Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions (2 page)

Oh. Wait. They're closed.

Oh, sorry. They're open again.

Phew.

Anyway, it's not my fault I have fleas, it's my dogs' fault. As you may know, I have five dogs: Ruby The Crazy Corgi, dysfunctional couple Little Tony and Ms. Peach, and Bromantic Puppies Boone and Kit.

I don't know which dog is to blame for our fleas and have questioned them repeatedly, but none of them is confessing.

Boone and Kit have asked for a lawyer.

Peach and Tony blame the cats.

Ruby claims it's a conspiracy, but that's how corgis think. Paranoia is an occupational hazard for herding dogs, and let's be real, you never know when there's a wolf hiding around the corner to kill your sheep.

Fleas: 1; Puppies: 0

People, corgis are here to tell you. Keep an eye on your sheep.

I started noticing that the dogs were scratching a few months ago, or maybe it was last year. The thing about having a flea problem is that when you have it, you don't even remember your life before fleas. It's like life before Internet, happy and quiet.

We were happy, right?

I never had a flea problem before, so when it first happened, I denied it. I simply pretended that it wasn't happening. This isn't hard to do if you just look the other way.

Until you start itching.

And then you want to burn your house down.

Seriously, when I found a flea on my leg, I couldn't wash my dogs fast enough. I had them in the tub every other day. I started out with the organic, all-natural flea shampoo, but when that didn't work, I segued into something radioactive.

Sometimes a girl needs a good pyrethrin.

And whoever banned DDT should be shot.

Just kidding.

Because the thing about a flea problem is that it doesn't mean washing only the dogs. It means washing your clothes, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, comforters, and any blankets on the chairs. It means the washing machine is running continuously and the rugs are being vacuumed constantly.

You may be wondering why this is so, and it's because fleas have a life cycle.

By the way, if you happen to be eating while you're reading this, you should either stop eating or stop reading, because what follows will disgust you.

The bottom line is that if you have a flea problem, you are going to wish you listened in Biology. You need to know about fleas, eggs, pupas, and larvae.

Disgusting.

Larvae is not a word you want in your life.

Much less in your bed.

By the way, larvae is the plural. I don't know what the singular is, and believe me, it doesn't matter. My experience with larvae is that there is never just one.

That's how larvae think.

They travel together, like wolves. Only you're the sheep.

See? Ruby is right again.

The most fun part of a flea problem is that you actually turn into a corgi, ever watchful, always on guard. I inspect myself constantly to make sure none of my moles are jumping.

I'm always combing through the dogs' fur with my fingers, in every nook and cranny. They told me they feel molested.

I scrutinize my sheets for telltale black dots, which are called flea dirt. Actually, the vet called it flea dirt, so I assumed that it was dirt that fell off fleas. But when I came home and looked it up online, I found out that it was actually flea poop.

First, who knew that fleas poop?

Second, disgusting.

See what I mean?

There is no bottom to any of this. Just when you thought it was as disgusting as it can get, it gets more disgusting.

Just ask the government.

 

For Your Information

By Lisa

Information is like turkey and stuffing.

It's hard to tell when you've had enough.

And the more you get, the more you want.

At least that's how I feel. I'm bad at portion control, whether it's Thanksgiving dinner or information.

Obviously, I don't believe there's such a thing as too much information. If you read this series, you know about my bunions, fleas, cellulite, and Mother Mary.

One of these is to be avoided at all costs.

Not the one you think.

FYI, I love information. I always want more. When I look back at my life, I know the things I wouldn't have done if I'd had more information. I'm talking Thing One, Thing Two, and Amway products.

But it turns out you can get more information than ever before, and I am giving thanks.

Because I heard about this kit you can buy, test yourself, and find out your DNA.

I went to the website to learn about it, astounded. You order the kit, test your saliva, and send it back to the company.

Yes, you mail them your spit.

I'm wondering if I can mail them my cellulite, too.

Plus a few fleas.

Anyway, I am excited about this, and I ordered one for Daughter Francesca and one for me.

Merry Christmas, Francesca!

I don't know if Francesca wants a DNA kit for Christmas. If she doesn't, I'll take the test twice. Maybe my score will improve, like the SATs.

I didn't get a DNA kit for Mother Mary. I can find out what's in her DNA by looking in the mirror.

Also, can you imagine asking Mother Mary for a saliva sample?

“Here!” she'd say, and spit in my face.

So why do I want to do this? The test can let you know tons of things about yourself. For example, if you're a carrier of fifty-three different diseases, including Maple Syrup Urine Disease.

I bet you didn't even know that existed.

Neither did I.

Maybe Mrs. Butterworth had it.

I'm not sure what Maple Syrup Urine Disease is, but I'm guessing it's a disease that makes your urine look like maple syrup.

In that case, my medical advice would be simple.

Don't pee on your pancakes.

It may look right, but it won't taste right.

The test also lets you know if you're at risk for 122 diseases, including back pain.

Okay, maybe I already know that one.

The test can determine sixty of my genetic traits, but I already know a lot of those, too. For example:

Eye Color: Bloodshot Blue.

Hair Color: Fake.

Height: Stumpy.

Breast Morphology: Presently Morphing Due to Gravity and Unfairness of Life in General.

Memory: Huh?

Earwax Type: Johnson's.

Eating Behavior: Rapid and Unattractive.

Food Preference: Yes.

Caffeine Consumption: Dunkin' Donuts.

Odor Detection: How dare you.

Pain Response: Ouchy.

Muscle Performance: Slack and Wasting.

Response to Exercise: Procrastination.

Response to Diet: Not Applicable.

The test can even tell you whether you're a carrier or at risk of a disease based on whether you originate from Europe, East Asia, or Africa. Sadly, there is no separate category for those of us who originate from South Philly.

Yo!

Interestingly, the kit can also tell you about your own ancestry. Both my mother and father were Italian-American, so I always assumed I was a purebred.

But maybe not.

And if I'm not Italian, somebody has to explain my nose.

The test can even determine what percent of my DNA comes from Neanderthals, which the website calls a Neanderthal Percentage.

I thought we all came from Neanderthals, but maybe not. Maybe there are other kinds of Thals.

The website says that Neanderthals have a bigger skull, which sounds exactly like me. Mother Mary always said I have a hard head, and now I have an excuse.

It's in my DNA.

In fact, it's her fault.

But will you be the one to tell her?

 

Back to School

By Francesca

I wasn't sure what to expect for my five-year college reunion. All I knew was that it wasn't going to be a victory lap.

I feel lucky to have gone to Harvard. I got a great education, and I made a handful of very close friends and lasting connections with professors. But I didn't always love Harvard, and Harvard didn't always love me.

I had crazy roommates. I had a couple friendships that went down in flames.

I had one professor who hated my guts. I had many more who couldn't pick me out of a lineup.

I wasn't the president of any clubs. I co-founded one, but I left after my co-founder demoted me for rejecting his sexually offensive behavior.

I tried to have fun and find myself along the way, but mostly I worked my butt off and kept my head down.

So my thoughts about going to the reunion were mixed. But nervous energy and curiosity are closely related, and I had far too much of both to skip it.

The only thing I
wasn't
worried about was running into my college sweetheart. And not because I've matured beyond ex-boyfriend-anxiety—God no, do we ever grow out of that?—but because I knew he wouldn't be there. He's in the military and married. I expected the former would keep him too busy to come, and on the off chance he did show, the latter lent a finality that made things no longer interesting.

And anyway, I was much more intimidated to see ex-friends than ex-lovers. Women are ten times scarier than men. And I had some straight-up mean girls in my collegiate past. These were the interactions I was rehearsing in my head on the train ride up to Boston.

My plan was to take the high road, and take it fast. I wanted to rip off the Band-Aid and avoid an evening of side-eye over drinks. So I made a point to say hello to the Queen Bee as soon as I saw her.

She's a doctor now, so at least if she cut me, she could also stitch me up.

We shared a stiff hug and some small chat. It wasn't as bad as I thought.

I had the Hippocratic Oath on my side.

Or maybe she just didn't scare me anymore.

I counted that a win.

Later, a guy I sort-of knew, a biochemistry major, now PhD student, came over to say hello. I remembered him as nerdy but sweet. He was one of those guys you're not interested in when you're young, but then you think back on with a little regret. As we were chatting, I thought, maybe I had judged him too superficially, I bet he's going to make some girl really happy.

“So, are you married?” he asked.

“No. But I'm dating someone,” I said.

“Are you engaged?”

I held up my bare hand. “Nope. Are you?”

With some friends who made Harvard wonderful

“No, but,” he placed his hand on my lower abdomen and said, “Clock is ticking.”

I looked down at his hand and then up at him with a look that drained the color from his face.

“Sorry, that was weird,” he said.

“Ye-ah.” I backed away.

Some people are best left in the lab.

The rest of the evening, I had a good time with my friends, although most of them were the same people I still hang out regularly with in my adult life.

At the end of the night, in the ladies'-room line, I ran into a girl I knew only tangentially because she dated a friend of mine. In college, she seemed to have it all—she held a prestigious position in her activities, she did well in her classes, she was ambitious and outgoing. Back then I'd heard rumors she didn't like me, but because I have the type of self-esteem only an Italian mother can instill, I didn't believe it. How could she not like me when we hardly knew each other?

That she struck up a conversation with me now only seemed to confirm my sense that we were on the cusp of being friends. I greeted her warmly.

“So I just got to have a half-hour conversation with my asshole-ex-boyfriend. Isn't reunion the best?” she said.

Game for girl-bonding, I commiserated. “Exes are the worst. I'm lucky, my college boyfriend isn't here.”

“I know who that is. You dated…” and she said my ex's full name for the whole line to hear, which struck me as edgy. Maybe we weren't about to become new pals.

She didn't leave me wondering long, as she added, “He's an assassin now, right?”