This spring, I realized I wasn’t very fond of myself. I was grumpy, I wasn’t fitting in my clothes, I was uncomfortable, and I was pissed off about it all.

So I joined Weight Watchers. I didn’t really mention it to Jerry, except in passing, and then didn’t really ever tell him how much it cost. But I made the commitment to myself to try to get control again, and after a few tough weeks of re-learning how to eat (while I was sick with whooping cough, no less), the pounds and inches started falling off.

And a fantastic side effect happened. Jerry became my loudest cheerleader, eclipsing even my mother in his support for my weight loss efforts. He stopped bringing me junk food and candy and started offering to get me carrots when I wanted something to munch on. When we’d go out to eat, he’d ask if this restaurant was better than that one as far as WW points go, because he didn’t want to be the cause of a backslide. And he started telling everyone — EVERYONE — how proud he was of me. To the point that his friend Russ (hi, Russ) calls me “Smokin’ Hot Wife” now. I love that.

I cannot TELL you how amazing it has been to have him be so supportive, and so very vocal about it. It has kept me honest, because I haven’t wanted those vociferations to stop. And it’s making me take a lot more care in my appearance than I was, because I’m a compliment whore — I admit it. I gotta have it. If you notice something nice, TELL ME. I want to know. I NEED to know. It feeds my ego and fuels my motivation to keep going.

At one of the WW meetings a few weeks ago, there was a woman there who has lost 45 pounds, in SPITE of her husband. She started to cry, talking about it. I just wanted to hug her, because no woman should have to live life without a cheerleader. I couldn’t have done it without Jerry (and here I am at Goal, fitting into my clothes better than I did before I had kids, and I plan to keep going to WW meetings forever — it’s been the perfect program for the people-pleaser in me). I cannot imagine how this woman has lost forty-five (!!!) pounds without her husband’s support, interest, or attention. That takes *incredible* willpower. Especially since she said her husband kept thwarting her — bringing her fresh French fries from McDonalds, bringing her a candy bar when he came back from the grocery store. Things that are meant to be nice, I guess, but they aren’t nice at ALL to a person that’s trying to regain control of her eating habits. I felt so badly for this woman. I wanted to loan her Jerry for a bit, just so she’d get the “Daaaaaaaaaaamn, you look goooooooooood” comments that I’ve been so lucky to have.

Every woman deserves that. And I really think every woman NEEDS that.

So. Every husband out there, take a lesson from my dear sweet Jerry. Tell your wife she’s smokin’ hot. And then plant a big smooch on her. I don’t think you’ll be sorry. ๐Ÿ™‚


Jerry spoiled me today. Granted, he had a Red Bull, when sent his energy level THROUGH. THE. ROOF.

But he treated me like a queen — kicked me out of the kitchen so he could clean it…. Sent me on errands and had our entire bedroom cleaned up and the bed changed when I got back (with help from the girls). Cleaned downstairs, did laundry, etc. And then he sent me off to meet an imaginary friend from the internet (HI, BETH!), and then when I came home he kicked me out again so I could go shopping by myself. I wasn’t really in the MOOD to go shopping, but I rose to the occasion.

I bought a purse. And then some other little unmentionables. ๐Ÿ˜‰

I like being spoiled rotten. My Jerry is a sweeeeeetie.


Jerry drank a Red Bull this morning.


He’s a total spaz. Talking REALLY fast, and super-extra-high energy…. like….. me on a normal day. ๐Ÿ™‚

I told him that if that’s what I’m like all the time, I’m surprised he hasn’t killed me yet. He’s driving me b.a.n.a.n.a.s.

But the house is getting clean, the laundry is getting done, and he cleaned out my car (!). So I’m not complaining TOO much.


Helen loves to sing.

And slightly off-key. And melodylessly. And LOUD.

So today, she sang that she wanted an apple– natch. “IIIIIIIIII want annnnnnn aaaaaaaaaappllllllllle!”

So I replied in kind, but in full operatic tremolo: “Yesss, I will CUTTTT you an apple NOWWWWWW, my deeeeeeear!”

No surprise or response from Helen, other than her recitative: “Thaaaaaank you, Mommmmy, I will beeeeee overrrrrr heeeeeeeeere at the taaaaaaaable.”

OK, not as funny when you can’t hear it, but we sang back and forth for a good ten minutes.

Maybe THIS is where the idea of bursting into song randomly a la the Broadway Musical came from. Rodgers and Hammerstein must have lived with a musical four-year-old.

Alice, oblivious, just chased the cats around.