In the perfect chair.
At the movies.
They say you should enjoy the simple things in life, and I do, and so did everybody else last night, when my Best Friend Franca and I went to the movies and as soon as we walked into the theater, we saw that it had been completely transformed.
The filthy rug on the floor had been replaced with a clean maroon-patterned rug, and the walls had been repainted a matching color, but best of all, instead of the narrow straight-backed chairs that used to be in the rows were half as many chairs—and they were all as wide as a love seat.
It was as if the entire theater had gone from coach to first class.
Free.
Wow.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. We stopped in our tracks.
The seats were double-wide and they would fit double-wide butts perfectly.
And the chairs were not only huge, but they were covered with some type of gray upholstery, either leather-like cloth or cloth-like leather, but let’s not be picky.
Franca and I started giggling, and everybody else felt exactly the same way, because we all just stood there marveling at the massive gray chairs, oohing and ahhing like tourists at Stonehenge, if the monoliths were soft.
Then all at once, we all bolted for the big chairs, jumping into them and finding to our delight that not only were they double-wide, but if you hit a button on the armrest, the back reclined all the way, so it lay completely flat.
Does life get better than this?
Bestie Franca and I know how to relax.
O.M.G.
And the seat cushion was thick as a mattress, cushy, and vaguely Craftmatic.
Plus, if you hit a button on the other side of the armrest, the lower half of the seat rose to elevate your feet completely.
In other words, it was a bed.
At the movies.
Franca and I looked at each other in astonishment, then we started hitting buttons like crazy, making the seatback go down and the footrest go up and generally playing with the buttons like the three-year-old boys we never were.
And everybody around us was doing the same thing, forty-, fifty-, and sixty-year-olds playing with the buttons, making their feet and heads go up and down, laughing, taking pictures of themselves and each other in the seats, emailing and texting the pictures to their friends, and calling their children to report that a miracle had taken place and recliners had landed at the movie theater.
Okay, maybe only Franca and I took pictures and emailed them to our children.
We tried to call them, too, but they weren’t in.
Because it was Saturday night and they had better things to do than take calls from their crazy mothers who were playing with their new toys.
But wait, there’s more, because this bed at the movies had what every bed should have, everywhere in the world.
Bradley Cooper.
Just kidding.
What these beds had were cupholders.
And not a teeny tiny cupholder, but a big circle that was wide enough to fit a Diet Coke and a box of Raisinets in the same hole. And the armrest itself was so wide that we both could put a bag of popcorn on it, like a shelf.
What?
Does life get better than this?
No.
And just then, the manager of the theater materialized and asked us if we were enjoying our “theater experience,” to which I answered:
“You’re darn tootin’!”
Then he said, “If you wish, you can push away that armrest between and that will transform the seat into a sofa. We call it the cuddle seat.”
“Good to know,” I told him, declining because Franca and I have been friends for thirty years and we cuddle quite enough, thank you.
In time, the overhead lights went off and the previews came on, and everybody put their phones away and settled down, pushing the buttons to make their footrest go back down and reclining their backrest only a reasonable degree.
Everybody, that is, but Franca and me.
We stayed in our twin beds, watching the movie.
It was totally fun and great.
The chairs, not the movie.
In fact, the chairs were better than the movie, but I didn’t care because I was having the time of my life,
I managed to drink my soda lying flat on my back and didn’t spill any more popcorn than usual on my chest.
By the end of the movie, I was wearing Raisinets.
So that’s a tiny problem.
Maybe next time the manager will feed me.
The Real Me
By Francesca
A new year can be about reinventing yourself. This year, many women decided to become a whole new person:
Me.
I was the victim of “high-level identity theft.”
It began when I came home from the holidays to find twelve new credit cards opened in my name, none by me. Somebody had gotten my social security number, birth date, and address.
I freaked. I called my mom, and she freaked. Then I calmed down and looked online. I learned I could resolve the fraud in, oh, about one hundred easy steps.
The first was to file a police report. Simply being inside the police precinct made me feel guilty. I felt guilty for being a boring case. I felt guilty for making paperwork. I felt guilty that I had no leads.
If I’d waited any longer, I’d have made a false confession.
I was told to go see the detective on the second floor. Outside of his office was a wall of WANTED posters with illustrations and surveillance shots for criminals of every sort, all in my neighborhood. It was like an inspiration board for nightmares.
Or Police Pinterest.
I gulped and went inside.
The detective didn’t share my shock about identity theft. He waved a hand, and said, “They’ve got such sophisticated methods now, everyone’s social has been compromised. It’s just bad luck that your number came up.”
Go figure. I finally have the right numbers, and somebody else gets rich.
Next, I set about calling the credit bureaus and customer-service lines for all the fraudulent accounts. It took six hours, but I got a better understanding of what happened.
Sometime mid-December, multiple women in several states used my identity to do a little holiday shopping—or a lot—nearly $10,000. They’d open a credit card at a retail store and max it out the same day. On a few occasions, the imposters were denied. Some of the mistakes that foiled these criminal masterminds were: misspelling my name, getting my gender wrong, or listing “Serritella” as my first name and “Francesca” as my last.
Confusing ethnic name for the win!
A fraud representative informed me that one thief, after being initially denied, had called the customer-service line to try to “verify” her identity.
I mean, my identity.
“That one had some cojones,” the representative said.
For some reason it really bothers me that it was women who impersonated me. It’s sexist, but when I think of a criminal, I envision a man, or if I do think of a female criminal, I imagine a woman destroying a man’s property, justifiably so—Carrie Underwood and her Louisville-Slugger-type stuff. Identity theft must be a major violation of the Girl Code.
Hook up with my ex-boyfriend, but leave my credit score alone.
And yet, woman-on-woman crime is so predictable. It triggers the catty, mean-girl thoughts I otherwise keep suppressed. Like when I imagine some chick sticking her picture on a phony ID with my pristine credit info to buy her stupid girl-stuff from Old Navy, Home Goods, Victoria’s Secret, Nordstrom …
She’s probably not even cute!
Last year, my credit-card information was stolen and used at a grocery store. That inspired sympathy in me. It was like Jean Valjean ripped off my credit card to buy a loaf of bread.
These latest thefts are nonessential. I mean, Home Goods?
I’m so glad my identity was stolen so that you could buy a decorative pillow.
<
br /> Karma says, if you commit fraud to buy a scented candle, you’ll burn your house down with it.
Recently, the detective emailed me a surveillance photo of one of the women using my identity. I didn’t recognize her. I felt bad I couldn’t help the investigation, but I’m relieved that I don’t have con-women for friends.
The woman was very voluptuous. With the camera angle, I was nearly looking down her shirt. Believe me, no one could mistake her for me.
I wish.
No wonder she spent over a grand at Victoria’s Secret.
Even in the grainy photo, I could tell that she was wearing false lashes. I didn’t like that. In my opinion, false lashes are trying too hard. They never look real.
Not that this would concern an identity thief.
But please, if you’re going to impersonate me, try to look your best.
Or mine.
Task Master
By Lisa
The other day, somebody asked me if I was “task-oriented.”
I replied, “Proudly.”
I have no problem being task-oriented.
In fact, I love being task-oriented.
You know why?
It gets things done.
So what if I have a gaping ulcer?
Every bowel needs a little ventilation.
In my opinion, life is full of tasks, and only the task-oriented have the proper orientation to get all the tasks done.
You can take a test to see if you’re task-oriented, in the privacy of your own home. In fact, I developed the test myself, and it consists of answering two questions, which are contained in Part I and Part II.
That’s not a very hard test, is it?
You don’t even have to study.
Here’s Part I, and the question assumes that you had a Christmas tree, because that’s how I came to the realization that helped me develop this test. If you did not have a Christmas tree, or in other words if you are Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, or an extremely lazy Christian, please except my apologies and imagine that you did have a Christmas tree, so you can take the test anyway.
If you’re an agnostic, you need to make up your mind. Stop dithering. Pick a team. Don’t wait until the end. You might get caught out. It may not be good to wear a Giants jersey at the Eagles game, but it’s better than going naked.
Baby, it’s cold outside.
If you’re an atheist, you’re on your own. After all, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Be careful what you wish.
Okay, now to Part I, Question 1.
The question is, When do you take down your Christmas tree?
The answer is multiple-choice, so please pick one of the following:
A) A few days after Christmas.
B) The day after New Year’s.
C) When the kids go back to school.
D) When it dies, when I’m sick of my feet getting stuck by pine needles, or when birds begin to nest in it, whichever comes first.
E) None of the above, and if so, please explain. Show your work.
Okay, got your answer?
Write it down, but don’t tell it to me.
Cover your paper with your hand, so nobody cheats off you.
I’ll tell you my answer when the test is over.
I don’t want you to cheat off me. The task-oriented are always right. Just ask them.
Er, I mean, us.
Okay, let’s move on to Part II, Question 1.
The question is, Regardless of when you actually took down your Christmas tree, when did you want to take down your Christmas tree?
A) After Christmas dinner, when everybody is comatose on the couch.
B) After Christmas breakfast, when everybody is watching the football game.
C) As soon as the kids turn their backs.
D) As soon as the presents are unwrapped.
E) Before the presents are unwrapped.
F) Christmas Eve.
G) None of the above, because I’m sane.
Okay, do you have your answer?
Pencils down.
Here are the results.
Part I, Question I of the test doesn’t matter. It was a trick question, but in a good way. Whatever answer you gave is correct, because if you’re a nice person, married, or otherwise live in a family, you might not have been able to bend them to your task-oriented will.
We’re bossy, not tyrannical.
Part II, Question I of the test is the only part that matters, and if your answer was A through F, you’re certifiably task-oriented!
Welcome to the club!
Thank God your family has you to rush them through the happiest time of the year, so they can get it over with and move on to doing their taxes.
Here’s what I’m saying to you.
I realized I was task-oriented when I could not wait to take down the Christmas tree, put all the ornaments away, vacuum up all the stupid needles, and put a check mark in the box next to Christmas on my Things To Do List, so I could get back to work.
Feel the same way?
Got Maalox?
Old and New
By Lisa
It’s the New Year, and they say, “Out with the Old, and in with the New.”
But I disagree.
I don’t think we have to get rid of the Old to bring in the New.
You’ll disagree, too.
If you’re Old.
I think Old and New can live together, in peace, at the same time. For example, the Christmas tree that Daughter Francesca and I decorated this year had a bunch of New ornaments but plenty of Old, if not Ancient, ones like:
A wooden reindeer with one remaining eye and only two legs, which I bought for Francesca when she was two;
A red glass ball with the word “Joy” written in glitter, which Francesca made in middle school for a beloved horse who passed away;
A twenty-year-old glass snowman whose eye was so worn away that we drew in a new one with a Sharpie; and
A little wooden tree that has three clay golden retrievers with the names of our goldens Lucy, Angie, and Penny, all of whom have passed away.
You get the idea.
If you’re maimed or dead, you’re on our tree.
See what I mean?
Old is good.
Old is sweet.
Old still matters.
Same with our Christmas music. When we open gifts on Christmas morning, we always play the Charlie Brown CD on a continuous loop, even though it’s twenty-five years old and skips like a record.
Please tell me you know what a record is.
Still, we never get sick of hearing it. Francesca knows every note, and I know every skip.
And for the meal, we wanted to make something New, which we hadn’t made before, so we found a recipe to honor my late father, whose parents lived in Ascoli Piceno, Italy. The region is known for its stuffed olives, and Francesca found an Old recipe, one that’s been around for hundreds of years.
Unfortunately, it took hundreds of years to make it.
First we made the stuffing, then stuffed a zillion olives, then breaded the olives, then fried the olives, etc., etc., etc. We even had help from my bestie Franca, who came over for dinner, whom you may recall I have known for thirty years.
We have the right idea when it comes to friends, with that saying, “Make new friends but keep the old.”
So let’s choose one cliché over the other, shall we? And banish that “out with the Old.”
I say this because I often feel that older people aren’t appreciated enough for their experience, wisdom, and perspective. There’s entirely too much sweeping away of the Old in this culture.
I know many of you agree, even if you’re not Old.
And as we get older, many of us experience the feeling of being marginalized or sidelined, simply because of our age.
I’ve seen Mother Mary condescended to and patronized in public, which drives me crazy.
Dis me, but don’t be dissing my mother.
Because
time and space, as they relate to people, are completely beside the point.
The Old are always with us, as are those who are no longer alive, whether they’re dogs or fathers.
We don’t stop loving them, nor do we stop remembering them. Boundaries dissolve, and definitions merge, because those things are meaningless, too.
Nothing Old need be swept aside, to make room for the New.
There’s plenty of room in the human heart for all of us.
Happy New Year.
Bettor for Worse
By Francesca
If you start betting on guilty-pleasure television, does that make it guiltier?
I created a fantasy league for The Bachelor.
The Bachelor, for those who pretend they’ve never seen it, is a dating game show in which thirty women vie for the love of one man, and after a mere eight weeks of choreographed dates, rose-ceremony eliminations, and much artful editing, he chooses one true love to make his wife.
It’s about as progressive as it sounds, and yet, it’s compelling enough to last eighteen seasons and counting.
Fantasy-Bachelor is just like fantasy football, but with more crying.
I figured upping the ante would make watching the show more fun, so I recruited a few other friends who also enjoy The Bachelor ironically (yeah right, we just like it) to join in my pool.
Turns out, being a bettor made me worse.
I thought I liked Bachelor because I’m a romantic. But when I had money on it, I became a cynic.
My strategy was that Juan-Pablo would base his choices on sexual attraction alone. He constantly talked about wanting a stepmother for his daughter, but I wasn’t buying it. I put only one of the single mothers in my top five, and she was at the bottom.
I don’t have money to waste on fairy tales.
Which was good, because Juan-Pablo was no Prince Charming.
I chose Clare as my number one pick, because Juan-Pablo was all over her from the start. If he weren’t so handsome, the word would be lecherous.
Don’t hate the player, hate the game. Or game show.
After weeks of Juan-Pablo sticking his tongue in Clare’s mouth every time she talked, she initiated a clandestine midnight swim … et cetera, an offer he took her up on without hesitation. But the very next day, he chastised her for inappropriately sneaking extra time with him and going “too far.”
Any other season, I would’ve been shouting at my TV screen for Clare to leave this hypocrite. This time, I had the empathy of Bobby Knight.
Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions Page 3