HOLBROOK HOUSE RULES

House rules are very important in a marriage, is what I say. And now, here are the Holbrook House Rules, as of this seventh day of November, Two Thousand Whatever:

RULE THE FIRST: Making Up Songs Is Not Allowed. This is mainly for The Holbs, and it came about because there are only so many words Holbs can come up with that rhyme with Natalie (broccoli).

RULE THE SECOND: Natalie Is Not Allowed To Shop Online. This is because once the flood gates are open there is no turning back.

RULE THE THIRD: Natalie Is Not Allowed To Make Complicated Metaphors. This one chagrins me mightily because I am a pro at metaphors. This one came about because too many times during arguments I will make a complicated metaphor to illustrate my point, causing The Holbs, a little slow on the uptake, to have to stop and consider things, and this gets in the way of his point-making ability and argument rhythms, and yes, the metaphors I come up with are a little ridiculous. This rule gets a lot of play at our house, often in front of other people, which causes them to halt the conversation and go "Wait, what??"

Por Ejemplo, The Other Night:
Scene: Our heroine, Natalie, explains to friend Anne why she wants a fat baby, and why she should quit her job post-haste.

Natalie:
It's like this - say you have a championship basketball player, and all his life he's been forced to play hockey.

Holbs:
(poking his head in from the other room)
Hey! What's the rule?

Natalie:
(grumbling)
I'm not allowed to make complicated metaphors...

Anne:
Wait, what??

RULE THE FOURTH: No Puking, Puking Noises, Or Puke Talk. Our most important house rule. Brandon breaks this rule all the time.

Unrelated: I wore red lipstick to our ward's Young Women in Excellence program last night and it did not make me feel fabulous (see fig. 1). I find this confusing and may need to repeat the experiment again.

Fig. 1: Photographic evidence of lipstick, and a larger than average nose.

This Post Two Thumbs Up!

My husband is my blog's biggest fan. (Isn't that right dearie?) But sometimes The Holbs reads my posts and doesn't have nice things to say at the end.

He checks faithfully every night before bed and I watch him like a hawk as he reads, perched next to him in my pajamas. I like to watch his face for reactions. If I can get Crabby Old Holbs to smile then I have done my job. If Crabby Old Holbs laughs, well then I am catapulted into inner somersaults of glee. Sometimes he reads with his brow furrowed. Then my eyes get large and I start to chew on my nails.

He is my biggest fan but he is also my toughest critic.

"Is it fantastic?" I ask.

"Eh, it was pretty good. It wasn't really about anything, though. I like it when your posts are about things."

"Sometimes it is just enough that I report on the day's events." I state matter-of-factly.

Sometimes he will call me to tell me how many comments I have.

"You have five comments today!" He says from the other end of Pullman through my cell phone.

Next to me Barnaby starts gakking.

"THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU EAT CANDY WRAPPERS" I shout while I jab at him with my poking finger.

"Don't get too much of a big head with your blog." Holbs tells me.

Yes We Can Take Naps!

"It feels weekendy" The Holbs says. It causes me pause and I consider: does it feel weekendy?

I don't suppose Tuesday has a consistent feel, does it?

"I don't suppose Tuesday has a consistent feel, does it?" I say aloud.

Most of my thoughts are worth saying out loud I've found. You may say I like the way my own voice sounds but mostly I like the way other voices sound when they are telling me how smart and clever and right I am.

I do enjoy being right. This must be why I am right so frequently.

Both of us voted today but only one of us voted for a winner. I will not say who. But I will refer you to the above paragraph. It was rainy. Rainy and blustery as I stood in line and voted with the other senior citizens that live with me in Precinct 9 in the Cultural Capital of America: Moscow, Idaho. I got my sticker and then the Starbucks folks kindly told me I could NOT swap a free drip coffee for a free steamed milk. And then it snowed for five whole minutes.

And yes, I was napping when The Holbs called me thirteen times because dear sweet Betsy The Flying Yet Unreliable Potato decided to overheat and he was stranded at the mechanic. I was napping during Holbs The Red's Time Of Need. And he had to walk all the way home past the Safeway in the coldest night of November so far and I felt terrible. So I took him to a butter-filled feast of a dinner to warm his chilly bones. (I didn't think it tasted very good.)

And then I was a very, very gracious winner.

Only now Brooks & Dunn is opening the acceptance speech and I am wondering if it is too late to rescind my vote. I don't know if I've ever mentioned my feelings about Brooks & Dunn.

Another One Of Those Days

me and my sewing machine

an afternoon walk with the dogs

cocoa and sweaters and leafy winds blowing

an old cd of silly disney songs i made in college for bad days

lunch from my very own kitchen

hand stitched onesies in packages tied up with string

i love days like today.

Write It Down, She Says

I am in my car in the covered carport of my shoebox house on the phone with my mother. It is 8:45. She tells me news from home and I tell her all the things that have been swimming around in my head since we spoke last. I hog these conversations. The ratio of my words to hers is something alarming like 42:5.

Ned comes by and I watch him go inside. The house is glowing and I can see my chalkboard wall through the kitchen window. I can picture where my mom is sitting (living room) or what she is doing (playing boggle online) or who is at home with her (Blake). I struggle to keep my voice steady as I promise to pray for my dad in his job search. I lose the battle completely as I describe my evening to her and what I am feeling.

She tells me to write it all down.

"Write it down," she says, "and one day when you are up at night nursing a crying baby, you will remember how much you wanted this.

And so I am writing it down.

I see two mothers walking down the street. I am in my car on my way home from another pointless day in a place that is not my own and I watch them walk. One is carrying a baby in a Bjorn and the other pushes a stroller. There are so many leaves on the ground that you can't see the sidewalk. They walk slowly, the breeze is soft and not cold. They chat. The woman pats her baby's bottom through the Bjorn. My eyes overflow and I force them to the road ahead. I am fine by the time I reach the stop sign.

I find out a friend is expecting. I feel jealous, the tears come, but I do not feel angry or bitter. I sigh into my husband's shoulder.

In yoga the instructor tells us to "go to your happy place" and for the first time I don't see myself at Disneyland, where I have my fondest memories of both my family and my sweet husband. This time, clear as day, I see my baby, I feel her weight in my arms, I rock her while she nurses. I am filled with incredible peace, even in the cold gym, lying on the hard floor, with the weird new wave music.

I want to be a mother.

Oh, oh, oh I want to be a mother.

And so, dear future me, I want you to know that I wanted this. I prayed for this.

I am just having to wait.

I don't like it. Not at all.