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 …

Last Tuesday, I zip home from work, change my clothes and walk Scamp twice as long as I usually do because I’m trying to put some distance between me and all those Peanut Buster Parfaits I ate this summer. I’ve been wearing a Fitbit, and wasn’t even close to my goal of 10,000 steps a day. So I put the pedal to the metal (or the New Balance on the black top, as it were). Got home and whipped together a new healthy recipe for Pork Cacciatore (made with pork tenderloin) and served on spiralized zucchini. Of course, the recipe takes longer than it says on the instructions. Am I the slowest cook in the …

Boy, we’ve had some wicked thunder boomers lately! The middle of the night kind, where that clap of thunder is so loud, you levitate out of bed. Thank goodness, our little dog Scamp is unfazed. He just sighs and rolls over. I wish Charlie and me could do the same. It’s like that thunder has breathed new life into us. Then there’s the storms that happen late in the afternoon. The kind where Mahoosuc Mills turns from Vacationland to Stephen King territory in a few ominous minutes. You look one way, and it’s fine: sunny and full of promise. Then you turn your head and see the Apocalypse bearing down on you. The wind starts …