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

by Lisa Scottoline

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  Table of Contents

  About the Authors

  Copyright Page

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  In loving memory of Mother Mary

  Introduction

  By Lisa

  People go to the beach for lots of reasons, namely, the sand, the sun, and the water.

  I go for the food.

  You might think there’s no food at the beach, but if there’s no food at your beach, come to mine.

  Food never tastes better than it does on the beach.

  How do I know this?

  From a lifetime of eating on the beach.

  You would think that the beach would be the last place you would eat, if you’re a woman self-conscious about her body, which is every woman in the world.

  But I grew up in a family of chubby Italian-Americans, and The Flying Scottolines didn’t sweat the small stuff, especially the fact that none of us was what you would call small.

  Mother Mary loved to cook, and the rest of us loved to eat, and none of us saw anything wrong with it.

  We had the time of our lives on the beach, because we were so full of food.

  It’s hard to be unhappy with a full tummy.

  This was before the invention of Food Guilt.

  Think back.

  Because we Scottolines never had any Food Guilt.

  Food is love, and we had a lot of love in our family.

  We would never feel guilty because we ate.

  We had guilt if we didn’t eat.

  And we had guilt about wasting food, which was our version of a mortal sin.

  So before any trip to the beach, Mother Mary would cook up spaghetti and meatballs, so we could make spaghetti and meatball sandwiches to take to the beach. I know that not everybody has eaten spaghetti and meatball sandwiches, so here’s the recipe:

  To make a meatball sandwich, put a ton of meatballs in a hoagie roll and smash the top down. You can serve it hot or cold, but you should serve it on the beach.

  Delicious.

  The spaghetti sandwich is made the same way. Put a lot of spaghetti on a hoagie roll and smash the top down. It also works hot or cold and is perfect for the beach, because you’ll spill so much tomato sauce on yourself that you’ll have to go wash off in the water.

  Not that I ever did that.

  Less than two thousand times.

  By the way, it goes without saying that you never put spaghetti and meatballs in the same sandwich.

  Just in case you were thinking about it.

  Don’t embarrass yourself, or me.

  And of course after we had our delicious meal on the beach, we’d be looking around for dessert, and in those days, an angel would appear in the form of the Ice Cream Man.

  This wasn’t a man driving an ice-cream truck like Mr. Softee, but a man who walked back and forth across the beach in the hot sun, wearing a white T-shirt and white long pants, lugging a massive cooler full of ice cream on his back.

  Mr. Tuffee.

  All the while he’d be calling out, “Ice cream and ices, ice cream and ices!” like a town crier for saturated fats.

  And we would get our ice-cream treats, the first round of the day, but certainly not the last.

  Because ice cream tastes better on the beach, too.

  There’s nothing that doesn’t taste better on the beach.

  Mother Mary used to smoke on the beach, and she thought even cigarettes tasted better on the beach.

  You can tell we weren’t health nuts.

  So then it won’t surprise you that we couldn’t swim.

  Neither my mother, my brother Frank, nor I could swim at all. We never learned how, and to this day, we don’t know.

  Don’t ask why.

  The Flying Scottolines are full of mystery.

  But my father could swim, and so for exercise we would go down to the water’s edge and watch him, like three beach balls looking out to sea.

  So given my altogether adorable childhood, it’s hard to understand how I grew up and acquired Food Guilt, I-can’t-believe-I-ate-that, a generalized fear of carbohydrates, and a lifelong worry about my weight. And I’m always on a diet, and I just now gained back the ten pounds that I had lost last month.

  But more and more, especially in summertime when I’m sitting on the beach, I’m learning not to sweat it.

  To go back to the child that I used to be.

  To see myself through the loving eyes of my parents.

  To eat on the beach.

  And not to worry about whether every little thing makes me look fat.

  In fact, not to worry at all.

  And so that’s very much the spirit of this book.

  It’s full of funny stories and true confessions from my daughter Francesca and me, and though we write about our bodies, we know that weight doesn’t really have any weight with us.

  It has to do with the stuff of life, yours and mine, as women in the world.

  And at its warm little heart is a secret message:

  Enjoy.

  I’m Not My Type

  By Francesca

  I have a terrible personality.

  According to Myers-Briggs.

  My best friend sent me a version of the famous personality test to discover whether or not we would be good candidates for the CIA, hypothetically.

  Because that’s the type of idea my best friend and I come up with.

  So she forwarded me a web link to a shortened version of the test.

  Shockingly, neither of us had the spy personality; she was an INFJ and I came up with an INTJ. At first we were excited—we were just one letter off from each other—twinsies! It took a minute before I bothered to learn what my letters meant: Introverted, Intuitive, Thinking, and Judgmental.

  “Is that good?” I asked her over Gchat, Google’s instant messaging service.

  “Yeah!” she typed. She was lucky I couldn’t see her face. “That’s a very rare personality type.”

  She sent me an extended profile of my type. Sure enough, it said INTJs account for just 2% of the population, and female INTJs are only 0.8%.

  I felt like a rare gem, a diamond.

  Until I read the rest of the description. The only thing diamond-like about INTJ is a heart of coal.

  The intro paragraph could be summed up as “Lady Macbeth.”

  “INTJs are defined by their tendency to move through life as if it were a giant chess board, always assessing new tactics, strategies, and contingency plans, constantly outmaneuvering their peers to maintain control.”

  Famous INTJs listed were Vladimir Putin, Lance Armstrong, Augustus Caesar (did you know Myers and Briggs lived Before Christ?), and Hannibal, among other Machiavellian rulers, egomaniacs, and cheats.

  “I’m horrified!” I wrote to my
friend.

  “No! You could conquer the world!!!”

  Three exclamation points are Internet-speak for overcompensating.

  I can’t possibly belong with these narcissists. Although, I do write about myself for a living. And I’m a formidable Scrabble opponent. Does that count?

  Another section speculated about fictional INTJs. The first was Walter White from Breaking Bad.

  Okay, so the superfan in me loved this. At least it wasn’t Lydia.

  Also Gregory House from House MD, Hannibal Lecter from Silence of the Lambs, and Professor Moriarty, mortal enemy of Sherlock Holmes. Smart but heartless characters, ranging from a know-it-all misanthrope to a cannibalistic sociopath.

  Put that in my OK Cupid profile.

  The only decent one was Katniss Everdeen. I haven’t read those books, but she’s the good one in the kill-kids-for-sport game, right?

  I’m not slinging arrows, I’m grasping at straws.

  My friend’s chat bubble popped up again: “You’re right. This is so not you. Especially the parenting stuff.”

  Parenting section? I found it, and—oof—the INTJ parent makes the Tiger Mother sound like a kitten:

  “Not prone to overt displays of physical affection … perfectionistic, often insensitive. When it comes to emotional support, INTJs … will likely never deliver the sort of warmth and coddling children crave.”

  I don’t have children yet, but I have a dog and a cat who are my babies. I let them sleep in my bed, I kiss them on the mouth, I cook for them, and I tell them they are brilliant and beautiful—although they listen best when I’m holding a treat. I even brush my dog’s teeth three times a week.

  Believe me, I can coddle with the best of them.

  I was Italian before I was INTJ.

  At the end, the profile stated, “Remember, all types are equal.”

  Oh, sure. That’s why you listed history’s greatest super-villains in my group.

  I hate this. My astrological sign, Aquarius, never suited me either. The descriptions say things like: a flighty air sign, a social butterfly, no one can hold on to you for long! Meanwhile, I’ve had the same five close girlfriends since I was eleven, I’m a serial monogamist, and I’m a homebody who enjoys nesting.

  Aquarius wouldn’t let me sit at her lunch table.

  Anyone who has been on Facebook recently has seen their feeds inundated with those “Which Disney Princess/Dog Breed/Game of Thrones House/Alcoholic Beverage Are YOU?” personality quizzes. Who among us hasn’t clicked on one?

  Who among us hasn’t taken one twice for a better outcome?

  The last one I took promised to tell me who would play me in a movie. My answer:

  Morgan Freeman.

  I get that all the time.

  I never believed in astrology, much less an online personality test, and yet I’m still curious and then disappointed when they aren’t what I want to hear. What are we looking for in these quizzes? Validation? Recognition? Any excuse not to do work?

  Well, I’m done. I’m more than a type, a star sign, or an algorithm. I know myself better than anyone.

  And I’d be great in the CIA.

  Jumpy

  By Lisa

  It’s time you knew I had fleas.

  As if I weren’t single enough.

  Apparently, being single is like being broke. You don’t think you can get broker than broke, but you can.

  Just ask the government.

  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.