Running for Pizza

Because we are middle-aged (and it’s so much fun), Bill has found that he needs to count his daily fiber consumption.  He was going to do it by hand, but I already had a program – Lose It! – on my iTouch, which is for counting calories, but also happens to do nutritional information like fiber.  Much easier than keeping a paper trail.

So I set it up for him, putting in his gender and age and current weight.  I asked him his goal weight, and he gave me a number about 10 pounds less than his current weight.  I told the program that he would like to lose 1 pound per week, a very modest goal.  The program set his daily caloric intake at around 1000 calories a day.  Bill argued that this was way too low for an adult male.  I pointed out that he was the one who told me a goal weight less than his current weight, and if he didn’t want to count calories to just ignore that part.

Of course, it’s hard to ignore the bar graph that shows your excess calories in bright red every day for the week.  And it’s hard to look at what the program is telling you is the calorie count for a slice of pizza, especially when you ate 3 for dinner.  This is why counting calories is such a great method of weight control/loss.  When those numbers add up, you feel guilty, and you make different choices.

I’d like to point out that the app has been unused for months – not because I think my weight is fabulous, but because I hated being reminded of how many calories I had eaten.  Best to ignore it…ignorance is bliss…I like bliss.

The other night, Bill was entering his meals for the day as we lay in bed.  He showed me how poorly he was keeping to the 1000 calories, especially that day with pizza, and I pointed out that the program gives you more calories when you exercise…had he done anything that day?  No.  His job is sedentary, and he had not made the time to do anything else.

“We could have sex tonight…” he suggested.  Foreplay for the middle-aged.

“Does it give calories burned in ten minute increments?”

Laughter is also good exercise.

He checked the program and found sexual activity.  “Sorry.  It only does 30 minutes increments.”

“How many calories?”


“That’s it?”  

“Wait.  You can change it to ‘vigorous sexual activity’.  That’s nineteen.”

“I think I’d rather go to sleep.  Hardly seems worth it.” I teased, but it was after 10 pm.

“Vacuuming is 95 calories for a half hour,”  he mentioned, flipping through the list.

“Vacuuming burns more calories than sex?  Hmm.”  Housework was suddenly very appealing, but not as appealing as sleep.

“Sleep is not listed,” my husband pointed out.  Oh, well.  The mattress was too comfortable and the hour too late to care.  “Can you get me up in the morning when you go running?”

Yes.  That I would do.  Just so his bar graph would look nicer.

He’s the best

I’m falling in love all over again.

My husband has just spent the last hour playing chess and checkers with my brother, Glenn, who has Downs Syndrome.

And even though he’d really like to get in the shower, he promised Peter he would play “restaurant.”  He’s the waiter, with a French accent.

Isn’t he awesome?

To everything, there is a season

A few weeks ago, I’d had it with my cordless phones.  They were fairly old (in terms of modern technology), and were no longer holding a charge.  I had replaced the chargers and the batteries to no avail.  I went to Amazon and found the best rated, cheapest phones they had and got rid of the old set.

I’m happy enough with the new ones, and some features are better than the old ones.  One thing I really miss, though, is that the new ringtones are rather boring, and I can’t assign them to different numbers.  With my old set, if I heard “Old McDonald” I knew it was my friend, Christie. 

I thought I’d be ok with the change until my caller ID identified my husband as the caller. 

No more “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” 

Makes me sad.


Weeks ago, I was lying on the porch swing with my head in my husband’s lap.  He was watching the fish jump out of the lake in the back while I lightly dozed and just enjoyed relaxing with him.

“Would it traumatize you if, many many years from now, I died lying here like this?” I asked him.

He looked down at me.

“It’s just so pleasant, so peaceful.  I’d just like to lie here like this and fall asleep and not wake up.”

“You’re not allowed to die,” was his response.

On Saturday, Billy came into the house to report that the swing had broken.  I investigated and discovered that rust, and not rambuctious children, was the culprit.  When I told Bill the terrible news, he said that he had seen lots of rust the last time he put it together (when we moved here over a year ago), and knew it wouldn’t make it to the next house.

“But I was going to die in that swing,” I moaned.

“You are not allowed to die – ever,” he insisted.

Each of us, separately, decided that perhaps the swing did not need replacing.  Then all day yesterday, we each kept thinking, “Oh, I think I’ll go sit in the – oh, maaaan, I guess not!”

We agreed, we need to replace it with something.  Maybe not a swing, maybe just a couch.  We have plenty of seats, but we want to sit next to each other.  I want to lie down with my head in his lap.

Even if he won’t let me die, ever.

Sharing the same vision, or not

After camping this weekend, Bill and the boys set up the tent in the backyard to dry out.  In the evening, Bill was putting it away, and I went to help him with the rain fly, which is not rectangular.  He started to object to my pattern of folding.

“I usually fold the sides in to make it a rectangle,” he explained.

“It is a rectangle,” I insisted, gesturing to my not-very-rectangly shape. “You just have to think outside the box.”

“I was thinking outside the box,” he said.  “But my box is different than your box.”

Somehow, we make this marriage work.

Love hurts

Amazing how happy a man can be when his favorite team wins.


When doing our Saturday cleaning, I finally threw away a branch of old shriveled mistletoe my husband had plucked from a tree in our yard.  He had mounted it above the kitchen sink.

When I saw it there, I asked, “Do you really need that as an excuse?”


Two years ago, I bought my husband a shotgun.

Back in November, he bought me ear protection.  We never did go out shooting, though.  I think he got sick.

Finally, yesterday morning, we went to a shooting range and fired that gun for the first time.  He shot skeet, and used up most of the one box of ammo we brought.  Fritz had baseball tryouts in the early afternoon, so we had only a bit of time left.  My husband offered to buy more ammo, but I thought the two shots left would be enough for this time.  I just wanted to know how to load and fire the gun.

If you’ve never shot before, the people showing you how to load the gun, chamber a round, keep your finger on the side until you’re ready to fire, place the butt in the pocket between your arm and torso, keep both eyes open and your cheek against the stock, and line the target up with the sight, might fail to mention that you have to put most of your weight on your front foot.

Just so you know, if you don’t do that, you might fall over backwards.

I managed to catch myself, but, boy, what a kick.

And, that pocket between the arm and the torso where you placed the butt of the gun?  The same force that wants to throw you backward is also exerted on your shoulder there.  I only shot two rounds, but I can feel them today.  Not sure I want to shoot an entire box.  Ouch.


Is it Monday again already?  I’m trying to figure out what time I should make my happy Packers fans get out of bed.  It’s events like these that make me want to live on the West Coast.

Crazy love

Last night, my husband happened to climb into bed at the exact same time as I did.  We usually go to bed around the same time, but one of us is still brushing teeth or checking on the kids or something, so we don’t physically get into the bed together.

As I often do, I reached down and pulled the comforter closer to the head of the bed. 

“Oh, thank you,” my husband gushed, “I always feel like I have to curl up at the bottom of the bed to keep warm.”


My husband generally makes the bed.  I almost always change the sheets, and sometimes I make the bed if my husband isn’t home or if there was still a warm body in it when he left for work.  But most mornings, making the bed is a little act of service that my husband does for me, and I love him for it.

Now, if you have ever done something nice for somebody and had them criticize you for it, perhaps you did your lazy, filthy sweet boyfriend’s laundry for no reason other than because he had been wearing the same outfit for 2 weeks you were trying to be nice and he then told you that you folded all the clothes wrong and even the method by which you paired the socks was incorrect, you might recognize that a gift of service is a gift and should not be received in any way other than with supreme gratitude.

And Heaven forbid you should marry this young punk man, I guarantee that he will make you change the way you fold your towels.

{This, of course, happened to a friend of a friend and not me (oh, no), and I am merely relating what I learned from her experience.}

So, even though, every night, the comforter would slip a bit down toward the foot of the bed, and every morning, my husband would neatly make the bed with the comforter a bit lower, I did not point this out to him.  I thanked him graciously, and every few nights, I would haul the comforter closer to the top with, I assure you, no malice or irritation at all.  I am truly grateful for my husband’s act of service.

But then he caught me pulling the comforter up, and I pointed out to him that when I change the sheets, the comforter is at the top of the bed.  I gently reminded him that he makes the bed, usually, and pointed out that the comforter slips lower every night.

He did not know that, and promised me he would do a better job making the bed.  He was so contrite, that I wonder for how long he had been irritated at how I placed the comforter toward the foot of the bed, but had been suppressing his irritation out of love.  Old married couples do that, you know.  Each offers up annoyance at how things are done, thinking that the other person likes it that way…but meanwhile the spouse thinks you like it that way and is equally annoyed. 

My husband will laugh when he reads this post and I tell him that we have been living an Abilene paradox.

This morning, Mary was curled up in our bed when he left for work.  I pulled the covers up with one hand while holding her with my other arm, so the bed is not well made.  Later I will fix it.  And I’m looking forward to an agreeably well made bed from here on out.