Tracy Beckerman's Blog

Good to the Last Drop

I am the only one in my family that drinks coffee, which means I often find myself making a whole pot of coffee in the morning and then throwing most of it out. Since I prefer not to waste money on anything except shoes, I finally decided to wise up and get one of those one cup coffee makers.

The options were dizzying. Ever since I last purchased a coffeemaker, the world had exploded with various types of coffeemakers from the ones that simply brewed a fine cup of coffee to ones that could make a double soy latté with a fresh baked chocolate croissant, wipe your mouth for you, and then pick up the dry cleaning for you when you were done.

I wanted a coffee maker that could make a double soy latté with a fresh baked chocolate croissant, wipe your mouth for you, and then pick up the dry cleaning for you when you were done.

The one I decided to buy was not just any one cup coffee maker. This was an uber-coffee maker. It was the creamora of the crop. This was one of those espresso-pod coffee makers that looked like it been designed by an Italian race car company. It gleamed. It purred. And it brewed from 0 to 60 in less than a minute. All I had to do was fill the well with water, pop in a pod, and voila… a lovely cup of latte. Really, how much easier could it be?

I bid my ten-cup coffee maker a fond farewell and stuck it up in the top of the closet with the panini press, yogurt maker, spiralizer, and other things I had bought or were gifted  and never used but didn’t want to throw away on the off chance that ten people would suddenly visit me who all wanted coffee with a panini, spiralized zucchini and a cup of yogurt on the side.

It could happen.

So, this morning I popped in my pod, filled up my water, and started up the machine. I turned my back to check my email and then, when I heard the whooshing sound stop, I turned back to retrieve my coffee.

But there was no coffee.

I stood for a minute wondering if I had not actually made the coffee, I just thought I did. I knew I’d heard the whooshing sound so I was sure I had made a cup of coffee, but there was no cup under the coffee maker.  While I stood there like an idiot trying to figure out what the heck happened, I noticed something drip off the counter.  Then a steady stream of something poured off the counter.  It finally dawned on me that the stuff pouring off the counter was my coffee and I had, in fact, made the coffee…

I just never put the cup in the machine to catch it.

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved.  For more “Lost in Midlife,”  Join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife.  Tracy’s latest book, “Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble,” hits shelves June 29th, 2021!  Check  back here for giveaways, interviews, upcoming book events,  and  more, coming soon!

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Burned Out

Usually when one of our appliances dies, we get some kind of warning.  When the dishwasher went, it started flooding. When the refrigerator’s time was up, it started slowly getting warmer.  And we knew the oven’s days were numbered when it started smoking and I wasn’t even cooking anything.

But there was no sign that our microwave was on its last coil until it simply went kaput.

This is what they call in the industry, just plain SAD (Sudden Appliance Death).

Since it was a relatively new and rather expensive microwave, I was hopeful that maybe we could save it.  With hope in my heart, I called our go-to appliance fix it guy, Larry.

Me:  Hey Larry, I think our microwave is broken.

Larry:  What’s going on?

Me:  It’s not cooking anything.  Can you come over and fix it?

Larry:  No.

Me:  Why not?

Larry:  In my experience, Microwaves don’t break. They just die.

Me:  Can’t you use a defibrillator or something?

Larry:  Read it it’s last rites and go get a new microwave.

I stubbornly refused to believe our microwave was dead.  I wondered if maybe it was in a coma or had Post-Traumatic Microwave Syndrome from the last time I accidentally tried to cook something in aluminum foil.  But eventually I had to admit it was beyond saving, or even reheating, and I called it.

Me:  Time of death: 3:39pm

Larry:  Can I interest you in a Convection oven?

Me:  That’s harsh, Larry. The microwave’s not even cold yet.

Since I had to have dinner on the table in three hours and I don’t ever actually cook anything, I just warm things up, I realized I needed to get a new microwave fast.  I headed over to our local appliance store and told them my tale of woe.

The appliance guy (who was also named Larry) shook his head.

“Sounds like the magnetron died,” he declared.

I stared blankly at him. “The Magnetron?” I echoed back.  “What is that, like, a Transformer?  Did Optimus Primekill it?”

“The Magnetron?” I echoed back.  “What is that, like, a Transformer?  Did Optimus Prime kill it?”

He stared blankly back at me.

“You know, I think that actually happened in the movie Transformers 3, I continued. “Shia LeBoeuf cooked one of the little Transformers in a microwave and it burned out the magnetron.”

He shook his head.

“No, you’re thinking of Gremlins, when they cooked one of the evil gremlins in the microwave,” he said.

“I think that was a blender,” I argued.

“It was both,” he declared.

I thought about this useless bit of movie trivia and decided that if there was any hope of heating up a dinner tonight, we probably needed to move on.

“So, how exactly does a magnetron in a microwave die, anyway,” I asked Larry, the appliance guy, as he led me to the new microwaves.

He looked at me suspiciously. “It can happen when someone accidently uses the microwave with nothing in it.”

It took me a minute for this accusation to sink in.

“So you’re saying I killed the microwave, Larry?” I responded.

“Possibly,” he said.  “Or maybe it was Gremlins.”

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved.  For more “Lost in Midlife,”  Join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife.  Tracy’s latest book, “Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble,” hits shelves June 29th, 2021!  Check  back here for giveaways, interviews, upcoming book events,  and  more, coming soon!

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Welcome to My Not-So-Smart-Phone World

“Hey, you’re due for a phone upgrade,” my husband told me enthusiastically.“Well, you’re due for a wife upgrade,” I said. “But you’re not getting one of those either.”

He smirked. “I like the one I’ve got.”

“Well, I like the phone I’ve got, too,” I replied, whipping out my clamshell flip phone with the 1 inch screen.

He grimaced like he smelled something bad. It was probably the circuits in my 15-year old phone frying.

“It’s time to get you a smartphone,” he declared. “You need 5G.”

“You can do that for me?” I wondered with mock excitement. I didn’t even know what 5G was, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t my bra size.

“Yes!”

 

“I also need to drop two pants sizes and get rid of this underarm jiggle. Can you do that for me, too?” I asked.

“No.”

“Okay, then I guess I’ll just take the phone.”

Truthfully, it’s not that my old phone was working that great for me. Ever since my kids became teens and our conversations morphed from speaking to texting, the limitations of my prehistoric phone had become increasingly evident. While other people were easily swiping or dictating, I was tapping on a numerical keyboard. I had managed to live without any apps or widgets or GPS so far, but every TV commercial assured me that my life would be infinitely better with them. Of course, I was also assured my life would be better with more fiber in my diet, but I had yet to reap the rewards of that change, either.

Now, I’m not one to typically embrace new technology. I’m usually more inclined to smile at it, maybe give it a handshake, or if I’m really felling bold, a small hug. My husband is the exact opposite. I wondered if maybe there was a way we could ease into this upgrade to help me adjust to life with a smartphone. I actually didn’t even like the term “smartphone.” It seemed to imply that the device would be more intelligent than I. Maybe if they called it a “phone of medium intelligence,” I could get on board with the idea. I’m very competitive that way.

I actually didn’t even like the term “smartphone.” It seemed to imply that the device would be more intelligent than I.

“What did you have in mind?” I asked my husband warily.

“I think you would love a phablet.”[image error]

I stared at him blankly. “I thought I needed a smartphone?”

“A phablet is a kind of smartphone. It’s a combination phone and tablet. That’s how they get phablet. It’s a portmanteau.”

Now my head was spinning. “A portman-what?” I shook my head. “I thought it was a phablet.”

“A portmanteau is a new word made by combining parts of two existing words,” he explained.

“What does that have to do with my new phone?”

“Nothing. I’m just explaining where the word phablet comes from.”

I was already not loving the new smartphone. If you needed to use words like portmanteau to describe what to call it, it was clearly smarter than me and I was sure that just owning one was going to make me feel like a dummy.

“Can we compromise?” I asked. “Can we get me a phone that is not a phablet but has a regular keyboard and maybe a few necessary apps.”

“Sure,” he agreed.

I smiled. “Phabulous.”

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved.  For more “Lost in Midlife,”  Join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife.  Tracy’s latest book, “Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble,” hits shelves June 29th, 2021!  Check  back here for giveaways, interviews, upcoming book events,  and  more, coming soon!

The post Welcome to My Not-So-Smart-Phone World appeared first on Tracy Beckerman.

In for a Pound

“I had a physical yesterday,” my husband said as he got dressed for work.

“How did that go?” I asked.

“The doctor thought I should lose some weight.”

I gave him the once over.  He looked exactly the same as he did the day before, the month before; essentially, the same as the day we got married, 24 years before.

“Lose weight from where?” I asked. “Your earlobes?”

[image error]“I’ve put on a few pounds,” he admitted, pinching an imperceptible roll above his waistband.  “It’s not a big deal. I’ll just cut out some of the snacks and I’ll lose it right away.” And with that he buttoned his pants, which didn’t seem tight at all, and left.

I was floored.  Had the situation been the reverse, it would have gone something like this:

Me: “I had a physical yesterday.”

My husband: “How did that go?”

Me: “It was HORRIBLE!!!  The doctor said I’m fat!!!!  HUGE!  Momzilla!  I have to go on a major diet right away!  We’re eating nothing but grapefruit for the rest of our lives and if that doesn’t work I’m getting a full body Lipo!!!!”

Him “How much weight did you gain, really?”

Me: “Five pounds.”

[image error]See, that’s the difference between men and women. If I see a few extra pounds on the scale, or, worse yet, is told by my doctor that I’ve put on some weight since my last visit, after gouging his eyes out and destroying his scale, I will cry for days and spiral into a dark depression that only chocolate could save me from.  My husband will shrug, buy pants one size bigger in the waist, and go back to his Ben and Jerry’s without incident.

Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t realize how much he’s missing by not having weight issues. Without the experience of overeacting to the news that he’s gained weight, he can never respond with the joy of “the denial.”

My husband will shrug, buy pants one size bigger in the waist, and go back to his Ben and Jerry’s without incident. 

[image error]Typically, after I have finished my crying jag, I will inform my doctor and anyone else who will listen that any weight they say I’ve gained is not true fat but either pre-, during-, or post-menstrual bloat.  I will also mention that my scale at home is five pounds lighter than the one in the doctor’s office which clearly needs to be calibrated AND, my appointment was in the afternoon when everyone knows you weigh much more than your true morning weight.  If anyone is still listening to me at this point and certainly must either be in a coma or dead to still be paying attention, I will further tell them that I also ate a lot of fiber the day before and will weigh significantly less after my next trip to the bathroom.

[image error]

Eventually even those of us in the worst denial will face the awful truth and after throwing a “let’s-eat-all-the-ice-cream-in-the-freezer-before-we-diet” party, I’ll buckle down and endeavor to lose the weight, which is actually now ten pounds instead of five because of the aforementioned ice cream party.

For six weeks there will be nothing to eat in the house except egg whites and spinach leaves and I will suffer and whine and eventually cheat, and then, shockingly, not lose any weight.

But my husband will.

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved.  For more “Lost in Midlife,”  Join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife.  Tracy’s latest book, “Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble,” hits shelves June 29th, 2021!  Check  back here for giveaways, interviews, upcoming book events,  and  more, coming soon!

 

 

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My Theories of Everything

Any armchair theoretical physicist knows that Stephen Hawking had pursued a lifelong quest to come up with a Theory of Everything.

This all-encompassing theory would tie together general relativity (large scale and high mass galaxies, stars, etc), quantum theory (quantum mechanics, quarks, atoms, subatomic particles), and Newtonian physics (gravity on small bodies, gas laws, electromagnetism) to solve the greatest mysteries of the universe.  (Stay with me… this is the end of the sciency stuff)

I, however, am not an armchair theoretical physicist.  In fact, the closest I get to understanding physics is watching The Big Bang Theory on television. My scientific education ended with Chemistry, so while I can make my own playdough, I probably won’t solve the mystery of black holes or figure out how to go back in time and stop myself from buying mom jeans.

[image error]Fortunately, life experience has helped me to achieve a certain amount of everyday physics knowledge that focuses on the things that really matter. These little known laws and theories affect everything I do in my life and are much more relevant to me than, say, the law of gravity, which is flawed; It explains why a pizza will fall on the floor when you drop it, but doesn’t explain why it always falls cheese side down.

So in an effort to help you make sense of your world, here are my Top Ten Mother of All Theories:

The Law of Mascara

The day you go out without any makeup

is the day you’ll run into everybody you know.

 

 

2.. Conservation of Fat

There is a finite amount of fat in the universe and if someone loses some, then someone else has to gain it.

The Law of Thermo-hysterics

[image error]

The temperature you prefer in the house (76) is the direct inverse of the temperature your husband prefers (67).

The Relative law of Relativity

An extended family member who comes to stay with you will always stay two times longer than the amount of patience your husband has for houseguests.

[image error]The TP Approximation

The amount of toilet paper left on the roll (0) times the number of days before someone changes it.

Conservation of Teenage Energy

The total energy of a teenager is constant and cannot be created or destroyed, unless he is sleeping, in which case it is put on hold indefinitely.

Law of Teenage Entropy

[image error]

The gradual decline of a teenager’s bedroom

into general disorder or chaos.

 

 

 

8.  A Nanocluster Fluctuation

The number of women at a department store on a sale day versus the number of items on sale that you actually want.

The Dirty Dog Effect

A dirty dog will stay dirty until he is cleaned, but will then immediately find a way to return to an even dirtier state.

The Vengeance Formulation

The amount of time it takes for a woman to develop righteous indignation after her husband forgets their anniversary, the doctor suggests that she could lose a few pounds, the cosmetic company discontinues her favorite lipstick, her Pinterest account gets suspended, or she is defriended by someone on Facebook.

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved.  Join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife. 

 

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In Like a Lion, Out Like a Hindenburg

Every winter between October and March I gain upwards of 10 pounds (and I use that term “upwards” quite loosely).  And then in March we turn the clocks ahead and I panic. 

“OH MY GOD!!! It’s almost bathing suit season and I gained 20 pounds!! How did that happen??  I ’ m only eating grapefruit  from now  until May”

Then I reactivate my gym membership and exercise my brains out so that I can get back into my tankini without imploding like the Hindenburg.

Now, I know that it’s not healthy to gain and lose weight all the time.  And I would much rather stay on the ideal weight end of things than have to struggle to constantly be on the losing weight end of things. But after I get down to my ideal weight, I start to believe I have amazing superhero powers and no matter what I eat, I will stay at that weight forever.  So, I test this theory by eating all my kids’ Valentines candy, lots of cold weather comfort foods, and any cupcake that walks in the door.  And then in March, when I am in the last pair of jeans that fit, I realize that my theory is all washed up, doughnuts are my kryptonite, and my superhero powers are limited to my apparent immortality in the face of the highest cholesterol number any living person has ever had.

Every year I swear I’m not going to do this again, but then, like childbirth, I forget how bad it was, and I find myself quite literally back on the treadmill cursing the guy who invented cellulite and wondering if there is a weight loss plan based on bacon that I could find.

Of course, just like it took me a number of months to put the weight back on, there are no shortcuts to losing it again either.  As they say, if you do the crime you gotta do the time.

I’m just wondering if the grapefruit can be covered in chocolate?

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Follow Tracy on her Facebook Fan page at Facebook.com/LostinSuburbiaFanPage,  join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife

 

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Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

While I was driving in the car, I heard an ad on the radio for oven mitts.

“Sometimes, taking pants out of the oven can be too hot to handle!” exclaimed the announcer.

I gaped at the radio. What was the announcer talking about?  Who puts their pants in the oven?  At first I thought this was really odd, but then I recalled that I know someone who puts her baseball caps in the dishwasher, so I figured that maybe there are some people who dry their pants in the oven.

I guess it gives you that baked-in denim goodness.

However, while this might be good in theory, drying your pants in the oven could be a major problem if you forget that they are in there. At the very least, it puts new meaning into the term, “hot seat,” and at most, you could end up with blackened trousers. Torn up jeans are a big look right now. Charred pants… not so much.

There had actually been one time when my dryer was on the fritz and I had the usual ten loads of laundry to do, that I did think about using the oven to dry my clothes.  I quickly nixed this idea though because:

a) it was almost dinner time and I needed the oven for my chicken,

b) It was an old oven and there was probably only enough room in there for two pair of shorts, much less all my family’s pants, and,

c) I usually overcook everything I make and therefore there was a good chance that even if I didn’t burn the clothes, I would heat them up so long they would shrink down to Barbie doll size.

Torn up jeans are a big look right now.

Charred pants… not so much.

Like the case with the cap in the dishwasher, I knew that using your kitchen appliances to wash, dry, heat up or cool down your clothing was not such an outrageous idea.

I read that you can wet a bandana and put it in the freezer for 15 minutes to cool you off on a hot day.  Of course, if you forget that’s in there, you’ll end up with a paisley printed block of ice that would look superfine on a Yeti but pretty ridiculous on you.

Eventually I chalked the commercial up to another example of marketing idiocy. And then a short time later I was in the car with my husband and I heard the same commercial again.

“Sometimes, taking pants out of the oven can be too hot to handle!” exclaimed the announcer.”

“How stupid is that?” I said to my husband. “Who puts their pants in the oven?”

He stared at me in silence.

“It’s not PANTS,” he finally said. “It’s PANS!”

I absorbed this piece of information and realized I was the one who was an idiot. I also realized the next time I heard a commercial on the radio. I should pay more attention.

Especially if it’s a commercial for hearing aids.

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Follow Tracy on her Facebook Fan page at Facebook.com/LostinSuburbiaFanPage,  join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife

 

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Putting the Veggies in Veggetti

“What’s for dinner tonight?” my husband asked, inhaling deeply as he lifted the top off a simmering pot of tomato sauce.

I shooed him away.

“We’re having Spaghetti Marinara.”

“Cool,” he said. “But I thought we were eating gluten-free?”

“We are,” I assured him.

“But pasta isn’t gluten-free.”

“It’s not actually spaghetti,” I said. “It’s Veggetti.”

“Veggetti?” he repeated.

“Yeah. It’s fake spaghetti made from vegetables.”

 

He made a face only his mother could love and then backed away from the stove top as though I had said I was boiling slugs for dinner.

“That doesn’t sound very good,” he said.

“I promise, it’ll be ve-licious,” I smiled deceptively.

He looked at me glumly. I had been on a gluten-free, dairy-free, meat-free diet for a month  to see if it made me feel better. Not that I had been feeling bad in the first place, but after a friend touted the health benefits of going everything-free, I thought I’d give it a try. Unfortunately, my husband was often an unwilling participant in my dietary experiments, so this was not his first food rodeo.  I’ve done high protein-low carb diets, no-sugar diets, grapefruit diets, and something he nicknamed the Disgusting Vegetables Diet which consisted mainly of lima beans and beets.

 

With that in mind, I tried to make this latest food journey interesting for him, but so far my husband felt that in addition to being gluten-free, dairy-free, and meat-free, most of it was also taste-free.

This from a guy who believes ketchup is a vegetable.

He let me know he didn’t like the meatless meatballs, the fishless tuna, and the chickenless chicken nuggets. He was not a fan of facon (fake bacon), or fauxgurt (fake yogurt) or nawsages (not sausages). I made a gluten-free, dairy-free macaroni and cheese, which essentially, was a bowl of nothing. He gave me two thumbs down.

Then I tried giving him some Nearly Beer with his Not Dogs, but he was Not having it.

He was not a fan of facon (fake bacon), or fauxgurt (fake yogurt) or nawsages (not sausages)

“What’s a Not Dog?” he had asked.

“Hot dogs made of, um, something other than hot dogs,” I’d replied.

He cut a piece of it and put it on the floor for the dog. The dog sniffed it and walked away.

“If the dog’s not eating it, I’m not either.”

This about a dog that eats underwear.

“I need something real,” he finally complained.

“Okay, I’ll make you something I promise you’ll like.”

I perused my cookbooks and the internet for gluten-free, dairy-free, meat-free dinner dishes and finally settled on a meatless meatloaf. It looked great in the photos and got a ton of rave reviews.  Even meat-eaters loved it.

The recipe was easy. It called for chickpeas, beans, garlic, onions, green peppers, and oats.

I followed the instructions precisely…

And then I drowned it in ketchup.

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Follow Tracy on her Facebook Fan page at Facebook.com/LostinSuburbiaFanPage,  join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife

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This is My Final Word on This. Period.

My good friend Susan recently gave me a medal.

This is it.

It is not for being a great writer, or a good friend, or a stupendous wife.

It’s for being the Oldest Living Menstruating Woman on the Planet.

Honestly, I didn’t know they give medals for stuff like that, but Susan says they do, and she is a humor-writing, Harley-riding, Baptist Minister so, of course I believe her!*

In fact, on a recent visit to my gynecologist, she said the same thing. Well, actually she said I was the Oldest Menstruating Woman in her Practice, but, you know, same difference.

What my doctor actually said when she got up off the floor after I told her I was still getting it was, “Wait here. I have to go tell my staff. They’re never going to believe this.”

Nice, huh?

The thing is, I really have no idea why my ovaries are still in action. At this point, my eggs would need walkers to get down my fallopian tubes. My uterus is so old it has a subscription to AARP magazine. And my cervix, if it asked, would probably get a senior discount at Dunkin’ Donuts.

The doctor says it is actually a good thing I’m still getting my period because it means my skin and bones are still getting a lot of benefit from my hormones. In the meantime, my skin is so confused that I am getting pimples and wrinkles at the same time and I have to use anti-aging moisturizer with Clearasil in it.

They say you can tell when you are going to go through the “pause” by when your mother went through it. Unfortunately, my mom went through an early menopause for medical reasons, so she’s no help. Then my doctor asked me about my grandmother. My grandmother wouldn’t even acknowledge that she and my grandfather had sex to produce my mother and my uncle, so talking about menopause was out of the question.

At this point, my eggs would need walkers to get down my fallopian tubes.

 

Besides, who asks their grandmother such things when you are in your twenties? I was too worried that I would inherit her gene for chin hairs when I got older.

And apparently I did. Thanks Nana.

Meanwhile, back at ovulation central, I actually went 32 days with no period, and I thought, “THIS IS IT!  I’m finally done! I’m ready for my my hot flashes and night sweats now, Mr. DeVille!”

 

And then on day 33 it reappeared like a bad habit, or an unwanted house guest, or friend who wants to borrow money, or a child who graduated college, or a… well, you get the idea.  At that point I decided it was time to have a little talk with my reproductive system.

So, I said, “Hey you lady parts, it’s okay to stop doing your thing now. You have qualified for Medicare and you can start collecting Social Security. There is a condo in a retirement community in Boca with your name written all over it. It’s time to enjoy the finer things in life like  shuffleboard and pinochle.  Yes, you CAN get the early bird special at 4 and no one will mock you. It’s always dinnertime somewhere.

“Have fun in retirement and, my dear ovaries,

Don’t let the door hit you in the eggs.”

 

 

*BTW, when she is not busy commenting on the state of my menstrual cycle, Susan is busy writing books. You can check her very funny stuff out at https://amzn.to/3jYVErF

 

©2021, Lost Media Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. Follow Tracy on her Facebook Fan page at Facebook.com/LostinSuburbiaFanPage,  join the Lost in Midlife group at facebook.com/groups/lostinmidlife/ and follow on Instagram @TracyinMidlife

 

 

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Seeing Eye to Eye to Eye

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 56 is a question for those who are far more enlightened than I.

Fortunately, it’s not a regular occurrence. But lately I had been blessed with an on-again, off-again case of “mask-ney” on my chin that, I noticed, would often resemble the constellation Orion or sometimes, the Big Dipper.

While it was sometimes fun to try to find Saturn in my chin constellations, I would really prefer not to be getting wrinkles and pimples at the same time, on my face, in my fifties. I was definitely the oldest person in the drugstore shopping for Clearasil in the zit care aisle.

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 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.

I was definitely the oldest person in the drugstore shopping for Clearasil in the zit care aisle.

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 an 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 who was visiting for the weekend when I came downstairs.

“I’ll have you know Cyclops only has ONE eye,” I told him.

“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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