A Low Carbohydrate Diet

A Low Carbohydrate Diet

It all started on Halloween.

We get about 60-100 kids coming around and this year was no exception.  However, at the end of the night, we had 3 bags of Hershey’s Chocolate Bars left over.  Barbara attributed this to over shopping on my part, but the rule is if there isn’t anything left over, you didn’t buy or prepare enough.

I, being the thrifty one in the family, put the bags in the refrigerator in the garage, planning on using them next Halloween.  Barbara had other ideas.

She put bags in the refrigerator in the kitchen, where they presented a tempting vision every time I opened the door, or even thought about them.

Barbara was basically forcing me to eat them, and so we did.  

By the beginning of December they had miraculously disappeared, just in time for me to take my annual blood screening test ordered by my doctor.

We arrived at the doctor’s office.  We both had an appointment and went in together.

I sneaked a peak at the chart prior to seeing the doctor and saw what the doctor was going to be complaining about.

As expected, when the doctor came in, she admonished me over my Triglyceride level.

“Why is it so high?” she inquired.

“It’s Ina Garter’s fault,” I declared. “You know, the Barefoot Contessa. She and all the chefs on the Food Network are creating my high Triglyceride number.  All the recipes start with: ‘Get a stick of butter’. What could I do? We are cooking now for the first time in 46 years and this is what is required.”

“Hmm”, she said, “why don’t you use margarine?”

“Because it tastes like crap”, I declared.  “What’s the purpose of cooking unless it tastes good?”

“The doctor gave me the “Look”, much as Barbara gives me when she wants me to stop something.  Must be a female thing.

“Oh, and maybe because Barbara made me eat three bags of Hershey’s Chocolate Bars,” I said.

“Three Bags!” the doctor exclaimed, looking at Barbara for confirmation.

Barbara confirmed my statement (at least to my eating the 3 bags) with a nod of her head.

“She forced me,” I said, “I had hidden them in the refrigerator in the garage, but Barbara moved them to the kitchen in order to tempt me”.

Barbara rolled her eyes and gave me the “Look”.

“That will do it,” the doctor said.

“And possibly, but probably not, my eating pies might have contributed to the high number,” I added.

“Pies?” she inquired.

“Yes, I have been appointed a pie judge at the American Pie Council Bake off in  Orlando in April.  It is my judicial responsibility to eat as many pies a possible between now and then in order to get a baseline of pie tastes for judging purposes,” I said.

“Really,” she inquired, “how did that happen?”

I proceeded to tell her how I had talked my way into becoming a judge at the contest, and why, I, an amateur, was qualified to be a judge among the professionals who would be there.

“Interesting”, the doctor said, “but that doesn’t solve the problem”.

“Don’t worry”, I responded, “I will cut back on carbohydrates, like bread,and potatoes and the number will go down immediately.”

We then had a discussion about different pies I had tasted and particularly about Key Lime Pie, which the doctor said her husband was very good at baking.

“Ok”, she said, getting ready to leave, “we’ll test you again in May after the contest and see what the number is then”.

“Good plan”, I said.

As she was leaving us she turned and said, “You know you are killing me with this”.

“Killing you?” I responded, opening my eyes wide.

She left without further comment.

We left the office and surprisingly Barbara was a little upset.

“That’s it”, she declared. “You are cutting out pastries and chocolate until your Triglycerides go down”.

“Sure, sure”, I said, “I’ll cut down on bread”

“I mean it”. she said, looking very determined.

That night she asked me to make pasta.

For the next few weeks, we didn’t keep pastries in the house, except for an occasional Linzer Tart, which is Barbara’s favorite.

Last week we were forced to buy a pound of butter cookies to give to my grandson who was sleeping over.  We swore him to secrecy and by the next day the cookies were gone somehow.

I am forced to still eat pies on occasion,  particularly when we are out with friends.  They have come to rely on my judgement in these matters when we order dessert. The last time, I was coming home late and my friends called me on the phone and asked me to stop by to judge a pie they had just bought. They needed my expertise, so how could I refuse?

Unfortunately it was terrible, and they agreed with me.  They are taking it back to the store to complain.  I was happy to be of service.

Barbara and I went to the farmer’s market on Sunday.  I discovered dark chocolate covered cranberries there.  

Delicious and medicinal, how could this be bad?  Of course we bought them.

Barbara chided me on buying them and admonished me for eating them.  She confined herself to eating  pistachio nuts,  which we also bought.

Last night, while lying in bed, I brought in some chocolate covered cranberries and Barbara tasted them.

“Wow”, she said, “lets have some more”.

Now, how am I going to stick to my diet with a request like that?

Am I Going Deaf Or Is My Wife Tricking Me?

Am I Going Deaf Or Is My Wife Tricking Me?

We were in the supermarket, having just come from the gym.  I was at the checkout and  Barbara said she was going to go over to the weight scale to see how far off it was from the gym’s scale.

She returned and we walked out to the parking lot.

As we were walking towards our car, I asked what the scale had indicated her weight was.

“Are you deaf?” she asked.  “I just told you what it said when I got off it”.

“Really,” I replied, “I didn’t hear you.  What did it show?”

“There’s something wrong with you, you know that?  Has your short-term memory gone or are you deaf?” she replied.  “The scale here is two pounds light.”

We proceeded to the car and began to put our groceries in the trunk.

“Maybe you should take the eggs in the car with you instead of in the trunk,” I said.

“Are you really deaf or don’t you remember anything?  I just said that!”, she retorted.

“You did not,” I replied.  “I never heard you say that.  When did you say it?” I asked.

“Just now!” she replied somewhat archly.

“Are you sure you are actually saying these things, or are you just thinking them?” I inquired.

“Of course I said them,” she said, giving me the “look”.  “You must be deaf or losing it”.

I considered her answer and my mind went to an old movie called “Gaslight”, where the husband made the wife think she was crazy so he could institutionalize her.  Was this a reversal of roles?

In the past, when Barbara had said she had told me things, of which I have no memory, I have attributed it to my not hearing her.  She is often trying to talk to me from an another room or when I am engrossed in something else.

Her high pitched voice is also a contributing factor as I age gracefully.  Men lose the higher registers in their audio range of hearing as they get older.  Something nature does a a survival mechanism for those of us who are married.

There is also the selective deafness which has kept us happily married for 46 years to consider.  It has proven invaluable in keeping us from arguing and keeping me from having to do things Barbara has wanted me to do that I was reluctant to do.

Now, on reconsidering all that has transpired, I am beginning to think it is a plot to make me think I am crazy, and she hasn’t really said the things she says I forgot or didn’t hear.

I have asked other husbands if they have experienced similar accusations.  

They all have!

It’s time for all us husbands to form a support group so that our wives don’t literally drive us crazy.

Who wants to join?

Addicted to Scrabble

Addicted to Scrabble

On a recent visit to my daughter, my grandson and daughter downloaded an online Scrabble game to my wife’s (formally my) iPad.

My wife has always loved Scrabble, and is quite good at it.  She always wants to play me at it, knowing she will outscore me by a considerable margin.  I have wisely declined her innocent invitation to the slaughter.

Once the game was downloaded to her iPad, she started playing with my daughter, who is no slouch when it comes to word games.

The outcome of the first ten games was pretty much a slaughter. 

Barbara gleefully reported her clever use of the tiles and the resultant lopsided scores to everyone (mostly me) who would listen. 

She was queen of the scrabblers and sought to engage other players who she anticipated slaughtering as well.  She enlarged her group to include friends and other family members including her grandson.

Around the 8^th game, a serpent entered this veritable Eden.  My daughter was getting better.

At first it was just taking a coveted spot on the board before Barbara could use it.  Soon, the scores were closer together.  Barbara complained bitterly about how well my daughter was doing.  She became angry every time Ronni did well.  When Ronni finally beat her, there was little I could do to console her.

Her only solace was to take it out on the other players.

Scrabble has taken over her life.  She turns on her iPad early in the morning and continues playing until late at night.

She gets angry when players take too much time in between moves, and rails at them for taking “her spot” or forming a high scoring word.  She takes it as a personal attack when other players do well and are competitive.  She wants to win badly.

Saying she is competitive is like comparing her to the US invasion of Grenada.

Last night, I made her turn off the iPad at 11 o’clock.  She was getting upset no one was still playing with her. 

Yesterday she breathlessly reported how she had beaten our daughter on the last play by making a 52-point word combination.

“She was thoroughly demoralized,” Barbara joyfully reported.

Now Barbara loves our daughter, but….

It obviously is getting out of hand.

I am going to look for a “Scrabblers Anonymous” or licensed therapist who is familiar with this addiction. 

Perhaps there is still hope.

Elphaba comes for a Visit

Elphaba Comes for a Visit

I have a cousin, Rocky, who I have mentioned before.  I love my cousin but can’t help teasing her whenever possible. 

Recently, Barbara, my sister and I went to visit my daughter in Connecticut.   We invited Rocky, Larry her husband, her children and grandchildren to come visit us.

Rocky, her husband, her daughter, her son, his wife, and his son graciously accepted our invitation and were coming for a Barbecue.

I emailed Rocky’s daughter-in-law with directions and casually introduced the name Elphaba when referring to Rocky in the email.

For those unaware, Elphaba is the name of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz, a somewhat fitting description at times for Rocky.

On the morning of the Barbecue, my sister and I went to the store to buy some cake, wanting it to be fresh.  I picked out a nice cake and asked the lady behind the counter to inscribe “Welcome Elphaba” on the cake. 

After spelling it out for the lady and choosing an appropriate color for the icing (green of course), she inscribed my little joke and we took the cake home.

Everyone arrived and we all sat down for the Barbecue.

My son-in-law acquitted himself grandly with the cooking, and the food was a big hit.

During the meal, Rocky showed herself to be slightly to the right of the tea party in her views.  She was especially vocal in her desire to acquire a handgun, a frightening possibility given who was asking for a gun.  Never the less we were having a very good time.

When it came time for dessert, Rocky’s daughter-in-law, Cathy was helping bring in the cakes and cookies. She stopped and came over to me and stated: “I can’t bring in that cake”.  She suppressed a smile and a giggle, looking to me to protect her from Rocky’s displeasure.

I knew she had discovered my innocent joke.  I took the burden away from her and went to the kitchen to get that particular cake.

I brought it in and presented it with some fanfare to Rocky, hereafter referred to as Elphaba.

“What is this, you moron,” she exclaimed.  We had warned her not to curse since there were 9 and 11 year olds present or her language would have been much more colorful.

“It’s for you, it suits you,” I answered. “Don’t you know who Elphaba is?” I asked.

“No, you jackass” she replied.

Just then her daughter and son said: “It’s her birthday in two days. Let’s use it as a birthday cake.”

I readily agreed and my daughter got out some birthday candles.

Rocky was incensed both about being referred to as Elphaba and the fact we might actually put all the candles needed for her age on the cake.  There were many exclamations of “moron” and “Jackass” comments aimed at me by Elphaba, some aimed in the general direction of her son and daughter for thinking this was funny, and several more mutterings under her breath directed at me which could not be said aloud in the presence of the young children.

I assured her we would only put on one symbolic candle.  After all there was a distinct danger of a fire breaking out if we used all the candles. I’m not sure why she took offense at that.

As it turned out, Emil her son, had a birthday in 4 days, so she insisted he sit by her when the candle was lit.  She then proceeded to abuse him physically (see below).

Her grandson Joe likes the name Elphaba for his grandmother and I am encouraging everyone to adopt this new name for her. 

I think it sounds so much better than just referring to her as The Wicked Witch of the West.  Don’t you?

Planned Obsolescence

Planned Obsolescence

We made our last payment on our car after 3 years. 

It was now ours and we were free of auto debt.

In the 1950’s, 60’s, 70’s and even the 80’s that would have meant we would be out shopping for a new model. 

Everyone “knew” that the car manufacturers designed their cars to fail after three years so you would have to trade it in and get a new one.

My father, and everyone I knew traded in their cars every three years because of this and because the models actually changed year to year.

Now, manufacturers supposedly make cars with longer lasting components, better warranties, and models that hardly changed year to year, or at least not so you’d notice.

I was planning on keeping this car for at least 10 years, since that was when my warranty ran out.

Since Barbara and I no longer work, we don’t put on a lot of mileage and this car has low miles and no problems.

Or so we thought.

Just a month after the last payment was made, we went to the gym, stowed Barbara’s pocketbook in the trunk and went inside to work out.  We returned to the car, opened and closed the trunk, having retrieved Barbara’s pocketbook, and got in the car.

Barbara opened the glove compartment, put her workout gloves (that’s why it’s called the glove compartment) into the glove compartment and tried to close the compartment door.

It wouldn’t close.

It sounded like something jammed in there preventing the glove compartment from closing.

We emptied out the glove compartment, but still couldn’t close it.

We drove home with the idea that I would try to see what was blocking the closing and see it I could remove the block.

Try as I might, I could not locate anything blocking the closing of the glove compartment door.

In addition, the light in the glove compartment would not turn off, leaving open the possibility of draining the battery if I couldn’t get the door closed or the light off.

I pushed various buttons and tried to locate the sensor for the light, all to no avail.

Still wearing my workout clothes, sweaty though they were, I drove to the dealer.

One of the service writers came over and I explained my problem.

He looked at me, maybe sniffed a little, and properly determined I wasn’t fit company for others waiting in the waiting room. He then stated he would only be a minute to fix the problem, took my keys and left me there.

Usually that meant an hour’s wait.

Lo and behold, he appeared after 10 minutes and told me the problem was fixed.  The cabin filter, located behind the glove box had fallen down, preventing the glove box from closing.  They had dropped the glove box down, resecured the filter and closed the glove box.

I was happy and amazed.  They weren’t going to charge me; I gave the guy a twenty for working so quickly, and left.

I had lost about an hour between driving back and forth to the dealer and waiting the 10 minutes to get it fixed, but I considered it time well spent.

The next morning, I drove over to my friend’s home to play golf.  Our intention was to drive over to a golf course, play a round and then go for breakfast, the real reason for playing.

I pulled in front of his house and pulled the lever that opened the trunk. 

I didn’t hear it open but figured the radio was on and the music was blocking the noise of the release.

My friend knocked on the window and informed me the trunk hadn’t opened. 

I tried the lever again and felt no tension in it.  I got out of the car and tried to use my key fob to open the trunk.

No effect.

I next looked for a key lock I could open manually.  This car didn’t have one.

We looked at each other.

I hadn’t opened the trunk since Barbara got her pocketbook out at the gym.  I keep my clubs in the trunk unless I need the room.

Now, I’m thinking what could I have done yesterday, that first the glove compartment, and now the trunk wouldn’t work. 

Was I cursed?

No, that would be crazy.

Son of a Bitch, I knew what it was.  Planned Obsolescence.

The car was designed to self-destruct slowly after 3 years to get me to buy a new one.  It must have a hidden sensor or means of communication with the dealers to inform them when my car was either paid off or more than three years old.

I suddenly remembered salesmen approaching me every time I took the car in for routine service, trying to get me to trade it in and get a new one.  I pictured the many advertisements I got urging me to trade in my car and get a new one without “increasing” my monthly payments. (I know it’s BS, they know it’s BS, but they still try to get you).

I envisioned a long list of seemingly minor problems that would begin to crop up until finally, I would be so frustrated by them, I would acquiesce and buy a new car.

My friend offered to accompany me back to the dealer and so we set off.

I arrived at the dealership prepared to complain bitterly about the beginnings of what I saw as a long line of problems.

I was also resentful that the trunk hadn’t malfunctioned yesterday so I could have gotten it fixed when they fixed the glove compartment. 

Or was that part of the plan???

As I drove into the service area, a young lady service writer approached me and inquired what was wrong.

“It’s the damn trunk,” I said. “It won’t open.  I was here yesterday getting the glove box fixed and now the trunk won’t open.  What is going on here?”

“When was the last time you opened the trunk?” she said.

“Yesterday, before I brought the car here”, I answered.

“Hmmm,” she replied.  “Let’s look in the glove compartment to see if the secret trunk lock button was pushed”.

“Secret trunk lock button?” I exclaimed.  “What the hell is that?”

“That’s a button in the glove compartment that you push when you valet the car.  It prevents the valet from opening the trunk,” she explained.

I opened the glove box, and she showed me the secret button.  I pushed it, pulled the trunk lever and it worked. I must have pushed it thinking it was a sensor for the light in the glove box.

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about it before?” I asked.

“This car has so many little wonderful features it’s impossible for us to tell the customer about all of them,” she replied smiling.  “Didn’t you study the manual when you got the car?” she inquired sweetly.

“No,” I replied, inferring that guys didn’t do that, we didn’t have to read manuals.

Besides her belittling comment about manuals, I was very happy and relieved.  I thanked her profusely and drove away.  Mollified for the time being that the “planned obsolescence” was at least delayed.

Now we had to decide if we should go back to his place, retrieve his clubs and play a round. Or skip golf and go straight to breakfast.

We looked at each other and headed for the diner.

Having Fun at the Supermarket

Having Fun at the Supermarket

I like going to the supermarket.  It gives me a chance to talk with people and often, have a little fun.

My wife, Barbara does not generally share my views about trips to the supermarket and generally cringes when I talk with people.

I ask for opinions on different brands, ask the fruit guys what’s good today, will graciously offer my opinion on different brands to other customers, and never fail to speak with the person offering free samples about their product.

At the checkout counter, I will often ask for “an exact change discount”.  Often, I am told, very seriously that the store doesn’t offer that. Sometimes I get a smile or a “wish I could, honey” out of an older female cashier, and once in a great while I actually get a penny or two from a greatly amused, older, female cashier.

I find the older female cashiers like my sense of humor.  They are doing their job and find my “antics” to be a break from their routine.

I have gotten them to give me discounts (once $5), credit me for coupons I didn’t have, but mostly when I innocently ask if it is “double coupon day” I get “sorry that was yesterday, if only you’d been here” from them.  

They’re the best.

The younger cashiers don’t seem to get it.  They take my inquiries seriously or look at me blankly when I innocently ask them for these whimsical things.

If there is a young cashier and a bagger, I will occasionally ask them if they wish to play “The price is right”.  I explain that the person who guesses the closest to how much everything costs in my basket will win the chance to pay. 

They usually agree to the game and if they win they laugh it off.  Once a young girl won and actually took it seriously. 

I magnanimously let her out of her obligation.  I actually felt bad about that. But how gullible was she?

My wife rolls her eyes, pretends she’s not with me, or tries to apologize and hustle me out of the store.

I am not above pulling her into my little attempts at humor.

I often pretend not to know her, or insist she pay, or she should promise me some unspecified reward for paying for “her” groceries.  I play the “put upon role” as if she was” dictator for life” of our marriage.

Once, after witnessing our little charade, an older bagger asked how come she (Barbara) hadn’t killed me yet. 

Barbara told him “It’s coming”.

Today, we were out shopping, and we were heading to the checkout.  I turned into the checkout line, and Barbara was nowhere to be seen. 

She had fallen behind and lost sight of me. 

I spotted her looking around for me

I told the cashier I was going to hide and hunkered down.

Barbara finally spotted me and came over.

By that time the cashier had started ringing up our stuff.

I asked Barbara if she was going to pay.

She said ”no”.

I asked her to help with the bagging.

She said “no”.

I asked what she was going to do.

She said, “pay with your credit card”.

I asked if she was going to sign my name, which would have been forgery.

She didn’t answer, but the cashier agreed it would be forgery.

We finally finished up and as we were leaving the cashier (an older female one), gave us a big smile and said: “Have another fun day as always”.

After thinking about it for a second, we laughed all the way to the car.

Some people get us.

Update on Retirement

Update on Retirement

Having stopped working in February, I have to say life is good.

Barbara and I go to the gym 2 or three times a week, get up when we want, do what we want, and try to have fun every day.  We usually do.

Barbara is still addicted to the news channels and follows every political, criminal and scandal story.  I still like old movies.  This gives us our “quality time”, which we spend apart.

We are about to start on visits to places we have discovered through “Weird Florida”, a book we bought and a TV special we watched.  The places sound interesting and we love “weird”.  After all, anyone who knows us thinks we are “weird” too (Barbara claims just me, but I know better).

I still play golf once a week with my older friends and shoot for the early bird breakfast instead of low score.

We recently had a visit from our daughter and her family along with our niece and her husband and new baby.  It made for a loud, crowded and happy time.

We still have my son here with his family and we try to see friends and family often.

Our new hobby, cooking, is going well. 

I watch the Barefoot Contessa and Giada when I am home in the afternoons and by the time they are over (at 5), I am starving and we rush to the kitchen to try out new recipes.  I can’t help it, the shows make me hungry.

We (me) have applied to the food network for a show called “Cooking with Bobbi and Shelly” but astonishingly, have not heard back from them.  We would be sensational as newbie cooks trying out their recipes. We are charming and likeable, at least Barbara is, and would be very popular.  Are you listening Food Network??

Barbara, not so enthusiastic, and somewhat shyer than I, has asked me to provide a stand in for her if we actually get a call back.  I refuse; it wouldn’t be the same without her.  We often seem like an “I Love Lucy” episode, as the following incident will illustrate.

Yesterday we attempted a shrimp Parmesan recipe and nearly burned down the house.

As per the recipe, we had 2 skillets and a pot going at the same time.

We were frying the breaded shrimp in one skillet, prior to putting them in the other skillet, which was simmering with the sauce.  At the same time the pasta was boiling away next to the other two skillets.  Steam, some smoke and aromas permeated the air.  We had the vent fan on full over the stove.

Suddenly there was a marked increase in the amount of smoke and my eyes starting stinging.  I was sautéing the shrimp, watching the skillet with the sauce and trying to keep track of the pasta. 

The smoke increased and now a burnt smell could be detected. 

Barbara and I looked around to see what was burning.  Everything seemed ok, except for the smell and smoke.

A lot of smoke now poured out of the microwave over the stove.

We were puzzled at first.  We weren’t using the microwave as far as I knew.   I stood there stupidly while Barbara reacted and tried to stop the microwave.  She finally cleared it, and I pulled the door open.  Smoke poured out from within filling the kitchen and den.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“It’s my fault”, said Barbara.

Barbara had mistakenly used the microwave as a timer for the pasta.  What she actually did was start the microwave.

Unfortunately, Barbara was using the microwave as a breadbox and had some blueberry muffins in a plastic container stored within.  They were the items on fire. They had melted and burned.

We opened the windows and kept the vent on high and the smoke soon cleared.  We didn’t have to use the fire extinguisher or call the fire department.  A near miss.

Unfortunately, the burnt smell has lingered even after cleaning out the microwave and we are trying to get rid of it.

Barbara and I find this episode funny. Barbara more than I.  She constantly laughs about it. I can just see Lucy running around trying to put out the fire while trying to keep the dinner going.

It is reminiscent of the times (twice) Barbara has caused a fire in microwaves cooking popcorn.  As a preventative, our children don’t let her cook popcorn any more.

The important part is the shrimp dinner was delicious and we will try to do it again without burning the house down.

Too bad we weren’t filming; this would have made a great episode for the Food Network.