February 22, 2012

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Don’t Snore On My Parade

March 29, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

“Honey, you were snoring really loud last night,” alleged my husband.

“That’s impossible,” I said. “I don’t snore.”

“Oh no?”

“No, I would hear it if I snored.”

“You don’t hear it because you are sleeping!” he declared. “Something I was not able to do so well with all that snoring going on.”

“Maybe it was the dog?” I suggested.

“Listen TyranaSNORous Rex,” he said. “The snoring was coming from the body in the bed next to me.  I think after all these years, I can tell the difference between you and the dog.”

I shrugged and disappeared into the bathroom.

Truth be told, I kind of knew I had been snoring. It might have something to do with the fact that I was dreaming I was bowling in a thunderstorm while fireworks were being shot off and men with jackhammers worked nearby.  Or maybe it was the fact that I actually woke up at one point because I heard someone snort. When I realized my husband was not in the bed, it did not leave a lot of other people to blame it on.

I was actually pretty aghast to discover that I might be on my way to becoming my father.  My dad snored so loudly that one time when I was growing up, the neighbors called wildlife control because they thought there was a wounded warthog roaming the streets.  Although I have been informed that my snores sound like a cross between a congested cow and a rusty chainsaw, I had no doubt that I would soon be elevated to warthog status if I didn’t address the problem.

I was pretty sure my snoring was due to the fact that every night I was stuffed up. And I was pretty sure I was stuffed up because our humidifier was on the fritz.  I decided that in the best interest of spousal harmony, I should call in the humidifier repair people.  However, calling for a repairman and actually getting something repaired are two different things. It took four days to get someone to come look at the problem, two hours to determine that it needed a new part, half an hour to determine that the repairman didn’t have the part on the truck, and then another week to get the part in and install it. During that time, I was informed that I snored nine nights, snorted four times, and whistled through my nose twice.

The good news was, by the tenth day, the humidifier was back in action, the bedroom seemed less dry, and I was sure that my night would be snore-free.

The morning after a well-humidified night, I woke up feeling really refreshed and was convinced that my snoring days, or rather nights, were over.

“So,” I said, turning to my husband.  “Did I snore last night?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I couldn’t hear anything over your teeth grinding.”

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Getting Our Ducks In A Row

March 23, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Lee J Haywood

“DUCK!”  Yelled my daughter.

I dropped to the floor.  “What? Is something coming at my head?”

“No. Duck… in the backyard!” she clarified.

I got off my knees and peered out back. Sure enough, there was a mallard pacing back and forth along the outside of our pool fence. He was quacking and pacing and if ever a duck looked annoyed, this one did.

Last time I checked, ducks could fly, so I was perplexed why this duck was staying on the wrong side of the pool fence.

Now for those of you who are new to this column, you should know that it is not an unusual occurrence for us to get ducks in our backyard. There is a pair of mallards, Larry and Loretta, the snowbirds, who fly up from Boca Raton every spring to their lovely place here in New Jersey. They have been doing this every year since we moved into our house 11 summers ago.  The last two years they brought their friend Sy with them to enjoy duck paddling in the frigid water that collects over the winter in our pool tarp.  I tried to convince them to wait a month until we actually open the pool, but I guess they prefer to be here early and get first dibs on the drowned worms.  Early bird and all that… you know.

Anyway, at first I thought one of the ducks had arrived alone. But I soon saw that all three were actually here:  Larry and Loretta were in the pool and Sy was the one outside the fence.

This is when I realized that there might have been a falling out in duckland.

Every time Sy approached the fence, Larry hopped out of the pool and ran straight at Sy, quacking and flapping his wings in obvious disapproval.

“I think the ducks are fighting over the pool,” I said to my daughter.

“Seriously, mom? Don’t you know anything? She said rolling her eyes. “They are fighting over Loretta!”

I looked back and saw Loretta calmly preening her tail feathers while the male mallards engaged in a quack-off.

“Well, that’s not very cool of Sy,” I said glaring at the outcast duck.  “Doesn’t he know that ducks mate for life?”

“I guess he missed the memo,” said my daughter. I laughed out loud.

While we pondered the situation with the ducks, we failed to notice someone else who was becoming increasingly bothered by the duck wars.  It wasn’t until my daughter opened the back door to the deck to go out and get a better look that we realized the dog was on high alert. He bolted out the door and ran toward the pool, barking his head off at the ducks. Without another quack, both Larry and Sy flew the coop. But Loretta calmly hopped back into the pool and started swimming again.

“Well I guess that solves that,” I said. “She’s not going to pick either of them now.”

“Why?” asked my daughter.

“Because now she knows they’re both chickens.”

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Why Did The Dog Cross The Road?

March 16, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

Photo courtesy of Pete Markham

“Hi.  Your dog Riley is in my backyard playing with my dog,” said a friendly voice on my answering machine.  I looked around for the familiar black snoring lump on the floor and realized with a start, that the lump was nowhere to be found.

I did recall letting the dog out back to do his business.

I did not recall letting the dog back in.

Still, I could not fathom how he had done a Houdini on me and disappeared from our property since our backyard is completely fenced in. Then I scanned the backyard and noticed a distinct lack of fence-ness where a section of our fence had once been in the back corner.

I realized that the dog did not, in fact, pole vault over the six-foot fence as I had suspected, but merely walked through the gaping hole to freedom.

Although I was understandably concerned by this discovery, I was relieved to know that he had merely gone on a jaunt a couple of blocks away and not run off to join the Iditarod.

I quickly called the friendly voice back and discovered that my dog was cavorting in her backyard with her dog, and p.s., this was not the first time he had been over there.  Not only that, but she reported seeing my dog across the street several times at the homes of two other dogs, as well.

I was stunned. Apparently my dog had been leading a double life for quite some time.   While I thought he had been happily chasing squirrels in our fenced-in backyard, he had actually been several blocks away cavorting with a cute little terrier, a pretty goldendoodle and a sexy samoyed. On each occasion, he had darted off before the owners could see who he was, and returned to our backyard before I could notice his absence.

Could it be that my dog Riley… sweet, neutered Riley, was actually a doggie Don Juan?

I’d bet his Milk Bone dog biscuits on it.

I grabbed his leash and jumped into the car to bring him back to his bachelor pad.

This time the terrier’s owner had managed to keep him contained in their backyard and when I got her house, I found Riley and his lady friend romping together joyfully.   Little did she know he had a harem on the street.

“Well, I can see why he would want to come over here,” I said to the dog’s owner. “She’s very cute.”

“Hmm, he may have come over for her the first time, but after that, I think it was to see me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Every time he was here, I tried to catch him to see who he belonged to, but he kept running away from me, so I did the only thing I could think of to get him to come to me.”

“What’s that?” I wondered.

“I gave him treats.”

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New Kids on the (Old) Block

March 9, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman 1 Comment

Photo courtesy of Kevin Aranibar

When you have teenagers, it’s usually in your best interest to keep up with the latest trends in music, lest someone accuse you of being tragically old and uncool.

Clearly, it was a lot easier when the kids were younger and their tastes ran more to Barney the dinosaur and Raffi. But fortunately I happen to like a lot of the same music as my kids so this is not as much of a challenge as you would think.  However there are a lot of new artists who all happen to be around the same age and sound suspiciously alike, and this can sometimes make it difficult to know who you’re listening to. It might be the fact that they all have autotune on them, or it might just be that they all are about 16 years old and sound like a certain young boy with awesome hair from Canada.

“Is that Justin Bieber?” I asked my daughter when a song came on the radio. I wanted to prove that even though I knew every song in the Billy Joel catalog, I was still a cool mom.

She looked at me with disgust.  “No.” she said definitively. “This guy sounds nothing like Justin Bieber.”

“I dunno,” I said. “He sounds pretty similar to me.”

She shook her head. “He wishes he were as good as Justin Bieber,” she said. “But he is just a Wannabieber.”

I cracked up.

We continued on in silence until another song came on the radio. This time I was sure that I knew who the singer was.

“I know who this is,” I said.  “This is Lady Gaga.”

My daughter rolled her eyes.

“Isn’t it Lady Gaga?” I repeated, a little less sure.

“It is,” she said, sighing.

“What, you don’t like Lady Gaga?” I asked.

“She’s OK,” she responded. “But she’s kind of a Madonna-be.”

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Someone who is trying to be like Madonna,” she said.

I cracked up again. It was becoming clear to me that when it came to discussing current pop trends with my teenage daughter, I was way out of my league.

I guess I could understand.  I remember when I was her age, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, and I used to try to talk to my parents about music.  No matter how cool my parents thought they were, there was no way they could ever understand the greatness that was The Human League, and I would never understand the appeal of Paul Anka.  Still, I wanted to connect with my daughter and prove that even though I was from another generation, I was not from another planet, and I did actually know the difference between Eminem and M&M’s.

“Hey did you hear that there is going to be another TV show launching that is going to be just like Glee?” I blurted out.

My daughter looked at me with sudden interest.

“Really?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I exclaimed, “So I guess that would make it kind of a Wannaglee.”

She stared at me and then shook her head.

“Nice try, Mom,” she said. “But don’t quit your day job.”

 

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Me, The Ski, And The Tree

March 2, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

I am not a terrible skier, but I am not a particularly good skier either.  On the Official Awkward Ski Scale, I fall somewhere between a three year-old on the bunny slopes and those beginner adults you see on the intermediate slopes with their arms flailing wildly and their faces frozen in an expression of sheer panic.  Having skied for about eight years now, I can usually manage to get down one of the lesser slopes without careening into either another skier or a tree.  Therefore, I am at my best when there are neither other skiers nor trees in my path.  And naturally, things can get a little dicey when I encounter both.

Such was the case when I hit the slopes this past weekend.   I had actually not skied for a while, and over the course of the month, had somehow come under the delusion that I had improved over the break.  I had gone through something similar years ago when I’d had kids and had convinced myself that childbirth would be much less painful the second time around.  Faster?  Yes.  Les painful?  Not so much.

So, with the misguided confidence of someone who clearly was suffering from Improved Skier Dementia, I took the chairlift up to a much more advanced slope than I’d ever been on before.

This was probably my first mistake.  When I got to the top of the trail, I realized the slope was not only steeper than I was used to, it was also narrower. It was also much busier than the easier slopes I usually skied.  As expert skiers whizzed by me, I wondered if I might be better off feigning an injury so I could get a ride down in a stretcher, before I got an actual injury skiing off a cliff.

Unfortunately, as I stood there wondering if my will was up to date, I got caught up in a tide of teenage snowboarders who carried me over the edge of the slope.  I managed to get about halfway down doing a combination of skiing and sliding and was actually beginning to believe I would make it down alive when all of a sudden I came upon a wall of skiers.  Apparently this group thought it would be fun to ski down the mountain with arms linked, side-by-side, like some kind of special skiing Rockettes. This may, in fact, have been fun for them, but it created a bit of problem for me since I was going much faster than they were and there was no place for me to pass them. Since I couldn’t go through them and I couldn’t go over them, I did the only thing I could do… I tried to go around them.  The good news was, I managed not to hit any of the people in the ski wall. The bad news was, I hit a tree instead.

Did I mention I’m not very good at stopping, either?

I guess I should thank that tree for jumping out in front of me like that and helping me stop.  However, I think it might have been a softer impact had I slammed into a person rather than a tree.

Somehow though, somewhat miraculously, I escaped from my tree altercation completely unscathed.  As I plucked pine needles from my helmet and confirmed that I had no broken bones, I got back on the slope, which was now less steep and completely uncrowded, and skied down to the bottom.

When I arrived at the base I ran into a friend who was headed for the chair lifts.

“Hey, how’s the skiing today?” she asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said, “But it’s a great day for careening into a tree.”

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Seeing Eye To Eye… To Eye

February 23, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

In certain Eastern spiritual traditions, the “Third Eye” is a mystical concept that represents a space of higher consciousness and enlightenment.

For me, it represents a zit right in the middle of my forehead.

“Nice third eye,” said my husband when I woke up one morning.

“Whaaa?” I questioned, running to the mirror in the bathroom.

“Can you see my future?” he asked jokingly.

“Yes,” I said, glaring alternately at him and the large pimple masquerading as another eye on my brow.  “And it looks very dark if you don’t stop teasing me.”

Why I am still getting pimples at age 46 is a question for those who are far more enlightened than I. Fortunately, it’s not a regular occurrence, but the timing of its arrival and the placement of said pimple made me wonder if there might be a mischievous God of Zits who finds it amusing to have these things show up right on the tip of my nose, in a constellation on my chin, or smack between my eyes on the exact day that I am being photographed for something or addressing a large group of people. If I thought I could appease the God of Zits by making a sacrifice of Clearasil or ProActiv, I would, but I’m pretty sure this only works for if you are a teenager or Jessica Simpson.

According to my family, I already have eyes in the back of my head, and the vision of the two in on my face is pretty sharp, so I really did not see a need for yet another eye on my forehead.  I also do not really need a third eye to predict the future, because I already know before I wake up in the morning that my kids will not make their beds, the dog will chew up some socks, and my husband will ask me to pick up his dry cleaning.
What can I say; it’s a gift.

Since I already had more than enough eyes, and was already somewhat clairvoyant, I decided the new eye had to go, or at least had to get covered up.  I was pretty sure that putting a pirate’s eye patch over the center of my forehead would attract more attention than just leaving the pimple there by itself, so instead, I decided to cover the darn thing up with some makeup and hope no one noticed.

“How you doin’ there Cyclops?” said my son when I came downstairs.

“Greetings,” said my daughter, giving me the Vulcan hand wave.  “Do you come in peace?”

“I guess you can see it, huh?” I asked them gloomily.

“See what, Mom?” said my son.   “You know, my vision’s not as good as yours cuz I only have two eyes.

I gave him the evil eye. All three of them.

Determined not to let this slight imperfection be a blemish on my day, I glopped on more coverstick and went out to run my errands. Thankfully, most of my morning was uneventful.  But then while I was waiting for my turn to pay at the Pet Store, another customer tapped me on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she asked.  “Do you see the Greenies anywhere?”  I looked behind me at the vast assortment of dog bones hanging on the wall and immediately saw one lone Greenie bone hiding behind some rawhide chews.  I plucked it off the rack and handed it to her.

“Thank you so much!” she said.  “You don’t happen to see any Booda Bones, too, do you?”

I looked at the rack once more, and plucked another package of bones off the wall for her.

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “How do you do that?”

I shrugged.  “I have an eye for it.”

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How to Dress for the Next Ice Age

February 16, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman 1 Comment

Whenever I get the winter clothes catalogs and the fall fashion magazines, I always swoon over images of the cute little sweaters, fabulous boots, and sexy skirts.  As a fashion junkie, I can picture myself out and about in these outfits, which is probably the reason why I have so many sweaters, boots and skirts in my closet.  The thing I always forget to take into account, however, is that all of these pictures of carefree, beautifully-clad models are shot the previous spring, when there is nary a snowflake or icicle to be found.

Now, fast forward to the dead of winter. It is -10 degrees outside and my house looks like an igloo on the arctic tundra.  Am I going to cavort around town with my sled dogs while I’m dressed in thigh high boots, a cropped cardigan and a miniskirt?  No.  I’m going to wear a heavy flannel shirt, my mukluks and a massive parka . Truth be told, I don’t even want to leave the house, and if I could burrow under a down blanket in my bed and hibernate for six months, I would. This being the case, if I do have to go out, I’m certainly not going to be covered in anything less than three layers of winter woolens and a ginormous puffer jacket.  Clearly, I’m not going for the “model” look; I’m going for “Michelin Man.”

Yes, I am a cold weather wuss.  I know there are some women who hold their head high and willingly freeze their patooties off in the name of fashion, but I’m not one of them.  When the thermometer dips below freezing and my yard looks like a scene from “March of the Penguins,” I’m dressing for the next ice age, not Vogue.  Of course all the mags say you can be warm and stylish. But these are the same magazines that say you can have thinner thighs in three days and look ten years younger in ten minutes, so I’m not sure I buy into the whole warm-stylish thing either.  Besides, I’m pretty sure if you look really closely at some of the women in these magazines who were shot in actual snow and ice, they are smiling because their mouths are frozen that way.
Meanwhile, I have a whole closet of cute winter clothes that I never wear… that have a layer of closet dust on the hangers and have become moth-chow.  Feeling badly about the money I spent on all these clothes I don’t wear, I decided I would give the clothes some use.

So first I went to the front door to get a check of the weather.  It hovered somewhere between “so cold your nostrils stick together when you inhale” and “if your ears are exposed, they might freeze, crack, and snap off your head.”

Now that I knew what I was dealing with, I could find a weather-appropriate way to wear my clothes. Purposefully, I went to my closet, took out all my little skirts and cardigans, and lay them all out on my bed over my down comforter.

Then I crawled underneath the pile and took a nap.

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What Not to Get for Your Man for Valentine’s Day

February 14, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman 1 Comment

Men have it pretty easy when it comes to Valentine’s day. Sure, if they happen to forget it or get their significant other a household appliance for a gift, they could end up sleeping on the couch. But typically if they are smart enough to get her either chocolate or jewelry (or both), they can be assured domestic tranquility for another year, or at least the next 24 hours.

We ladies, on the other hand, do not have it nearly as easy. What do you get for your guy to profess your love for him? My husband does not wear a stitch of jewelry besides his wedding ring, so heart-shaped cufflinks would not go over too big. He is not inclined to wear red silk boxer shorts with hearts on them, a tie with hearts on it, or any other attire that screams: “My wife bought this for me for Valentine’s Day.” He does not want love notes in a bottle or a heart-shaped coffee mug or a vial of love potion. What’s a girl to do?

At an utter loss for a Valentine’s gift for my husband, I decided to search the net to see if I could find something unique and meaningful.

The first site I went to had the usual assortment of boxers and briefs. But they also suggested this:

Yes, nothing quite says love like a glass water faucet sculpture. I thought this might be interpreted to say, “you turn me on,” but it did not really convey the deeper level of my affection.

Another site recommended I buy him a ride in a race car.

For $119 he could ride shotgun in a stock car as it roars around a race track at speeds exceeding 150mph. I think this gift says “I love you so much, I’m putting you in a situation where you can smash into a wall and explode into a ball of flames.” Not exactly what I had in mind. But then again, it could be the solution to having to come up with future Valentine’s gifts.

The next gift I found was a pair of x-ray vision sunglasses.

I’m sure this at the top of every woman’s list for her guy. Who wouldn’t want to give the man you love the ability to secretly look at other women naked?

Finally, I decided maybe the best thing to do was stick the basics. So I got us some chocolate-covered strawberries to share, a nice card, and a gift certificate for a massage.

If he wants to bring his glass water faucet sculpture along to his massage, that’s up to him.

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What Happens in the Garage, Stays in the Garage

February 9, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

“Mrs. Beckerman?”

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Beckerman, This is the Garage Door Police. We understand there was an altercation today between you and your electric garage door.”

“An altercation?  I’m not sure what you mean, Officer.”

“Mrs. Beckerman, did you or did you not ram your car into your electric garage door?”

“Um… how do define ‘ram?’”

“Ma’am. When you were backing out of your garage, did you hit the garage door with your car?”

“I may have done that.”

“And in doing so, did you knock the garage door off its track so now it will neither go up or down?”

“I might have done that, as well. But in my defense, the garage door started it.”

“How so?”

“Well, when I went to leave in the morning, I pushed the button to open the garage door, like I always do. But for some reason the door only went up two thirds of the way and then stopped.  I didn’t realize this had happened, so when I backed out, blammo.”

“Blammo, Ma’am?”

“Yes, blammo, Officer.”

“Mrs. Beckerman, this is not the first time you have had an incident with an appliance in your garage, is that correct?”

“Are you referring to the second refrigerator we keep in the garage, officer?”

“I am.”

“It wasn’t my fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“It jumped out in front of my car.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it had a death wish. It was on its last coils and wanted to be put out of its misery.  It was a mercy killing, really.”

“And how about the incident involving the side view mirror on your car?”

“You mean the side view mirror that I allegedly knocked off the car backing out of the garage?”

“Yes.”

“Never happened.”

“… And the bicycle you ran over?”

“It rolled in front of my car.”

“On it’s own?”

“Yes. It was a magic bicycle.”

“Mrs. Beckerman, based on your garage history, I am going to have to write you a ticket for reckless garage endangerment.  Do you have any questions?’

“Just one. Is your car parked behind me?”

“Yes.”

“I’d move it if I were you.”

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A Squirrel’s Tail

February 2, 2011 By Tracy Beckerman Leave a Comment

My dog is squirrel obsessed. You can imagine this could be something of a problem since we live in the suburbs and there are a kajillion squirrels out here.

I have to imagine he is genetically wired for this because he did not have any kind of traumatic squirrel experience as a puppy that would cause him to have a squirrel vendetta. Of course they may have ganged up on him when I wasn’t looking and pelted him with acorns or something just for laughs, and I never knew about it. He was actually traumatized by a giant woodchuck that lived under our deck years ago, so maybe he thinks all squirrels are small woodchucks and this is his way of working though his issues. This is not such a stretch considering the first time I saw the woodchuck, I thought it was a beaver. Maybe wildlife idiocy runs in the family.

Whatever the reason, the dog is clearly not a fan of squirrels and will sit by the deck door watching the backyard like a guard at Buckingham palace. Neither sleep nor hunger will tear him from his post unless of course he needs a nap or hears the sound of food accidentally dropping on the kitchen floor. When a squirrel appears, he will growl menacingly and finally erupt into a fit of hysterical barking until I let him outside to chase the man-eating squirrel over the fence or up a tree.

This happens… no kidding… every five minutes.

Like I said, there are a lot of squirrels out here.

Now, I’m not particularly fond of squirrels either. They raid my bird feeder, decimate my Halloween pumpkins, and leave a minefield of half-eaten acorns around my backyard. But I have accepted the fact that like minivans and stripmalls, squirrels are an unavoidable part of the suburbs and there’s not a heck of a lot I can do about them. My dog, however, is not as accepting and seems hellbent on barking the squirrels out of suburbia, one nut-loving, bird-feeder raiding, pumpkin-chewing rodent at a time.

You can imagine after ten years of this, we’d kind of had it with the “barking at squirrels” thing. I finally decided to look on the Internet to see if there were any suggestions for getting the dog to break his squirrel habit. While I perused the web, I came across a video of a squirrel-hating chihuahua that had adopted a litter of orphaned squirrel babies. This ten year-old dog not only took them under her, um, paw, she also began nursing them, even though the last time she’d had her own litter was four years earlier. It was a miraculous tale of nature at its best.

It warmed my heart. It made me smile. It gave me hope!

And then I remembered one hitch in the plan:

My dog is male.

Note: Watch Tracy Beckerman when she appears on “The Balancing Act” on Lifetime Television, Friday February 11th at 7am eastern!

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