The other day, I was chatting with Charlie at supper, like you do. We’re catching up on our day, what happened at work, all that. I was telling him about running into Claudia Peavey down to the A&P. I’ve told you about Claudia and her husband Kurt before. Charlie and me refer to them as the “Yeah, but’s.” Meaning, don’t matter what you say to them, they’ll “yeah, but” you. For example, I say, “Hi, Claudia. Beautiful day out there, isn’t it?” And Claudia replies, “Yeah, but, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.” You know the drill. So Charlie says to me, “What’s up with Claudia’s eyebrows?” Charlie asks me questions like this all the time. …

Big day on Wednesday: Charlie’s birthday. Me, I always try to take my birthday off from work, but Charlie doesn’t. “Ida,” he says, “after a certain age, it’s just another day. I don’t want to think about it.” My feeling is, a birthday is cause for celebration, especially after a certain age. I’m on the back nine, as my golfer friend Betty says. Meaning, I’ve lived more of my life than I have left. So I say make the most of it. Heck, why confine yourself to just one day? Celebrate the whole month! Anyhoo, Charlie doesn’t make a big deal of his birthday. Still, I like to make it special. We get up earlier …

An incident happened this weekend I’m not proud of. In fact, I’m a little embarrassed to share it with you. But hey, it’s just us, right? So, picture this: it’s late Sunday morning. Charlie’s snoring in his Barcalounger. Scamp’s with me in the kitchen, dozing on his doggie bed. I’m puttering around, minding my own business, when all of a sudden, I feel one coming on. You know what I mean. Nobody except the dog is near, so I just let ‘er rip: long, loud and unapologetic. A real twenty-one gun salute. “What’s that?” Charlie yelps, nearly falling out of his chair. “Don’t know,” I yell. “Must be a car backfiring.” Could have been my …

Part of a happy marriage, in my opinion, is knowing what you’re good at and doing it. I’m a big fan of division of labor. Forcing Charlie to clean the house with me would be hell for both of us. And truth be told, I have no interest in going to the dump, mowing the lawn, or (God forbid!) snow blowing. We’ve just kind of negotiated and specialized over the years, and now we’re in a rhythm with it. Here’s Charlie’s take on this. I Do the Dishes Our kitchen is tiny There’s no room for two So when Ida’s cooking She tells me to shoo Me in the way Is not what she wishes …

Phew! New Years, the last of our three big holiday hurdles. Frankly, I’m partied out, and am feeling about as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey. So tomorrow night, Charlie and me are taking a time out, doing a quiet evening at home. I’m gonna broil a couple of steaks, whip up some twice-baked potatoes (with blue cheese and bacon, of course) and make maple-glazed carrots. For dessert, I’ve made one of Charlie’s favorites: cream puffs with chocolate icing. Don’t tell him. It’s a surprise! For post dinner recreation, we plan on kicking back in our Barcalounger love seat with Scamp between us, watching “Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve With Ryan Seacrest.” Kind of trips …

The poet of Mahoosuc Mills strikes again. Boots Need Waxing Boots need waxin’ once a year ‘Specially if you’re hunting deer Any decent goo will do “Moose snot” is what we call it, here It kind of looks like that to us. To use it, you don’t have to fuss: Brush your boots off to begin, Then gob it on and rub it in Your huntin’ day will not be blotted If your boots are good and snotted Mine were not when we set out And I went on my own to scout  These tracks that started leading me Around this big, blown-over tree On down a hill with rocks and such And through this …

All of a sudden, I’m hearing this commotion in the bathroom. Sounds like Charlie’s trying to find something. “Hey, Ida!” “Yeah?” “You seen my nose hair clipper?” “Your what?” “You know, that thing I use to trim my nose hair.” “Where is it usually?” “Top drawer.” Nose hair clipper. I can kind of see it in my mind, this heavy, pewter-colored thing, looks kind of like a medieval torture device. “You mean that industrial strength roto-rooter I bought you a few years back?” “Yeah, that. Can’t find it.” Oh, no, I’m thinking. I can picture the thing now, in a plastic tray nestled between five or six lipsticks, all in crap colors, make you look …

I’m kind of embarrassed to put this out there. It’s just not the kind of thing you talk about in public. But I need some help here. I can not get the stink out of Charlie’s washcloths. I’ve googled the hell out of this one and nothing works. I’ve soaked them in vinegar which supposedly does the trick on sports bras. (Personally, I only have a passing acquaintance with sports bras seeing as I don’t like to work out hard enough to break a sweat.) I even tried boiling the darn things, but that was just too home on the prairie for me. I’m at the point where I’m thinking about buying a stack of …

I love food. No secret about that. I love eating it, of course, but I also like looking at pictures of food in magazines, cookbooks, facebook, Pinterest, billboards, you name it. I call this food porn. You know what I’m talking about! In my humble opinion, food always tastes best when you didn’t cook it yourself. What makes book group fun? The books? No. The idle chit chat? Maybe. But where’s the food? Then there’s going out to eat. What’s not to like about that? First off, you got your cocktails and bread basket, and if you’re lucky, some herbed butter. Or in an Italian restaurant: focaccia and olive oil. Then you get to pour …

The Women Who Run With the Moose went to see the Downton Abbey movie last week. You bet we did! For some reason, Charlie had no interest in it. You might not think it’d be me and the girls cup of tea, either, but we’re big fans. Didn’t start out that way when Betty first suggested we watch it together. But you know what? Downton Abbey’s kind of like Moxie. You might not like it straight off, but hang in there long enough, and it starts to grow on you. Before you know it, you can’t get enough. We were all a little bummed out when the television show ended. I mean, the way we …