Nada. Zip. Nothing. That's how much weight I lost this past week. Of course, I could take a glass-half-full perspective and say that that is how much weight I gained this past week. Either way, I don't feel as though I'm getting my 40-dollars-a-month worth. And I'm hungry.
Being hungry makes me really cranky, especially when I start surfing the blogosphere in order to take my mind off food and I run into 2 or 3 blog posts in a row which are going on and on and on about doughnuts and other baked treats. Complete with pictures, wouldn't you know? Blogging can make you fat.
Manic Mommy has tagged me with a meme, or what she called a heme, as she made it all about her husband. Which may not be a bad idea....
1. My husband doesn't like jokes about exercise.
2. He tends to fall asleep in the den with his headphones on, plugged into music on the computer, which makes it awfully tempting to turn up the volume. But I resist.
3. When he sees me relaxing with some knitting for a few minutes, he thinks it is a good time to mention all the different business trips he is planning to go on in the next few months. And then he wonders why I wait until he is asleep to go up to bed myself.
4. He likes to talk to our teen daughter Anna, just to bother her. It's fun to watch.
5. He and I share the same goal of enjoying many boring evenings together once the children have flown the nest. Imagine, no crises, no teeth to be brushed (I mean, except our own), no Berenstain Bears books to be read....I'm just going to sit and knit, and he is going to fall asleep with his headphones on, and our grown children will wonder how we ever got that way.
6. He spoils Susie more than I do. She gets up extra early in the morning because she knows Daddy will give her a treat in the kitchen before I can get down there.
7. He is happy with whatever I make for dinner, so long as he doesn't have to think about it. Cooking isn't his strong point. If I die before the kids are grown, they will have to survive on nothing but hotdogs and pancakes. And pizelles (those flat eggy Italian cookies) - the man makes his own pizelles (how do you spell that?). Last night, in fact, the urge seized him; so he and I were in the kitchen at 9:30 having a mini pizelle-fest. When Brian came down to ask for some Sudafed, I said, "You caught us! This is what we do every night as soon as you go to bed - we have a baking party in the kitchen." Poor kid - he believed me. He hasn't looked that traumatized since the time I left him behind in an elevator.