Tracy Beckerman's Blog, page 3
December 6, 2020
Who Knows What Evil Lies in the Heart of Your Refrigerator
I’m usually pretty good about keeping track of what’s in my fridge. But over the course of a few weeks, the food containers seem to multiply and take over.
By the time I get around to realizing that some items have been in there too long, the contents of the containers way in the back of the refrigerator either look like a science experiment gone awry, or a refrigerated toupee.
This would be a good thing if I was in dire need of penicillin because I’m pretty sure I could cultivate a decent batch of antibiotics from the mold growing in there. But when you’re looking for a snack, former food that is now black and hairy is not really all that appetizing.
[image error]My problem is, I have one of those top-freezer refrigerators, so I practically have to sit on the floor to see what’s on the bottom shelf. Because of this, I will often jam a lot of food down there, but then forget to check back in a timely manner to see if the leftovers are, in fact, still food, or have been transformed into ET.
Our first indication that something is amiss is a noxious smell emanating from the vicinity of the refrigerator. By the time our eyes start to tear up when we enter the kitchen, we know that something truly bad is lying in wait behind the refrigerator door. So then, the sniffing game begins. First I start with the milk because that is usually the first to turn. Then I sniff my way through various cheeses and yogurts; down to the lettuce in the crisper which may have turned dark green and slimy while it was hidden in the drawer.
That is when I will notice the food container on the bottom shelf, shoved in the back next to the jar of pickles and other things I always buy that never get eaten.
By the time I get around to realizing that some items have been in there too long, the contents of the containers way in the back of the refrigerator either look like a science experiment gone awry, or a refrigerated toupee.
Slowly, nervously, I will peel back the lid of the container – just enough to catch sight of something that may have evolved to such a degree that it could possibly push the lid open the rest of the way itself, jump out of the plastic container, and go on to propagate into a new species known as “Meatloafus Erectus” – a new breed of Hamburger Helper which can walk on two feet and communicate with other forms of ground beef.
Having found the culprit, I then face the daunting task of cleaning the nasty mold-and-food encrusted plastic container. If it had been filled with something tomato sauce-based, I either immediately toss it in the garbage or accept the fact that my formerly clear containter is now and will forever be pink. If I decide to keep it, it gets soaked, boiled, thrown in a NASA decontamination chamber, and then run through the dishwasher at scorching temperatures where it will then be completely disinfected and also melted into a useless blob of plastic.
Then I will vow to never leave leftover food in the refrigerator ever again…
Unless, of course, someone gets sick and we need some penicillin.
©2020, Lost Media Entertainment. 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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November 30, 2020
The Brapocalypse
Although some people may find it boring to stick with the same style of bra for years and years, for those of us who are a tough fit, finding a good bra can be as important as finding a good husband, but generally with more support.
Shopping for replacement bras, therefore, is not usually a big deal. I go to the department store, show the saleslady my bra, tell her my size and she comes back with brand new versions of the same thing.
But then one day I went to the store, asked for my bra, and the saleslady shook her head.
“We don’t carry those anymore.”
[image error]I blinked at her in disbelief. I suddenly felt woozy and the room began to swim. Her words sounded very far away as she added, “They discontinued that style.”
“Huh?” I replied stupidly. “They distinguished the fire?”
“No,” she repeated slowly. “THEY DISCONTINUED THAT STYLE!”
In my peripheral vision the bras began to blur. I turned and saw the racks of lingerie around me begin to sway and the ground start to tremble. There would be no more perfect bras for me. The brapocalypse had arrived.
There would be no more perfect bras for me. The brapocalypse had arrived.
Somewhere in the distance I could hear someone screaming. It was moments later that I realized it was me.
“What? NO!! They can’t have,” I bellowed. “Why? WHY?? Why would they do such a thing? It was the ideal bra.”
“There, there,” said the saleslady, patting me gently on the shoulder. “They have some new styles that are even more comfortable and have much better support. Come, I’ll show you.”
She guided me to the racks where my former bras used to hang and I choked back a sob.
Instead of my tried and true bras, they now had these lacy padded things which anyone with large ladies know will make you look like you have four sets of cleavage. Then she showed me another style that smushed everything together to create the dreaded uniboob. Finally, she introduced me to a third style with some improved technology that supposedly gave you support without an underwire, but in reality had your boobs resting on your knees.
“None of these will work for me,” I sighed.
“Here, just try this one,” she said, handing me one of the lacy imposters.
I went into the dressing room and put it on. While it was not as low cut as it looked on the hanger, it had another glaring problem. It sat much higher on my chest than it’s intended occupants. Clearly it was made for someone much younger than me who still used the word “perky” to describe her assets and didn’t need to scoop them up with a crane to get them into the bra.
Disappointed and dejected, I went home to see if I could find the bra online, but the only ones I could find were for hundreds of dollars in the Netherlands.
Suddenly It occurred to me; my bra had become a collector’s item. My spirits soared as I realized my bra problem was still an issue, but because of it, a new opportunity had just presented itself.
“Hey honey,” I yelled to my husband gleefully. “I just found out if I sell my bras online in the Netherlands I can make hundreds of dollars!”
“Great!” he replied. “See what you can get for my underwear.”
©2020, Beckerman. 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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November 19, 2020
My Top 10 Rules for Disaster-Free, Online Clothes Shopping
I wouldn’t say I’m a Fashionista, but I do like new clothes…A lot.
When I was in my twenties and I lived in the city, I would use my lunch break from work to shop one-day sample sales. This had the dual advantage of keeping me slim (no lunch) and getting cool clothes at a bargain. Of course there were no dressing rooms at these things and now I live in fear of the day a hidden camera tape surfaces on the Internet of me ripping off my top in the middle of a showroom to try on a sample shirt.
Once we had kids and moved to the suburbs, my sample sale days came to an end, which was a good thing since the sight of me getting shirtless in public would probably have scarred my children for life.
Then I discovered online sample sales. On the plus side, no showroom disrobing. On the downside, you can’t really tell size, cut, or quality from a picture unless you really know the brand you are shopping. This has to led to more than one impulse buy that ended with me either looking like a walrus in a bridesmaid dress or a poorly-dressed Yeti.
Fortunately, I have figured out how to avoid this disappointment by sticking with these top ten hard and fast rules for online shopping:
1. I do not buy anything that is called a Frock. It’s either a dress or it’s a long shirt. If they call it a frock, you know they are trying to make it sound better than it really is and probably would only look good on your pet poodle or in a revival of “The Sound of Music.”
2. I do not buy anything that is called a Smock. When I was growing up, we wore a smock to protect our ‘”good” clothes. That doesn’t bode well for the hipness of a smock.
3. I do not buy anything they refer to as Boho-Chic. It’s either Boho or it’s Chic, but it can’t be both. Look at the pictures of your mom from Woodstock. That was Boho. Is that chic? I don’t think so.
4. I do not buy any jackets called Puffers. If it starts out puffy before I even put it on, I have no doubt I will look like the Michelin Man in it.
5. I don’t buy Rompers. Five year-olds wear rompers. I will not look like a five year old if I buy a Romper. I will just look like a really stupid forty year-old.
6. I don’t buy Jumpsuits. See Point #5.
[image error]7. I don’t buy any dress described as Babydoll because the sight of me in one would certainly scar my children almost as much as the sight of me shirtless in a sample sale showroom.
8. I do not buy any jeans that are described as High-Waisted. Unless you are a Victoria’s Secret model, they are Mom Jeans, plain and simple.
9. I do not buy anything described as a Miracle. Even if it cinches you in one area, all that fat has to go somewhere and chances are, it’s gonna make some other part of you look twice as big as it really is.
10. I will not buy anything covered in faux animal prints. Giraffes look good in reticulated spots. Me? Not so much. Especially if it is an animal print frock.
©2020, Beckerman. 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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November 13, 2020
Making the Least of a Hairy Situation
One of the things I find to be a complete waste of time is shaving my legs. It’s not that I don’t need it, it’s just that the shave lasts all of about eight hours before the werewolf in me begins to re-emerge.Additionally, with the vast acreage of hairy body parts that need to be attended to, it takes half the day to remove it all. It is simply not possible to do it quickly without cutting my legs to ribbons and looking like I’m recreating the shower scene from Psycho.
From time to time, it would occur to me that there are other hair removal options than shaving. But as someone who is not particularly good with pain, I have ruled out the solutions that promise you “it will only hurt for a second.” This is what the dentist told me when he grafted my receding gums, what the ob/gyn told me when I was in labor, and what my mother told me about marriage.
This is what the dentist told me when he grafted my receding gums, what the ob/gyn told me when I was in labor, and what my mother told me about marriage.
I remember one time when I was in college, there was a new product called an Epi-something or other. It had a nice feminine name, a pretty picture of some lady’s smooth legs on the box, and it guaranteed hairless legs for up to six weeks. It sounded like a miracle product and I snatched one up for a pretty penny. What they neglected to say was that the Epi-thingy had these coils that yanked bunches of my hair out of my leg so painfully, I considered recommending it to the military. Granted, it did leave that one inch of leg that I Epied extremely smooth before I decided it was a medieval torture device and hurled the Epi-thingy out my third-floor dorm window.
[image error]
Fortunately, I live in the part of the country that has four seasons, so for two of them anyway, I can hide my Chewbacca legs under long pants. But one day I went for a pedicure and it happened that I was way overdue for a shave. As I was sitting with my pants rolled up and my toes in nice warm water, one of the salon ladies walked by and gasped.
“You don’t wax?” she asked.
“I shave. I just haven’t had time,” I explained.
“You want wax?’ she asked.
“NO! NO WAX!” I said firmly. “Too painful.”
“Oh, we have a new procedure,” she said. “Body sugaring! It doesn’t hurt.”
[image error]I raised a doubtful eyebrow at her. I had been down this no hurt road before and I had ended up as roadkill. She explained to me how the body sugar worked and showed me some stuff that, god help me, looked an awful lot like snot. Staring down at my legs, I decided I should probably do something before an archaeologist saw me and proclaimed me the Missing Link. So I reluctantly agreed to give it a whirl.
As Salon Lady rolled out the sugar booger on my leg, I lay down and braced for the worst. Suddenly I heard this huge ripping sound. Miraculously, I felt absolutely no pain. Nothing, Nada. Zippo. I was ecstatic. Bolting up, I grinned at her.
“Wow, that was amazing,” I exclaimed. “It felt like nothing!”
She laughed. “It was nothing,” she said, holding up a piece of the white paper that covered the massage table I was on. “I just practiced on the paper!”
©2020, Beckerman. 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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November 9, 2020
High on the Hill was a Lonely Goatherd
“Hi, I’m Didi, and this is my husband Bob. We’re your neighbors!”
I stood at the door to our Vermont ski rental and stared at the older couple in front of me. She had her hair in two tight braids on either side of her head like Heidi of the Mountain. He was wearing lederhosen.
I was speechless.
“We’re on our way to a yodeling competition, but we wanted to say hi and welcome you to the neighborhood,” explained Didi. I gaped at the lederhosen. I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked about the yodeling thing or the fact that Bob was wearing leather shorts and it was 30 degrees outside.
“Yodeling competition?” I wondered aloud.
“Yes, we’re Yodelers.”
I had never met an official yodeler before and I had several thoughts all at once. I wondered if they dressed like this all the time or just for the competitions. I also wondered if Bob’s legs were cold. And then I wondered if they were going to offer me a Ricola cough drop.
They looked at me expectantly. I thought they might be waiting for me to invite them in for some fondue or perhaps a hot cup of Swiss Miss.
Then it dawned on me.
“Would you like to yodel for me?” I asked, unsure of proper yodel-requesting etiquette.
Didi nodded vigorously. I already regretted extending the invitation. The only yodeling I’d ever seen was on TV and I had no idea what to expect in terms of volume, duration, or the potential for a herd of mountain goats to suddenly appear on my stoop. Truthfully, it was not one of those things that had been on my bucket list. I’d never said to my husband, “Before I die, I really want to hear someone yodel.” The only yodel I’d ever had a hankering for was the chocolate and cream kind you buy in the supermarket.
Truthfully, it was not one of those things that had been on my bucket list. I’d never said to my husband, “Before I die, I really want to hear someone yodel.”
But Didi was already warming up. And before I could say auf wiedersehen, Didi let one fly.
“YODEL-ODEL-AY-HEE-HOO!” she bellowed.
I jumped at the unexpected sound, and then looked up to the ski resort to see if she’d started an avalanche.
“Wow!” I commented. “That was quite a yodel!”
Didi beamed. “Bob is better. But he’s saving his voice for the competition.”
Bob nodded and bowed to me.
“So, are you two, like, professional yodelers?” I asked.
“Oh no,” said Didi. “We just do it for fun. We’re too old to do this professionally.”
I wondered what the optimal age was for yodeling. Was there a point where you got to be too old to yodel? At that time, were you called a Yoldler?”
Didi asked me if I wanted to hear another yodel and I said okay. But as she began to yodel, our dog Monty started to howl along with her.
“Hey,” she said. “Your dog yodels, too!”
Yes,” I replied. “But he refuses to wear lederhosen.”
©2020, Beckerman. 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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November 2, 2020
The Mean Old Turkey of Turkeyville
Clearly the wild turkey that was standing in the middle of the road had not heard about the roast turkey I made for dinner last week or he might have moved at a slightly faster pace.
However, this turkey seemed in no hurry to go anywhere… but I was.
Had it been the size of a normal turkey, I would have just honked, or gotten out of the car and shooed it away. But this was not a normal turkey. This was a ginormous turkey. This was a turkey on poultry steroids… switched at birth with an ostrich egg and raised to think it was a turkey. It was Turzilla.
And Turzilla was mean. As I inched my car forward, he bobbed his head, gobbled angrily at me, and stood in defiance. Then he ran at my car and pecked at my bumper. When I tried to pull off to the side, he paced me.
Even though my car outweighed him by a couple of thousand pounds or so, I didn’t want another roadkill notch on my belt so I waited. And he waited. It was a car-turkey standoff.
While I idled, cursing the turkey and trying to figure out what to do, the woman who lived in the house next to this scene walked out to the curb. I rolled down my window.
“Is this your turkey?” I yelled to her in jest.
She laughed. “Isn’t that something?” she remarked. I wasn’t sure if she was commenting on the size of the uber-turkey ,or the fact that he had declared the middle of the street “Turkeyville,” and he, the king.
I wasn’t sure if she was commenting on the size of the uber-turkey, or the fact that he had declared the middle of the street “Turkeyville,” and he, the king.
“He’s been here all day,” she continued.
“Well, I guess he has nothing better to do than play in traffic and bully large SUV’s.” I said.
Since she was not stuck in a car behind the turkey behemoth, she felt free to stand and admire the giant fowl from afar. I, however, was not as appreciative. I was late to pick up my daughter from school for a doctor appointment and I couldn’t figure out whether I should contact the ASPCA and have the turkey captured, or call AAA and have the turkey towed. All I did know was that I was stuck in my car for ten minutes behind this bird and I was the one who was starting to feel like a turkey.
[image error]
I pulled forward a little more aggressively and this time the turkey raised up its wings and actually flew at my car. Honestly, I didn’t even know turkeys could fly. It didn’t fly high, or fast, or even gracefully, but the sight of a giant bird coming at my windshield was enough to have me throw the car into reverse and burn rubber back down the road.
Turzilla settled back into position in the middle of the street and went back to pecking at the blacktop. I picked up the cellphone and called my husband.
“I’m late picking up our daughter at school and I can’t get down the street because there is a giant killer turkey in the middle of the road,” I whined to him.
[image error]“Honey, have you been taking your meds?” he asked me.
“I’m serious,” I complained. “There is a huge wild turkey blocking the street and it won’t let me pass.”
“Aren’t you the one with the 4000 pound SUV?” he inquired.
“Yes, but he has a mean peck,” I said.
“Well, clearly there is only one thing that will get him to move,” he said.
“What?”
“Roll down your window and tell him it’s Thanksgiving.”
©2020, Beckerman. 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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October 16, 2020
Top Ten Things to Tell Your Kids When They Discover You Ate All Their Candy
[image error]
You will buy too much Halloween candy and you will eat whatever is leftover
Once that candy is gone, you will then start to sneak pieces of candy from your kids’ stash.
They will discover what you have done and you will need to quickly come up with a believable defense before the ugly truth comes out that you are The Mother of all Candy Thieves.
This is where I come in. I present to you Ten Things to Tell Your Kids When They Discover You Ate All Their Candy:
(Disclaimer: This only works when they are little. Once they are teenagers you are up the infamous chocolate creek without a paddle)
10. That was Halloween Candy. It expires after Christmas. That way you make more room for Valentine’s Candy.
[image error]
9. I didn’t eat it. Your brother/sister//babysitter/grandmother/the dishwasher repairman/the UPS guy/Mrs. Butterworth/The Tooth Fairy/Aliens/Dr. Phil ate it.
8. NO, that is not chocolate on my mouth. It’s the new brown lipstick that is very in this year. All the Kardashians are wearing it.
7. Dr. Oz says people over 40 should have chocolate every day because it is rich in antioxidants. You’re under 40. You don’t need it .
6. This kid in a DeLorean appeared suddenly in the middle of our kitchen, took the candy, shoved it into something he called a Flux Capacitor, and disappeared again.
5. Scientists discovered the existence of a Black Hole right here in our pantry. It’s pretty exciting news but sadly, your candy got sucked into it and is now on the other side of the universe.
4. I got an email from a Prince in Nigeria who said if I sent him $2,500 and all our candy, he would share his fortune with me. It sounded like a good deal.
3. I’m sorry. I was so upset when I heard that Miley Cyrus and Cody Simpson broke up that I ate the candy and cried while I listened to “Wrecking Ball” for three hours.
2. There was never any candy. It was all just a dream.
1. Your father did it.
©2020, Beckerman. All rights reserved. “Lost in Suburbia: A Momoir ” and “ Rebel without a Minivan ” make a great gift for a cool mom you love. Get a head start on the holidays and order yours HERE.
Want more mom humor? 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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October 10, 2020
Attack of the Frozen Forehead
Since I wear my hair very short, there wasn’t really any way to cover them up and I complained to my husband that I was starting to look old.
“How old do you think you look?” he asked.
“Around fifty,” I replied.
“You are fifty,” he said.
“Yes, but I don’t want to look fifty.”
“What’s wrong with looking fifty when you’re fifty?” he asked.
“I’d rather look forty.”
“But you’re not forty,” he said.
“I know that,” I said. “I just want to look younger than I am.”
“Just tell everyone you’re sixty and they’ll think you look really good for your age,” he said.
Without two x chromosomes, I knew there was no way in the world my husband would understand my concerns. So, I sought out the counsel of my fifty-year old friends who all, mysteriously, happened to have smooth foreheads. They also all had eyebrows that didn’t move, but I overlooked that because their foreheads were so smooth. The secret, they said, was to get a shot of botulism in my face to smooth everything out. I’m not sure why I agreed to inject a known toxic substance into my forehead, but they all seemed pleased with the results, so I decided to give it a shot… no pun intended.
I made an appointment with a dermatologist, got the shot, and then a funny thing happened. I discovered that I had a muscle weakness above one of my eyes that had heretofore gone unnoticed… until I got the shot. Unfortunately, when the miracle forehead smoother interacted with the secret muscle weakness, it created something worse than small lines in my forehead.
It made one of my eyebrows drop.
So, now, instead of looking like a gracefully aging fifty-year old woman, I looked like Mr. Spock.
Naturally, this wasn’t really the look I had been going for. I went back to the dermatologist to register my complaint and ask if there was a way to get me to look like a human again, instead of a Vulcan. She said that there was nothing she could do and another shot could possibly make it worse. I was stuck that way for six months. Then she held up her hand, told me to “Live Long and Prosper,” and sent me on my way to boldly go where no middle-aged woman with a droopy eyebrow had gone before.
I assumed she meant the mall.
I figured I could probably find a solution there, and if not, there was nothing like retail therapy to make you feel better when you look like an alien.
Unfortunately, if I had thought that covering up small forehead lines were hard, covering up a droopy eyebrow was darn near impossible.
[image error]First I tried getting oversized sunglasses to cover the problem. But when I wore them inside couldn’t see and kept walking into things. Clearly having a fat lip would not improve upon the eyebrow problem.
Then I considered getting an eye patch. But I was pretty sure that looking like a pirate wasn’t much of an improvement over looking like a Vulcan, plus I would have to walk around saying “Argh,” and “Shiver me timbers” all the time.
Finally, I consulted the smartest woman I know. I called my mom and told her about the shot of botulism and the droopy eyebrow and Mr. Spock, and after some thoughtful consideration, she came up with the most logical conclusion.
Stay inside.
©2020, Beckerman. 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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October 6, 2020
Welcome to the Club
“I got an invitation on Facebook to join the Magnetic Eyelashes Fan Group,” I told my husband as I stared at my computer screen.“What does that even mean,” he asked incredulously.
“It’s a group on Facebook for people who like Magnetic Eyelashes, I assume.”
“Is that a thing?” he said.
“Apparently,” I said. “Although I have no idea what a magnetic eyelash is and why I got an invite.”
I sighed. This wasn’t the first time I’d been invited to join a weird group on Facebook. It seemed like recently the invites were coming faster and faster and the groups were becoming more and more obscure. There was the group for “People Who Prefer Camels with One Hump, Not Two.” Yet another group called, “When I was Your Age Pluto Was a Planet.” And the ever popular, “Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Mom Jeans.” I was invited to each of these and I can’t fathom why. I don’t really have any opinions one way or another about any of these, and especially the number of humps a camel should have. I’m more concerned with not getting too close to a camel so I don’t get spit on.
Since my Facebook friends were the ones who were inviting me to join Facebook groups, it occurred to me that I didn’t need to stop getting Facebook group invites. I needed to get some new Facebook friends.
“I got another invite for a group called, ‘I Always Push the Door that says Pull,’” I continued.
“What is there to talk about in that group?” my husband wondered.
“Not much, I guess. I think it’s more about keeping out the people who pull the door that says push,” I said.
There was the group for “People Who Prefer Camels with One Hump, Not Two.” Yet another group called, “When I was Your Age Pluto Was a Planet.” And the ever popular, “Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Mom Jeans.”
“You know, there is a way to stop getting these group invites,” said my husband.
[image error] The “Friends Don’t Let Friends Wear Mom Jeans” Group
“What?”
“Stop going on Facebook,” he said.
“I can’t do that,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Because then I wouldn’t know what stupid Facebook groups my friends are all joining.“
He sighed and left the room. But the issue gnawed at me. Every time I went on Facebook, I was being bombarded by invites. In the past 24 hours, I got invites to “People Who Suffer from the Fear that Somewhere, Somehow, a Duck is Watching You,” “Gnomes are People, too,” and the somewhat relatable, “I Use the Word Thingy When I Forget What It’s Called,” which is a group I might actually join. It got to the point where I was so busy deleting group requests that I almost didn’t have time to tell all my friends I secretly prefer camels with one hump.
“You know, all these invites got me thinking,” I finally said to my husband. “I decided I’m going to start my own Facebook Group.”
“What is it?” he said.
“People on Facebook Who Hate Facebook Groups.“
©2020, Beckerman. 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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October 1, 2020
The French Connection
I’m having an affair.
My kids know, of course, because they’re often with me when it happens.
I know its wrong, but no matter how many promises I make to myself, I seem unable to stop it. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m in love… with French fries.
I truly loathe my weakness. I know it’s bad for my relationship with my thighs, but I can’t seem to help myself. I tried going cold turkey, but that didn’t work. So, I thought maybe if I brought it out into the open, it would help me to quit. But my friends were less than supportive.
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“Ugh. How can you eat that stuff?” asked a friend I confided in. “It’s so bad for you.”
“I know, I know.” I agreed. “But it tastes so good.”
“Yeah, it does,” she said longingly. She, too, has done battle with her French fry demons.
Finally after much soul searching and weight gain, I decide to come clean to my husband. One night after a healthy dinner of tofu and vegetable stir-fry, I faced him.
“Honey, I have a confession to make,” I began. He looked at me, his eyes filled with love and trust.
“I’ve been eating French fries,” I admitted, burying my face in my hands. I was so ashamed. But he reached across the table and took my hand.
“I know.”
“How did you know?” I asked incredulously. I thought I had been so diligent about hiding the evidence.
“There was salt on the dashboard in the car. And I could smell the grease.”
I shook my head despondently. “I thought I’d gotten over this. The health club. The Paleo diet. But after the kids started eating them… it was so hard to stay away.”
“I understand,” he said. “It happens to a lot of people. If not French fries, maybe pizza. You need some help. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I thought about all those nights sneaking around… eating in the laundry room… rationalizing to myself, “They’re just potatoes. Potatoes are good for you. It’s not like I’m eating doughnuts, for goodness sake.”
“There was salt on the dashboard in the car. And I could smell the grease.”
But the truth was, they weren’t just potatoes. They were fried potatoes. And I had made a promise to myself and my husband on my wedding day that my fried food days were behind me. Unfortunately, I discovered it wasn’t something I could just turn off. It was a constant battle. However, once I got past the shame, I was able to look at the whole affair more honestly and objectively.
“French fries smell good and they taste good and they make me feel good when I eat them, gosh darnit!”
“But how do you feel after you eat them?” asked a reformed French fry eater, who shall remain anonymous.
“I don’t feel so good about myself,” I admitted.
“That’s good. That’s the first step in giving up the fries,” she said.
I’ve now been French fry-free for almost two months. Some days I drive past the fast food places and I feel a familiar twinge. But then I get home, I take out my swimsuit and I feel better about how far I’ve come.
They say the best way to break a bad habit is to replace it with something good. I know I’ll never get over my first love, but I think I’ve found something that will help me kick the French fry habit for good:
Sweet Potato fries.
©2020, Beckerman. All rights reserved.
Note: This is an excerpt of an essay from my book, “Rebel Without a Minivan.” The whole book is actually pretty funny and you can buy it in paperback or download it on Amazon and Apple B ooks ! Also, please shop at independent bookstores. They need our support now, more than ever. If you ’ d like the paperback of “ Rebel without a Minivan ” , order it from your local bookstore or support my friend and author Jenny Lawson ’ s fabulous new bookstore, Nowhere Bookshop!
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