Occasionally I actually do some research for one of my humor columns to make sure that I am being factually accurate about something as scientifically complex as the half life of the average dog gas.
Such was the case recently when I was working on an animal column which, incidentally, was not about canine flautlence, and I stumbled upon one of those online, ask-any-question types of sites. As I scrolled down the page, I saw that there were some other questions unrelated to mine, listed under the heading of “Open Questions – Pets.”

That was when something caught my eye.

The question was: “Does anyone know if you have to have a special permit to own a hissing cockroach in Illinois?”

Really.

The official answer, in case you were curious, is “No.”

But the real answer is “EWWWWW!”

I say again.

“EWWWWW!!!”

I happened to have lived many years in a slightly cockroach-inhabited apartment in New York City and while the roaches were not of the hissing variety, they were plenty gross. If one were to add “hissing” into the mix, I surely would have run screaming back to my parents’ house in the suburbs, forthwith. To think that someone would actually want to bring some hissing cockroaches into their home in Illinois, willingly and with intent to own, not only completely baffles me, it makes me question the sanity of the entire population of Illinois.

Of course, I have a brother who willingly moved to a house in Malibu that is frequented by scorpions, tarantulas and rattlesnakes . But to the best of my knowledge, he was an unwilling participant in these visits.

In my house, we have a dog, a lizard, a chinchilla, a couple of fish, and several children. Although some of them do some nasty things on the rug occasionally, none of them hiss or hide in my utensil drawers and scatter when the lights come on. None of them hail from Madagascar, breed 300 offspring every 60 days, or will survive an atomic winter and repopulate the earth.

None of them is a hissing cockroach, but ONE of them, (lizard) would actually eat a hissing cockroach.

Good to know if we ever move to Madagascar…

or Illinois.

©2012, Beckerman. All rights reserved.
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Contrary to what I generally tell people, the happiest moment of my life was not the day I got married, nor the final push when I gave birth to either of my two kids. No, I would have to say that my one moment of sheer bliss was the day I was tailgated relentlessly for five miles on the highway, trapped between a truck in front of me and a truck to my right until I was finally able to change lanes and let the tailgater pass. Yes, I grinned with absolute delight when I caught up with him two miles later and saw him pulled over to the side of the road by a state trooper.

Although I know it is better to forgive and forget, I am just not one of those people who is able to let these things just roll off me. There’s a big chip on my shoulder that usually gets in the way. However, I do realize that I might live a longer, healthier life if I didn’t carry a grudge… or twenty grudges, as the case may be. So this year, I decided for my New Year’s resolution to vary from my usual pledge to lose ten pounds, to a promise to be a less vengeful person.

Therefore, in an effort to get 2012 off on the right foot, I make the following amends:

To the guy I met at the cash machine who told me I’d look more like a lady if I grew my hair longer: I take back the comment I made that bald men shouldn’t throw stones.

To the man behind the counter at the store where I was returning a vacuum cleaner who made me wait twenty minutes while you pretended to read a blank piece of paper and then told me you were going on break, I apologize for telling you to ‘make like a vacuum and suck it.’

To the large lady who screamed at my son when he accidentally bumped into you in the supermarket: I’m sorry I told you he wouldn’t have bumped into you if you didn’t take up the whole aisle.

To the other lady behind me on the supermarket checkout line who looked at the snack food I was buying for my kids and informed me that childhood obesity is the number one problem in America: I’m sorry I told you that actually, people who comment on the food you are buying at the supermarket are the number one problem in America.

To the mother who shrieked at her kids in front of me for no apparent reason: I regret telling you to be nicer to your kids or when they grow up, they will put you in a nursing home.

To the lady at the DMV who was just unbelievably rude to me: I’m sorry for asking you if you also need a license to work there and make everyone’s life a living hell.

And finally, to the girl at the cosmetics counter in the department store who told me I needed six different products for my wrinkles and sagging skin, I apologize for telling you that people who work in department stores have the highest rate of premature aging.

I’ll try to come up with better retorts next year.

©2011, Beckerman. All rights reserved.
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“Mom… MOM, COME HERE QUICK!” My daughter’s voice rang out urgently from the floor below me.

My disaster radar alarmed, I abandoned my throne in the bathroom and tore down the stairs to the imagined calamity below.

 My daughter stood intact in front of the TV and pointed to some dancing gizmo on the screen.

“I want that for Christmas,” she said calmly.  It took me a minute to register the fact that she was not at death’s door, but merely in dire need of a toy.

“You pulled me off the toilet to tell me about some toy?” I glowered.  “I thought it was an emergency!”

I sighed.  This had been the state of things in our house since Halloween. We transitioned seamlessly from “I want candy” to “I want toys” in barely the time it took for our Halloween pumpkin to rot.  I couldn’t really blame them for being on high gift alert all month. Between the barrage of television commercials, radio spots, and catalogs that arrived in our mailbox with alarming regularity right after the stores took down the Halloween displays, to the toy ads popping up on the screen every time they opened the computer, it was a veritable onslaught of holiday marketing. But when it gets to the point where my precious few moments in the bathroom are unnecessarily interrupted, I know it is time to have my annual chat with the kids about the “true” meaning of the holidays.

“I know its tradition for kids to get stuff this time of year,” I began.  “But do you guys know what the holidays are really about?’

They looked at me blankly.  I figured they either had no clue what I was talking about or they were in a TV-induced coma.

“There are many holidays that are celebrated this time of year, but the one thing they all have in common, aside from the gift-giving, is that they are supposed to be a time when we show kindness to each other, reach out to those who are less fortunate than we are, and are thankful for the love we share.”

“We are really lucky to have each other, aren’t we mom,” said my daughter.

“Absolutely,” I smiled.  “So you guys understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, we need to remember that the holidays are not just about the stuff we get,” said my son.
“Right!” I exclaimed

“OK.  Got it,” said my son.  “Can I ask you one more question?”
“Absolutely.”

“Can I still get an I-Pod for Christmas?”

©2011, Beckerman. All rights reserved.
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In case you haven’t noticed, we are officially in that period of time between Halloween and the New Year, affectionately known by some as “The Hippodays.”
Starting with the remaining Halloween candy that lasts into December; segueing into the hearty Thanksgiving meal and leftovers I eat for a week; followed by the Christmas cookies, chocolate Santas, and all of the 10,000-calorie holiday parties in between, I can count on a good five-pound weight gain each holiday season.
Did I say five pounds.  I meant seven.  Or perhaps ten… depending on how much Halloween candy was left.
All this means by New Year’s Day, I invariably arrive at the same desperate resolution… to lose the weight I put on the three months before.
Of course, I am not alone in my holiday weight gain struggles.  Some of my friends enter a frantic period following the holidays when they know they’ve got to lose the extra poundage before they go on vacation over February break to some warm weather locale that will necessitate the wearing of an unforgiving, itsy-bitsy tankini.
Not me.  I wisely married a guy who likes to ski in the winter.  This means I have a grace period of five months post-winter weight gain to get myself back in beach shape before Memorial Day rolls around.
The unfortunate thing is, I can successfully remain in denial about the holiday weight gain well into April, hiding telltale tummy rolls beneath layers of winter woolens until the clock changes and the polar ice caps melt, and then suddenly, everyone in the Gap ads is wearing sleeveless tees and I realize it’s Spring and I still have the byproduct of all that Halloween candy accumulated around my thighs.
So much for that grace period.
Of course, I could do what many of my friends do and blame the excess weight on having had children. This works well for someone who still has a newborn or even a toddler.  However, by the time your kid is in college, the excuse wears thin.
Denial and excuses aside, the day finally comes when some old lady pats my tummy and asks me when the baby’s due, that I know it’s time to get serious.  Crash diets and frantic exercise classes ensue lasting all of one week until I throw in the towel and resign myself to another summer of beach sarong’s and mumus.
Having been on this treadmill many, many times before, I wisely decided to nip the already gained holiday weight in the butt, er, bud, and start my diet and exercising in the midst of the holiday season. I called all of my friends for moral support.  Then, in the spirit of the season… I took a large bag and I went through the house, and left barely a crumb for even a mouse.
(My apologies to Clement Clarke Moore for what I’m about to say).

“No Snickers, no Twizzlers, no Skittles or Twix.  Doritos and Cheetos and Fritos are nixed.

To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!  I’ll lose the weight, lose the weight, lose the weight, all!”

But then from the front there arose quite a clatter. So I went to the door to see what was the matter.

It was a guy dressed in brown with a package for me.  I couldn’t imagine what the parcel could be.

I tore open the box and out fell a note.  “Happy Holidays to you,” a friend of mine wrote.

“Here are some cookies for just you alone.  I’m not getting fat, this year on my own.”

©2011, Beckerman. All rights reserved.

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Several weeks ago I went down to Orlando to join The Balancing Act on their road show. We had originally talked about me doing one segment for the show, but when I got d own there, the director said she had snagged an interview for me with Suede, an uber-cool fashion designer who had been on season five of Project Runway. I happen to love that show and adore Suede and was very excited about the interview.

I was also very nervous. Although I have done a fair amount of TV, I am used to being the interviewee, not the interviewer. Plus we had a very, VERY limited time to do the interview.

Being the consummate professional that I am, though, I quickly memorized my questions, turned to the camera,
and flubbed his introduction.
12 Times.

The problem was Project Runway. Not the show itself, but the name. For some reason, being nervous on camera turned me into Elmer Fudd. Each time I started the segment, I said, ”I’m here with Suede from season five of Pwoject Wunway.”

12 Times.

The crew was really great and supportive. Each time I had to do it again, they would say, ”OK, Weddy Twacy?”

Eventually I got it right, and we were able to tape the segment. I think it came out good but I really won’t know until it airs tomorrow. You’ll have to watch it for me and let me know. I won’t be able to watch it… I’ll be out hunting wabbits.

*TO SEE MY INTERVIEW WITH SUEDE AND SOME OTHER FUN STUFF, WATCH ME TOMORROW AT 7AM ON THE BALANCING ACT ON LIFETIME TELEVISION!!

Tomorrow is National Bad Day Day.

Unfortunately, I decided to celebrate a day early.

It started this morning when something flew up into my eye and scratched my cornea. The doctor gave me some goop to soothe my eye which made it hard to see. So hard, in fact, that I missed seeing a big divot in the sidewalk, tripped, and landed face first on the pavement.

With my face and palms scratched and my eye swollen and tearing, I made my way into the coffee shop.

That’s when I got the really bad news.

“We’re out,” they told me when I ordered a cup of Hazelnut coffee.

“Seriously?” I wondered. “How does a coffee shop run out of coffee?”

“We’re not out of coffee. Just out of Hazelnut,” they clarified. “How about French Vanilla?”

I shook my head. My eye hurt. My face stung. I had fallen in front of a gaggle of teenagers who snickered when I fell so my pride was wounded too. It was a bad day. A Nationally Bad Day. All I wanted was a cup of Hazelnut coffee. But apparently on National Bad Day Day, it was not to be.

“What happened to all the Hazelnut?” I asked. The coffee shop employee nodded at the floor.

“You’re standing in it.”

I looked down and saw that I was indeed standing in a large puddle of coffee. Apparently, with the goop in my eye, I had also missed the sign that said “Caution: Wet Floor.”

I stepped out of the puddle, shook off my shoes and ordered a regular coffee. Then I called my husband.

“I’m having a Bad Day,” I admitted.

“I hear ya,” he sympathized. “Do you want a do-over?”

“No thanks. Then it would just be a Bad Day all over again. I’ll just suck it up until Monday.”

“What’s Monday?” he asked.

“National Have a Great Day Day.”

©2011, Beckerman. All rights reserved.
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