proud of. I made some highly witty jokes tonight if I do say so myself, and even Holbs The Grouchy cracked a smile once, which is saying something because Natalie The Funny tends to wear thin on Holbs The Impatient's impatience. Don't ask me why, I mean, beats me.

For about the last five minutes I watched the game. You know something, it wasn't so terrible.

At the end of the game we drove over to Mikey's where there were gyros and hummus and bumping into good friends who are recently pregnant. After hugs and smiles and promises to keep in touch were exchanged I turned my face to the sky. Everybody is pregnant right now. Me next, please.

And then I came home and didn't even eat a bowl of the $2 box of Cocoa Pebbles I got today at the Walmarts. That there is R-E-S-T-R-A-I-N-T my friends.

* * * *

If you know what the post title is referring to

I will totally make out with you.

That is a promise, not a threat.

(Rude!)

If you don't know what the post title is referring to

I will love you anyway

but only if you tell me how I should cook the yams I bought today.

I am in charge of "sides" for Thanksgiving Dinner

and I have yams

and I'm not afraid to use them!

I just don't know how.

Bonus points if the recipe somehow includes mini marshmallows.

'Cause, you know.