Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions

by Lisa Scottoline

  My cardio is already blasted.

  And I avoid sexy beaches.

  Then there’s a button called Schedule Manager, which sounded kind of controlling, but I checked it out. Immediately, a black box popped onto the screen which read, Set the current time and date first.

  I found this tone so bossy, I opted out.

  Not only that, I couldn’t figure out how to do it.

  If this TV is so damn smart, why doesn’t it know the time and date?

  I do.

  So do you.

  We rock!

  There’s even a button for a Web Browser, which I pushed and discovered that I could actually go on the computer from my television.

  Incredible.

  So my new TV is a store, a gym, a secretary, and a computer.

  There’s only one thing it isn’t:

  A book.

  So it’s not that smart, after all.

  Going, Going, Gonzo

  By Lisa

  I’ve always been addicted to garage sales and flea markets, but it turns out they were gateway drugs.

  Now I’m hooked on auctions.

  We begin a year ago, when I noticed there was an antiques auction in my neighborhood and I stopped by. I’m no antiques expert, but I like old things.

  Like me.

  So I walked into the auction, took a seat, and watched as the auctioneer showed slides of great furniture. Most of it was from the Philadelphia area, circa 1800s. People made bids by raising white cards, and when the bidding stopped, the prices weren’t expensive at all.

  Surprise ending, right?

  I watched a beautiful mahogany end table from 1780 sell for $250.

  What? Any piece of real solid mahogany from 1780 is worth $250, whether it’s a table or a surfboard.

  Because it’s a deal.

  I watched equally amazed as a walnut tea table from 1760 went for $250.

  Incredible!

  I don’t drink tea and I don’t need a tea table, but so what? It was sad to see this great wood furniture go for such a low price, especially to someone not me.

  That’s what I started thinking, watching the auction. That the end tables deserved to be bought. That the chest of drawers needed a forever home.

  I’d be rescuing this old authentic stuff, not merely buying it.

  I’d be preserving the history of this great nation.

  You can thank me anytime, United States.

  So now I’ve discovered a whole new way of buying stuff I never wanted before I saw it for so cheap.

  For example, take today. I went to the auction for a boot scrape, which is a metal thing that sits outside your front door and you use it to scrape mud off your shoes before you track it around your house. You may not think I need a boot scrape, but I will remind you that I live with five dogs, so I’m always stepping in something outside.

  By the way, what I’m stepping in is never mud.

  But “boot scrape” is a nicer term than “poop scrape.”

  So I got the boot scrape at the auction and was just about to leave when I couldn’t believe the low prices that people were bidding for a mahogany writing table from 1830, which had an inclining slant top and four drawers with brass pulls.

  If you don’t know the pull of a brass pull, I can’t explain it to you.

  Plus it was called a writing desk, and I’m a writer.

  I thought to myself, how can you buy a real mahogany writing desk for only $200?

  Or more accurately, how could you not?

  So I raised my hand.

  And I’m now the proud owner of a mahogany writing desk. Never mind that I write with a laptop, so the desk’s slant top is of no use.

  I’m sure it will come in handy next time I use my quill.

  Also the desk is colonial scale, so no normal chair will fit under it. Much less an ergonomic chair.

  So it’s not an economic desk.

  But still, I put my printer on it, and it was a steal.

  Of course, not everything at an auction is cheap, but you don’t have to buy it, and going to an auction has entertainment value. For example, somebody at the auction bought a stuffed mountain goat for $1,200.

  But I don’t judge.

  One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

  And I treasure all my trash.

  Here’s a Howdy Do

  By Francesca

  I’m back on the dating scene and getting reacquainted with the art of presenting myself to new people.

  The art of seduction begins with introduction.

  Be open but don’t ramble. Keep it light but keep it real. Be decisive, but let him lead.

  Now if someone could just remind me what any of that means.

  It shouldn’t be this hard. I write about myself for a living, I ought to be able to tell a few winning stories about myself. But my only objective in writing to you, dear reader, is to make you laugh. I’m not trying to sleep with you.

  Not necessarily.

  I recently started seeing someone new, we’ve been on a handful of dates, and I like him so far. We had plans to go to dinner and a movie last Friday, but at 6:30 P.M. that night, I still hadn’t heard from him about which movie he picked, so I texted him.

  “Sorry, I took a nap and just woke up,” he replied. “Can we do Saturday instead?”

  I had firm plans to stay in Saturday night, but I couldn’t tell him why. The truth would reveal one of my dorkiest passions, not a fifth-date kind of revelation. Typically, I’ll let you see me naked before I tell you this. But here goes:

  I love Gilbert & Sullivan.

  For those who got laid in high school, William S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan are the nineteenth-century writing team behind a series of comic operas. Their humor is satirical, heavy on wordplay, and aimed at lampooning Victorian England and mocking theatrical clichés of their day.

  I know, I can’t believe they fell out of favor either.

  But take my word for it, Gilbert & Sullivan created some of the most beautiful classical music you will ever hear, and much of the humor is still relevant today.

  Plus, the lyrics really improved my SAT Verbal score.

  I was a member of the Gilbert & Sullivan Players in college, a group deemed nerdy even by Harvard standards, and I remain a fan.

  Luckily, I don’t have to be a dork alone. My closest guy friend is equally fanatic about G&S, so when he found a Facebook group called “Gilbert & Sullivan Sunday Singing Group,” we both joined. This Sunday, they were singing through The Mikado, my favorite production. By overselling our talents via email, my friend had managed to get himself cast in the title role and me as the soprano lead, Yum-Yum.

  Have I completely lost you? We’re not allowed to sit at the same lunch table anymore, are we? It’s okay, I understand, I’ll eat this in the girls’ bathroom.

  So Saturday night I needed vocal rest and a good night’s sleep before my performance. Although I was loath to admit it, I cared about this silly sing-along, a lot.

  Singing Yum-Yum would serve some deep-seated psychological validation. When my high school did Mikado, I was cast as Yum-Yum’s understudy. I practiced for hours, relishing every moment of rehearsals, fantasizing about performing the role. Of course, I never got to go on. This was my big chance to show the world I could do it.

  Look who’s singing in a living room in Brooklyn now, bitches!

  I couldn’t risk ruining my voice over drinks and conversation with a handsome dude.

  This may be why I am single.

  I felt lame twice over. First, because I got canceled on last minute, apparently losing out to the allure of a nap, and secondly, because I had such an uncool hobby. If this guy hadn’t lost interest in me already, he sure would if I was honest with him, I thought.

  So I lied, and vaguely said I had other plans.

  I was true to myself, just not truthful to him.

  Thankfully, by the time Sunday arrived, any boy trouble spinning in my brain was replaced by nervous ex
citement. My friend and I enjoyed a brunch of hot tea with honey and rode the subway together to Brooklyn, reassuring each other we were going to be great—just great!—as we fidgeted the whole way.

  We arrived at an old brownstone near Prospect Park and walked up several creaking flights of stairs. When we arrived at the right floor, one door was ajar, and the sound of easy conversation wafted into the hallway.

  Inside, the air was warm and humid, as ten or so people, most over the age of sixty, filled the small apartment. At first, my friend and I walked in all but unnoticed, but once we started introducing ourselves, everyone stopped to look at us. My friend asked about available scores, I went to get a glass of water, opening all the wrong cabinets until the hostess intervened, and we took our seats in the living room, shuffling our music on our laps.

  Conversation had slowed to a trickle.

  Then I understood. We were making them nervous.

  Either with our youth or our foreignness, we had invaded their safe space. In our skinny jeans, we looked like the young, judgy idiots that most “cool” people under thirty usually are.

  Little did they know.

  “So,” I said, hoping to break the ice, “how did we all get into G&S?”

  I shared that I’ve been listening to the music since I was in the womb, thanks to my mother, and recounted that when my high school announced our spring musical was The Mikado, I was the only fifteen-year-old to fist-pump and cry, “YES!”

  That a got a laugh.

  “Are you a student in college now?” asked one man.

  “No, I’m twenty-eight,” I said with a wince. “But thanks!”

  He shrugged, as if it made no difference.

  My friend told about how we met in college, when we were both in the chorus of Pirates of Penzance, and how he almost dropped me on my head during the choreography.

  “I survived,” I said, “and we’ve been friends ever since.”

  Having established our credentials, the rest of the room opened up. One man talked about learning the music in elementary school.

  “They used to teach this music in schools, in our day,” he said.

  “My son played the Major General in Pirates when he was at sleepaway camp,” said one woman.

  “Does he still like singing in shows?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t perform anymore. He’s forty now and lives in New Jersey.”

  Another woman shared a picture of herself in costume for Yum-Yum with members from this very group, and, judging from their hairstyles, it looked like it was taken in the seventies. She said, “This was before my second marriage, do you remember that, Frances?”

  I began to understand that these people had been meeting up for Gilbert & Sullivan committee meetings, sing-alongs, and all the friendship in between, for well over thirty years. They’d seen each other through marriages, and second marriages, and children growing old.

  And they had done it singing.

  I couldn’t think of anything cooler.

  Everyone had an assigned role, and we sang through the entire opera, including the dialogue scenes, with a short intermission to snack on watermelon, cheese, and—not for the faint of heart—smoked oysters.

  None of us were professional singers, but what we lacked in talent, we made up for in enthusiasm. The spirit of the room was encouraging and supportive. I blushed the time when I didn’t quite make a high note, but everyone clapped at the end anyway. And I was impressed at how these once-shy adults sang out at full volume. Normally I’m so shy about my neighbors hearing me, I don’t sing at full volume in my own shower. The Gilbert & Sullivan Sunday Singers left the door open.

  By the time my friend and I said our goodbyes and promises to return, my voice was hoarse.

  On the train ride home, I saw that the guy who canceled had texted me to make plans the following week—maybe he did like me after all. Still, I’m not sure I’ll follow up.

  I might be too cool for him.

  In Search of Selfie

  By Lisa

  Everyone is buzzing with the news that there are hundreds of leaked celebrity nude selfies being posted on the Internet.

  Celebrities are leaking, people.

  You may have read about it. There’s a lot of really pretty models and actresses who are now appearing in various states of undress on the Internet, for all to see. It goes without saying that this is a terrible invasion of their privacy, and they want to retain the right to invade their own privacy.

  Which I get.

  I looked at these photos, to see what all the fuss is about, and the pictures show these women taking selfies in their camisoles and nothing else, or in their bras and nothing else, or in their underwear and nothing else, and at one point or another, they’re all sucking on their finger.

  I have several thoughts.

  First, when will the sucking-on-the-finger thing get old?

  WHEN?

  Ladies, don’t do it anymore.

  Don’t.

  The same goes for sucking on bananas, Popsicles, and straws.

  Really, do we not get this yet?

  WE GET IT.

  It’s hard to claim to be a feminist if you’re sucking your finger.

  Because you can’t talk.

  Second, I’m trying to understand what the celebrities were thinking when they took these pictures. All I ever read about is celebrities whining that photographers are taking too many pictures of them, or that people on the street are taking too many pictures of them, or that everything is about pictures of them, yet as soon as these celebrities get near an underwire bra or some fresh laundry, they’re snapping even more pictures of themselves.

  MAKE UP YOUR MINDS, CELEBRITIES.

  Evidently there are never enough pictures for celebrities, or for all of the other knuckleheads who are taking nude selfies all the time.

  Does no one have hobbies anymore?

  Does no one go for walks?

  How about a bike ride?

  Or to the library, or the mall?

  Why is taking a nude selfie such a compelling activity?

  DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE NAKED?

  TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES AND LOOK DOWN.

  And, if you don’t want naked pictures of yourself to exist:

  DON’T TAKE NAKED PICTURES OF YOURSELF.

  I’m not blaming the victim, I’m being a good mom to the victim.

  In a perfect world, nude selfies would be a great idea. But we live in a world that contains Mace, self-defense classes, and the NSA.

  PROTECT YOURSELF.

  FROM YOURSELF.

  AND EVERYBODY ELSE.

  And if the celebrity sends the naked selfie she has taken to her boyfriend, is it really that different from every other naked picture she’s posed for in magazines, newspapers, blogs, or in about 3 million other places?

  For example, one of the people whose naked selfies were leaked is Kate Upton, a model who has posed topless lots of places, including Sports Illustrated.

  The sports are illustrated, the women are naked.

  Maybe the complaint is that she didn’t get paid for the nude selfie, as opposed to the nude photo, which I get.

  Because another thing that never gets old is money.

  IT NEVER GETS OLD.

  Another actress said she took a nude selfie of herself for her boyfriend. But here’s what I have to say to her boyfriend:

  DO YOU REALLY NEED A PHOTO TO REMEMBER WHAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND LOOKS LIKE?

  I mean, how bad is your memory, dude?

  Not to mention your imagination?

  The celebrity selfies were hacked from the cloud, which is another thing it’s impossible to understand. That movie trailer was right, nobody understands the cloud, least of all me, and I pay for a yearly cloud subscription.

  Yes, I’m a cloud subscriber.

  The cloud is supposed to back up my phone, laptop, and desktop computer every time I sync it, but that never works.

  Maybe because I don’t have
any nude selfies of me sucking my finger.

  Also sync is now a word.

  This is not progress.

  Anyway, to stay on point, what I have are 3 zillion pictures of my dogs and cats doing adorable things, and my bet is that the cloud is full to bursting with such things, so that when it starts raining, yes, you guessed it, it will rain cats and dogs.

  And nude selfies.

  Also, fingers, bananas, and a Popsicle.

  And all I have to say is:

  STEP AWAY FROM THE SELFIE.

  AND READ.

  This Is Your Dog on Drugs

  By Lisa

  I am the old woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many dogs she didn’t know what to do.

  Okay, not exactly, but I’m having dog issues.

  In that the dogs are all wonderful individually, but together, it’s a zoo.

  And I know it’s politically incorrect, but I think it might be gender-related.

  Let me give you some context.

  A few years ago I had three wonderful golden retrievers, all of whom were female. They were always happy and they never fought with each other. Goldens think that life is a party and they’re the guest of honor, and you’re always welcome if you bring a keg.

  Sadly, the goldens passed away, and I found myself in collect-them-all mode with four Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, which are adorable little dogs, but somehow I ended up with three boys—Tony, Boone, and Kit—and one female, Peach.

  Ruby The Corgi is a female too, but her issues are unrelated to gender.

  There’s a reason corgis are Queen Elizabeth’s favorite dog.

  And I bet they push her royal ass around.

  Anyway, It turns out that testosterone can be toxic.

  The three boys fight, and the most aggressive is Boone. He was previously my adorably goofy puppy, but he’s growing into his full alpha-male self and has become a tiny terror. About a month ago he started picking on his smaller brother, Kit, attacking him for no reason at all. I consulted my girlfriends, plus a dog trainer and my vet, all of whom told me I had to deal with the situation before it got out of control.

  So I put a harness and a leash on Boone at all times, even inside the house, where we were tied together all day. If I ate lunch, there was a leash on my wrist. Same with dinner. I had him with me even when I went to the bathroom.

  To be fair, this last part isn’t a change.