Tonight, Willem was watching the Red Sox game, and they were playing against... some other team. I'm a bad sportswife; not only do I not pay attention to important details like who they're playing or what their record is, but I don't even care. I passively and distantly enjoy watching, because I find Jerry Remy's voice and the cadence of a ball game to be hypnotic, but I don't tune in much.

And when I do, I get in trouble, because I'll apply principles of psychology to the game and then Willem gets mad when I'm right. Like, tonight, the pitcher was involved in a temper tantrum regarding a close play at first base. It was the bottom of the ninth with one out to go, and Willem was muttering some mantra along the lines of, "Just one more out, just strike the next guy out..." and rocking back and forth. (I'm not sure if he was in a religious trance or if he just had to pee.) And I remarked, "He can't just throw the next guy out. He's all riled up now, he's going to be all over the place for a while."

And sure enough, he hit a batter and jiggled and wiggled a bit, before finally getting his last out.

"I hate it when you're right," muttered my dearest love, my best friend, my life partner.

You'd think he would be used to it by now.