My dearest little husband is having the time of his life these days. The time of his life! Allow me to explain!
First, there is the matter of the World Cup. I have lost my husband to the World Cup. He is dead to me. Lost to World Cup Heaven. I am a World Cup Widow but I will say,
it is not that bad.
Every four years my Holbshusband disappears off this earthly plane, choosing instead to wander the bizarre off-hours schedule of the FIFA's designating. When I am asleep he is rooting for North Korea, and when I am awake he is trudging about grumpily in his lack of sleep.
The Holbsbeckham has set up a manly soccer campsite on the sofa (making 4:30AM kickoffs easier on the internal body clock, I suppose), and the dogs dutifully follow his testosterone lead, leaving me all the bed to myself. Glorious! Leg room!
I do miss his manly presence, but when you have a husband in soccer heaven there is suddenly
so much more room on the bed for your body pillows (who are both named Ryan Reynolds), and what could be wrong with that? The Ryans and I have wonderful times together without extra bodies to interrupt. Some nights I think if I wish it hard enough one of the Ryans will grow arms for back tickles.
Some mornings I awake bleary eyed and confused to the sound of The Holbs shouting inane things at the television at 5AM. Things like, "OH MAN!" and "REF! REF!" and "RED CARD!" to which I shout back, "TOO EARLY!" causing the dogs to become all curious and sniff at the bedroom door, as if to say,
Who is this person behind this door with the somewhat familiar scent? And should I remember her?
I mean, I just wonder what these dogs think is going on, is all.
Blah blah blah, soccer soccer soccer.
(But I would much rather lose my husband to soccer than to golf. Golf practically only exists to be a vehicle for male enhancements and Buick commercials, and that is gross. Maybe don't get me started on this.)
Then, there is the matter of the carpet stretcher guy.
The carpet stretcher guy came by early Monday morning. Having a carpet stretcher guy
in our house allowed The Holbs to ask every question his little heart ever desired to ask about the fairer of our flooring options. (Which, weirdly, is a lot.)
The husband has a long-standing love for the carpets in our home. He steam cleans them monthly. He loves nothing more than dumping out that brown water and exclaiming, "Look at how much dirt I got up!" The minute the carpets have dried and the furniture is back to its usual locations, The Holbs is eyeing the fuzzy flooring, waiting and wishing and hoping for
something to spill,
something to send him back to the Safeway steamer rental and his jumbo-sized jug of carpet cleanser.
Possibly it is a sickness. The carpet and the tub caulking, (another time), these are just the things The Holbs loves most in our house.
And so, the carpet stretcher guy showed up and The Holbsy's soul drifted off to carpet heaven.
"How long have you been stretching carpets?" The Holbs asked with awe in his voice.
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk.
"Oh, twenty years."
Ka-thunk.
"Wow! You must be really good at this! What's
that tool called?"
"Uh, it's called a carpet stretcher."
Ka-thunk.
"So, can you just buy one of those things at the hardware store?"
"Yeah."
Ka-thunk, ka-thunk.
"Woah."
Before long The Holbs was on his hands and knees, inspecting tools and soaking up all that the master had to offer. Eventually The Holbs straightened up, smoothed out his pants, and asked, "What do I owe you?"
The check is signed, firm handshakes exchanged, and The Holbs is left to quietly ponder his carpeted kingdom.
"I think I'm going to go rent a steam cleaner," he announces. "Want to come with?"
So I say yes. Because aren't wives
supposed to want to go to heaven with their husbands? I am pretty sure that's how that works.
