Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions (4 page)

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.

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?