Tracy Beckerman's Blog, page 4

Having the Time of My Shoes

Like many women I know, I have a vast array of shoes. Unlike clothing, shoes, for the most part, continue to fit whether you gain or lose weight, so they are the bright spot in a sometimes cruel and taunting closet.

For this reason, women take their shoes very seriously and many will spend quite some time organizing their shoes by either height or color or occasion.Personally, I organize mine by the amount of time I can spend in them before my feet fall off.

Take for example my regular everyday boots which I call my 10-hour shoes.  I can wear these all day without a problem as long as I get some breaks in between and am not scaling Mt. Everest.

[image error]Then I have my 3-5 hour shoes.  These are generally for one occasion out with minimal walking involved.  I call them my 3-5 hour-shoes because they are really good until that 3-hour mark, but can suddenly, without warning, turn on me between the 4th and 5th hour and become merciless instruments of podiatric torture.

My 1-hour shoes are generally for sitting and the occasional posing so people can admire them before I sit again.  There is really no walking involved in these shoes, except maybe to the bathroom, and even then, I will endeavor to hold it in rather than have to teeter my way across the room to go and use up even 7 minutes of my precious 60-minute time limit.

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Then there are my 5-minute shoes.  Why, you might ask would someone buy shoes they can only wear for 5 minutes?  If you’re a woman you probably don’t need to ask this. But for the rest of the population, 5-minute shoes can best be described as those unbelievably gorgeous and obscenely expensive shoes you had to buy because they winked at you seductively from the store window and just happen to go perfectly with a new party dress you just got. When you bought them at the store, you had no idea they were 5 minute shoes because you only had them on for 2 or 3 minutes and were walking around on rugs with Tempurpedic cushioning (they plan it that way) so you don’t really know how they will feel in the real world. But then you wear them with your new party dress, go to an event, and discover after 5 minutes that they are so incredibly painful to actually wear, you immediately become crippled and will need to be rescued by a llama standing by in case of emergency who will carry you around the event for the rest of the night while he spits on the other guests.

After 5 minutes, they are so incredibly painful to wear,

you immediately become crippled and will need to be rescued by a llama

standing by in case of emergency who will carry you around the event for

the rest of the night while he spits on the other guests.

[image error]Most shoe store salespeople will not tell you that you are looking at 5-minute shoes.  They show you the fine workmanship, tell you how great they make your feet look, and complement your calves. So there you are strutting around the shoe store in your slinky shoes and your sweatpants hiked up over your knees like you are the queen of some fancy pilates class, while a good looking salesguy who looks at ugly feet all day tells you they make your legs look great. What the heck are you supposed to do?  So of course you buy them, wear them to some fancy event, and the next thing you know, you are riding around on a rescue llama.

Fortunately for me, I have fine-tuned my 5-minute shoe radar and rarely fall prey to the seduction of the killer shoe. But when I do, I know I always have my 24-hour pink fuzzy slippers to fall back on.

 

©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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Chock it to Me

Every so often I get an email of doom from a friend that they got from another friend that had been circulated around the email universe for a year or more.  

The latest one I received warned that we are on the verge of a severe Global Chocolate Shortage.  The alleged cause is a combination of high demand and some alienesque choco-virus that is attacking our beloved cocoa beans. Of course, since people forward me this kind of email Armageddon all the time, I immediately had my doubts. But since this was chocolate they were talking about, and I have a love for chocolate that rivals my love for my children, you can imagine my total, utter, complete dismay bordering on hysteria when I got this email predicting the coming of a Chocapocalypse.

I have never been a vanilla person. As a kid, I hated vanilla ice cream, thought vanilla wafers were a waste of time, and refused to eat yellow cake.  As an adult, I became more tolerant of vanilla, but my one true love has and always and will continue to be chocolate.  The chocolatier the better.  Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, mint chocolate, peanut butter and chocolate, I am down for basically anything made with, filled, or covered with chocolate, with perhaps the only exception being chocolate covered bugs…. but the bugs are not necessarily a deal breaker.

Fortunately, according to the email, the CRC (Cocoa Research Center) is on the case, working on new strains of super cocoa beans that can stop these choco-viruses in their tracks.  Their motto is, “To Chocolate Infinity and Beyond,” and they will stop at nothing to not only make more chocolate, but to make it better tasting, as well.  Sounds like a sweet plan to me.

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However, I’m not betting that things will turn around that quickly, so like any smart chocoholic facing a Chocapocalypse, I started hoarding Kit Kats and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups.  Could I, myself, be contributing to the shortage?  Maybe.  But I also have to put my family’s well being first and I know that once a month, if there is no chocolate in the house, things could get ugly.

Like any smart chocoholic facing a Chocapocalypse, I started hoarding Kit-Kats and Reeses Peanut Butter Cups. 

Still, I’ m smart enough to realize that like many things I read on the Internet, this rumor might not actually be true.  So, I checked the online authority on internet hearsay, Snopes, who proclaimed the Chocapocalypse to be mostly false, and predicted more of a likelihood of rising prices, than lack of chocolate.

Relieved that I was less likely to run out of chocolate than be notified by an Arabian prince that I am the sole beneficiary of 160 million dollar inheritance and a herd of camels as long as I forward my social security number and the code to my bank account, I decided let go of my Chocapocalypse concerns and stop worrying that we will have to endure a Halloween comprised solely of Dum Dums.

… Not to be confused with the Dum Dums who sent me the first email.

 

©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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All Lined Up and Nowhere to Go

It was one of those days where everything was taking a ridiculously long time. There was a line at the drycleaners. A line at the supermarket. A line at the coffee shop. I was starting to think that everyone in the world had the same to-do list that I did; they were just one to-do ahead of me the whole day.

[image error]I finally made it to the last place on my list.  As I walked in, I was thrilled to see that for the first time all day, I was in a store that was mostly empty. I found what I needed in about five minutes flat, then I headed toward the checkout counter.

I was surprised to see that there were a couple of people waiting on line to check out, because there didn’t really seem to be that many people in the store. But since the whole day had been one long waiting game, I figured this was just par for the course. As I got in line behind two ladies with a child, I started checking messages on my cell phone to pass the time.

[image error]After a while, I realized I had been waiting on the line for an unusually long time. I am typically not the most patient person, but this was excessive even by a normal patient person’s standards.

Looking at my watch, I realized ten minutes had passed since I’d gotten on line. I peered around the people ahead of me and noticed that some other customers were finishing at the cash registers but for some reason, the line I was on did not seem to be moving. I wondered if maybe I had stumbled onto the set of a new B Horror shoot and was trapped in the movie, “The Day the Line Stood Still.” I started tapping my foot and making huffy noises. Then I looked around for a store employee to complain to. I knew, deep in my heart, that I was a mere five minutes away from becoming a “Karen.”

I knew, deep in my heart, that I was a mere five minutes away from becoming a “Karen.”

Just when I thought my head would explode, I saw someone and waved her over.

“Are you waiting to check out?” she asked me cheerily.

“Yes!” I shouted in frustration. “And this line hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes.”

 

“Well, the checkout line is over there,” she said gesturing to another line I hadn’t noticed directly behind the checkout counter. “YOU are standing on line behind mannequins”

 

“Huh?” I said. At first I didn’t quite understand what she was saying. But then I looked closely at the heads of the two ladies and the child standing in front of me and slowly realized their hair was made of plastic. My line wasn’t moving because I wasn’t ON a line. I was standing behind a clothing display on fake people next to the checkout area.

 

I walked around the mannequins and looked them up and down, just to convince myself that I really was that stupid.

“Oh boy. I am such an idiot,” I moaned to the store employee.

“It’s okay,” she laughed. “This actually happens a lot.”

“Really?” I said with some annoyance. “Then why don’t you move the mannequins further away from the checkout area?”

She grinned. “Because it’s really funny.”

 

©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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You’ve Been Blocked

I’ve been blocked on Facebook… again.

When I say, again, I don’t mean to make it sound like it’s something that happens all the time. As far as I know it’s only been two times. But even two times is a lot when you’re used to getting along with everyone and, to your knowledge, have never been accused of something awful like being a stalker, an identity thief, or a mime.

The first time I was blocked I took it in stride because it was someone I already had a strained relationship with.

4 years later, I’m almost over it.

But the latest person who blocked me was someone I’d just met. She was the wife of someone I’d known for a long time,  who I  had a lot in common with, and shared lots of mutual friends. Following the party, I friended her on Facebook. and she accepted and we talked about getting together for coffee. Then, about two weeks later, I realized I hadn’t seen her posts for a while and tried to check her homepage only to discover she was no longer on Facebook. But the way Facebook works is, when someone blocks you, they appear to no longer be on Facebook. So, when someone disappears from Facebook, you can’t be sure if it’s because they deleted their account or they blocked you. The only way to know for sure is to look for them from someone else’s account.

Having been on the receiving end of a FB blocking before, I was wise to the ways of being blocked, so I looked for her from someone else’s account, and, voila: there was the person I had briefly been friends with..

And then I knew I’d been tossed aside like a sack of potatoes blocked.

Once you are a two-time blockee, you don’t get nearly as upset as you might have the first time. You’re kind of like, “What the heck?” and, “OMG, she BLOCKED me?” and, “Wow. What did I say?” followed by, “What a jerk!!” Then you replay the whole conversation you had with her through your head to see if there was any point where you came across as someone with obsessive tendencies, multiple personalities, an arrest record, a restraining order, ties to the Kardashians, persistent chronic halitosis, or the possibility that you slept with her husband.

Then you replay the whole conversation you had with her through your head to see if there was any point where you came across as someone with obsessive tendencies, multiple personalities, an arrest record, a restraining order, ties to the Kardashians, persistent chronic halitosis, or the possibility that you slept with her husband.

Except for the arrest record (which was only a misdemeanor and I swear, I was out of the country when it happened) none of the other things were even remotely possible. So, I was really at a loss as to why she’d blocked me. I realized that being blocked by a friend (or potential friend) on Facebook is kind of like having a boyfriend suddenly stop returning your calls. You know it’s over but you’re not sure why and you’re just left wondering what you did to be so coldly dumped. Personally, I’d prefer to get an automated notification from Facebook that says: So-and-So blocked you because you:

Post too many cloyingly cute pictures of your kids
Ditto your dog
Brag too much about the miles you ran/laps you swam/triathalon you competed in
Ditto your vacation
Repeatedly invite them to play annoying Facebook games
Repeatedly ask them to vote for you for some inane contest
Creepily comment on every status update they make
Other (mocked their ugly rooster, said you support Bugs Bunny for president, invited them to join your coven)

 

Since I was also friends with her husband on Facebook (who, I repeat, I have not slept with), I thought about messaging him and asking him why on earth his wife had blocked me. But then I figured it would be awkward for him to be in the middle of a UFB (Unwarranted Facebook Blocking) and might cause UMS (Undue Marital Stress) as well as the possibility that he also would commit a UFB on me and then I would be a three-time Facebook blockee, which would certainly be a blight on my otherwise pristine social media reputation. Being blocked twice could be considered an aberration. Three times and people start to think you’re a serial killer.

In an attempt to be a grown up and not obsess about it, and not pursue it, and realize it was probably her problem, not mine, I decided to let it go and move on with my life.

… Right after I block her on Twitter.

 

©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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If the Tankini Fits…

This year, I worked hard to drop a few pounds over the winter so that when the summer arrived, I wouldn’t have to face my annual swimwear terror attack. Honestly, I find shark-infested waters less scary than trying on bathing suits.

Bungee jumping? Piece of cake. Wrestling alligators? Not a problem. Standing half-naked in front of a three-way mirror when I know the security people watching those hidden video cameras are snickering at my cellulite? Big problem.

Anyway, with my clothes fitting a little less snugly, I was optimistic that this year I could go bathing suit shopping without hurling my half-filled Starbucks Frappucino at the three-way mirror.

Confident that I was tankini-ready, I went to the store and tried on bathing suits two sizes smaller than last year. I was shocked to discover that I still somewhat uncomfortable with how I looked. I decided that maybe I wasn’t exactly bikini ready yet, but I was most certainly tankini ready! I went back out into the store and approached the tankini racks. After a while, a teeny-tiny salesgirl approached me.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Well, uh, I’m looking for a bathing suit,” I stated the obvious.

“How about this one?” she asked as she pulled out something from another rack even my grandmother wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing at the pool in her senior community. The bathing suit had more material than a trench coat and was about as flattering.

“It’s a little old for me, don’t you think?” I asked.

“Well, once we’re past a certain age, those tiny tankinis just don’t flatter us, don’t you think,” she said.

What’s this “us” stuff? She looked about twenty-two.  Besides, I didn’t think I was past that certain age quite yet. Maybe the fact that I had some smile lines meant to her that I was ready for a bathing suit with an attached skirt and its own breasts, but I begged to differ.

Maybe the fact that I had some smile lines meant to her that I was ready for a bathing suit with an attached skirt and its own breasts

“I’m pretty sure I’d like a tankini,” I told her.

“Hmmm. You know tankinis are not for everyone. They can actually make your hips look BIGGER,” she said a little too loudly so that everyone in the bathing suit department now realized that my hips would look bigger in a tankini.

“I… want… a…. tankini!” I said through gritted teeth.

“Got it,” she said cheerfully. “But you might have better luck over there.” She pointed to the section of suck-me-in Miracle Suits, which promised to make you look ten pounds thinner instantly, and also squeeze the life out of you so all your fat popped out of the top of the bathing suit and relocated under your chin.

“You know, thanks, but I think found what I want,” I said, plucking a cute tankini off the rack in front of me.

“Okay, well here’s a matching sarong,” she said grabbing a muu-muu the size of a bedspread. “It’s nice and long so you can tie it up all the way around your neck and let it drape down like a dress to cover your suit completely,”

I turned to a rack of sexy little sarongs and grabbed one that would go with the tankini I’d just found.

“This one is good,” I said.

“Hmmm, it’s really small. I’m not sure what you could do with that?”

I smiled darkly. “I could strangle you with it.”

 

©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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Welcome to my GoodReads Blog!

So glad to have you here! I will keep you updated on the progress of my new books, giveaways, and other promotional opportunities and also, occasionally, reprint posts from the blog on website, www.TracyBeckerman.com so you can read some of my new newspaper column essays and have a quick laugh to brighten your day! And if you are Lost in Suburbia or Lost in Midlife or somewhere in between, chime in in the comments and tell me your story! Thanks! Tracy

The Cream of the Crop

“Oh no!” I cried from the bathroom.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” My husband ran into the room, wondering, I’m sure, what kind of tragedy could have transpired with only me, the sink, and the toilet in the room.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said, looking at him forlornly.

“What???” he asked.

“I used my night cream instead of my day cream and it’s daytime.”He stared at me blankly.

“What do you think is going to happen?” I asked him.

“I guess your face is going to fall asleep,” he replied and left the room.

I knew my husband thought it was ridiculous that one person needed so many moisturizers. I have my day cream and my night cream which is heavier than my day cream because apparently one needs more moisture on their face when they sleep. I have night eye cream and day eye cream for the same reason. These are for the fine lines under my eyes which, apparently, are not moisturized enough by the other creams I just put on my face. I have something called a retinol which I’m told is necessary because I’m in my fifties and the retinol helps speed up the regeneration of my skin cells which must be dying off at the same rate as the aged eggs in my ovaries.

Then I have a neck cream for the delicate neck area which feels suspiciously like the day and night creams I already use.  I’ve been told, though, that the neck creams have different anti-aging and tightening properties, which, it would seem, could easily and less expensively be handled by wearing a turtleneck instead. Then there are the moisturizers with sunscreen built in, the primers with sunscreen built in, and the really expensive, really tiny jar of special cream that smells like seaweed because it’s made of seaweed and has extra special firming properties which I have no idea if they work because, honestly, who wants their face to smell like fish.

I have something called a retinol which I’m told is necessary because I’m in my fifties and the retinol helps speed up the regeneration of my skin cells which must be dying off at the same rate as the aged eggs in my ovaries.

When I was in college, I was a moisturizer virgin and really had no idea what, if any, lotions or creams I needed to maintain my perfect twenty-year old skin. My roommate routinely slathered Noxema on her face every night which quite possibly smelled worse than the seaweed cream they make today. I haven’t seen her in thirty years so I can’t tell you if the stuff worked, although I assume that the smell of the Noxema was so offensive it’s possible that the odor alone would have caused any aging skin cells she might have had to jump ship.

Naturally, I’ve tried to cut down on the number of creams I use mainly because,

They’re costly and,
They take up a lot of room in my medicine chest and,
I have to explain this whole thing all over again to the TSA agents every time I travel and they wonder why I have so many creams and lotions for one person who has only one face and is only going away for 3-day trip. But when I explain that the lotions have multiple uses and can also be used as bug repellant, motor oil, and hoof and mane cream for horses, I usually sail right through.

Knowing that all of this was pretty ludicrous, I decided it probably made sense to try to pair down all the creams to what was absolutely necessary.

“I’m going to get rid of some of my face creams,” I announced to my husband so I would have to follow through.

He nodded. “Great! But keep the hand cream.”

“The hand cream? Why? Do you think my hands look old?

“No,” he said. “I use that one, too.”

 

©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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No Phone on the Throne

I could hear the phone ringing from the bathroom.  I have no psychic abilities and I wasn’t expecting a call, but I had absolutely no doubt who was calling. It was my husband.

“Hey honey, it’s me,” I heard him say to my voicemail. “Can you give me a call?”

“I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” I yelled back, as though he could hear me.

Yes, it’s true. I’m one of those few and far between individuals who does not take their phone to the bathroom with them. Knowing myself, there is just too high a likelihood that said phone will end up falling into the toilet and it would definitely ruin my day to need to have a smartphone burial at sea. I have plenty to think about while I’m doing my business, anyway… such as why my husband always seems to call me when I’m in the bathroom.

I suspect he might actually be the one with psychic abilities because this happens nearly every time he is out of the house and I’m in the bathroom.  It’s not that I spend that much time in the bathroom or that he calls that frequently.  I’d be surprised if he calls more than once a day. But that one time a day he does call, I am, without a doubt, 100% of the time, no ifs, ands, or naked butts, on the throne.

He knows this and yet many times he will call repeatedly as though I am just avoiding his call or have accidentally been sucked into a black hole.

“Hey honey, me again.  Are you around?  Call me.”

“Hey honey, I’ve been calling home and your cell and there’s no answer. Where are you???”

If he happens to call a fourth time, I can usually wrap things up and jump out to answer the phone before he calls 911 and the police bust into my house and knock down my bathroom door with a battering ram.

“I. Was. In. The. Bathroom.” I growled.

“Oh,” he laughed.  “Sorry.”

I know he finds this hysterically funny and I suspect that he has some kind of bathroom cam that lets him know the minute I sit so he can torture me with phone calls.  I used to think once the kids got older, I could go to the bathroom in peace. Little did I know I had a husband with a juvenile sense of humor lurking in the wings who thought it would be fun to interrupt my five minutes a day of alone time.

The maddening thing, of course, is that his reason for calling is almost never anything of any urgency.  It’s usually to remind me to do something or get something or take care of something that I probably already did the first time he asked me to do it when I was NOT in the bathroom.

The maddening thing, of course, is that his reason for calling is almost never anything of any urgency.  It’s usually to remind me to do something or get something or take care of something that I probably already did the first time he asked me to do it when I was NOT in the bathroom.

“You always call when I’m in the bathroom,” I said.

“How can I possibly know that you’re in the bathroom when I call?” He chuckled.

“I don’t know. Maybe you have a sixth toilet sense, or a hidden camera, or you trained the dog to spy on me and send you an alert.”

“You think I’m doing it on purpose?” he wondered.

“Definitely,” I snarled.

“That’s crazy,” he responded.

“Okay. But if I don’t pick up on the first ring. Can you assume I’m indisposed and won’t pick up the 2nd, 3rd, or 4th ring either?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you,” I said. “So, what was so urgent that you needed to talk to me right away?”

He snickered. “I wanted to remind you to pick up some more toilet 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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Pillow Talk

Every once in a while I get bitten by the redecorating bug and I feel compelled to refresh one of the rooms in the house. In the grand scheme of things, this is not as bad, as say, wanting to refresh husbands. 

Of course, it might actually be cheaper to get a new husband than a new family room.  But since my husband is the one financing the redecorating, it behooves me to keep him around.

Besides, I like to see the pained expression he gets on his face when I ask him to look at fabric swatches.

When I got the bug this time around, however, we were not really in a position to get new furniture. So I decided to see what I could do to improve the look of the room without spending a lot of money.

Having watched my fair share of home improvement TV shows, I knew that the secret to creating a new look in our family room on a dime really came down to one word:

Pillows.

“What’s with all the pillows?” asked my husband when he came home from work and saw a dozen different throw pillows fluffed and arranged on the sofa and club chair.

I beamed.  “Doesn’t it look great?  I redecorated with pillows!!

He grimaced.

“What?” I cried.  “You don’t like them?”

“We are not Pillow People.”  He said definitively. He popped his p’s like they were poison darts.

I had no idea what to make of that remark.  I assumed it had some kind of negative connotation from the way he said it, but it escaped me how something as innocuous as a pillow could be bad.

“What are pillow people?” I asked.

He inhaled deeply. “Pillow People have lot of pillows everywhere. And they have poufy loveseats. They also have cats. And dried flowers. And candles that make the house smell like Vanilla.”

I thought for a minute.  “And you prefer no pillows and drooly dogs and leather recliners with built in cup holders and a house that smells like dirty socks?”

“YES!”

“You had that house. It was your bachelor pad,” I reminded him. “It was a Pit.”

He shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as comfortable.”

Pillow People have lot of pillows everywhere. And they have poufy loveseats. They also have cats. And dried flowers. And candles that make the house smell like Vanilla

“Pillows are comfortable,” I protested.

He shook his head and walked over to the couch.  “Watch.”

He went to sit down on the couch, but the pillows took up so much real estate that there was only about six inches of open couch space left at the end for someone to actually sit.  He bent down, rested the very edge of his butt on the available couch space, and stared at me.

“OK, I see your point,” I admitted.

“Good.”

“I’ll lose some of the pillows,” I promised.

“Thank you.”

“But can I keep the new cats?”

 

©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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A Letter to the Grammar Police

Dear Grammar Police,

I wanted to thank you publicly for noticing a grammatical error in my recent column with regard to my use of the pronoun “I.” Apparently I had written, “the kids and I,” when I should have said “the kids and me.” This was a gross error of unparalleled magnitude and I apologize profusely for committing this miscarriage of syntax and offending your finely tuned grammatical sensibilities. I realize that as a writer, I should be well-schooled in the use of “I vs. Me,” but it’s (its?) often difficult to remember all the rules when I’m focused on much less important things like making sure my humor column is funny, which, actually, sometimes necessitates breaking beloved grammar rules (the shock, the horror).

 

 

 

 

The truth is, there (their? they’re?) are so many rules to remember, (:? ;?) such as not ending a sentence with a preposition like another writer does who (whom? that?) I went to school with. Or a sentence fragment. And starting a sentence with a conjunction. I’m sure my 3rd grade English teacher Mrs. Kinsler (may she rest in peace. Or is it piece?) would be appalled to know that I had not yet mastered the “I vs. Me” rule. She once sent a letter home to my parents and I (me and my parents?) about my ongoing problems with this rule, and one time she even sent me to the principal (principle??) because of it. He assured Ms. Kindler that in spite of my grammatical challenges, I would, in all likelihood, manage to eek through 3rd grade English, and might even learn enough from this embarrassing situation to one day become an english teacher myself, or at the very least, a newspaper copy editor.

He assured Ms. Kindler that in spite of my grammatical challenges, I would, in all likelihood, manage to eek through 3rd grade English.

Still, neither the principal nor Ms. Kinsler could have anticipated that certain grammatical concepts might continue to be an issue for me as an adult (well, Mrs. Kindler probably did), and I must admit, I am somewhat ashamed that while I no longer end a sentence with a preposition, I vs. Me is something I still have a problem with.

Sadly, as a writer in today’s technological age, I have become lazy and prefer to spend my time lying (laying?) around eating bon bons and letting the computer’s spell and grammar check do the work for me. This is a continual (continuous?) challenge for me and something I know I need to work on because it affects (effects?) my readers who (whom?) count on me to get it right (write? rite? Jeez.).

 

I plan to address this forthwith (in a fortnight, actually, if I am being forthcoming), and assure you, my editors and I (and me? Me and my editors? Whatever) will make every attempt to make sure this does not happen again.

Thank you so much for your understanding. You sound like someone I could really be friends with.

Sincerely, or most sincerely, but definitely not sincerefully,

Tracy Beckerman

 

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