Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?: True Stories and Confessions (12 page)

So I told him not to worry about it.

However, I was worried about it.

The email was just the beginning. I pride myself on being an absolute vault when it comes to secrets, and my friends can vouch for that. But that's just it: I keep secrets
for
my friends, not
from
them, especially not my best girl.

Our friendship is defined by the telling of secrets, not the keeping of them. It's a closed circuit, so no one else is included or exposed, but between the two of us, stories, chatter, news, and gossip constantly flow.

Telling me this secret was like asking me to blow-dry my hair in the bathtub without getting shocked.

And she isn't making it easy on me.

A few days after I'd responded to her boyfriend, my friend happened to email me about celebrity engagement rings, specifically Mary-Kate Olsen's unusual vintage Cartier ring. We talk about dumb celebrity news all the time, but now this was loaded.

I needed insight into her preferences, but I was terrified of being too obvious and revealing too much. “It's cool, but also a little out there. It looks like it would get caught on sweaters. Do you like it?”

She replied within minutes, as usual.

Our BFF emails are High Priority.

She wrote, “At first I was like, what is this weird ring? But then I realized it is so Elizabeth Taylor and awesome!”

Okay, got it: weird is good, assuming it's “Elizabeth Taylor” weird.

Wait, I don't get it.

Then she forwarded a slide-show of celebrity engagement rings, again asking my opinion while offering none of her own.

I sensed this was my last chance. I drafted my reply three times to calculate a casual tone:

“Angelina's is amazing with the emerald cuts smushed together, but do you think emerald looks as good in solitaire? I tend to like the simpler ones, like Keira Knightley's classic solitaire. But it's like, how much do you personally care about having a ring that no one else has?”

She replied, “I don't care about having a super unique ring, but I like the THOUGHT that comes with it.”

The thought
I
was supposed to be thinking!

Then she moved on to speculating on what happened between Beyonc
é
, Solange, and Jay-Z in that elevator, and I was safe.

Beyonc
é
makes everything better.

I considered forwarding the whole thread to her boyfriend, but since she didn't answer any of my specific questions, I feared it would only confuse him like it had confused me. I had failed at the recon mission.

Maybe I'm not cut out for the CIA.

That said, I'm no dummy. My girlfriend-Spidey-sense guessed that the “coincidental” timing of her interest in celebrity rings might have been her testing me. So far, I'd passed. But I had no idea how I'd hold up in person.

So I avoided her.

For two weeks—a lifetime in our friendship. I didn't want to spill the beans, but I also decided that I would not lie to her. When we finally did get together for lunch, I could tell something was up.

She told me that her boyfriend recently asked her about her ring preference, completely hypothetically.

“Ohmigod! Do you think he's going to propose?” My feigned surprise was less Lee Strasberg and more Lucille Ball.

“He said sometime ‘in the next five years.'”

I gulped my iced tea. I definitely couldn't keep this secret that long.

“But I think he's trying to throw me off the scent. I know he went to Tiffany's because he showed me some pictures of rings, and I have to ask…”

My heart thundered in my chest.

“… is it your hand in the pictures?”

“What? No!” I squeaked. I thought fast. “Tiffany's isn't ready for these Nicki Minaj nails.” I flashed my trashy bubble-gum manicure as evidence.

My friend's eyes narrowed. “Really? I'm shocked. I was sure he'd asked you for help.”

A bead of sweat formed at my temple, but I still managed to avoid perjuring myself: “It's not my hand in the picture.”

I'm not the daughter of two lawyers for nothing.

Then I saw my opening: “But now that you mention it, he might ask me for help. So you should tell me
exactly what you want.
”

She did so, and I was relieved that her preferences were perfectly in line with my recommendations to her boyfriend, soon-to-be fianc
é
.

I was riding high. All the possible crises had been averted. She wanted to marry the boy, she was sure to get her dream ring, and I would go on record as being a great friend.

But I got cocky.

As I said goodbye to her, I asked, “If he
had
asked me for help but had sworn me to secrecy, would you have wanted me to tell you?”

She paused for a minute, then laughed. “Yeah, definitely. I'd want to know.”

Grateful for my polarized sunglasses, I said goodbye and ran away.

Thankfully, her boyfriend didn't wait five years. I only had to sweat it out another month before he popped the question in Hawaii. My friend came home blessed-out and in love with her ring—and her new fianc
é
, of course. I was fully prepared to take the secret of my input to the grave, but her fianc
é
had a different idea.

“And he told me how you helped him so much!” my friend said. “He said he couldn't have done it without you.”

He absolutely could have. But I'm glad I earned his trust by keeping his secret, and I'm touched that he gave me any credit at all.

He's going to be a wonderful best-friend-in-law.

 

My TV Is Smarter Than Your Honor Student

By Lisa

I recently converted to a smartphone, only to find out that I needed a smart TV.

D'oh!

If you recall, I wrote a few years ago about my love affair with my big TV, which at forty-two inches, took up my entire living room.

Not that I was complaining.

I loved its gargantuan screen, which made footballs look as big as watermelons and bachelorettes' heads the size of hot-air balloons.

Maybe because their heads were full of hot air.

But now my big TV looks tiny, since now there are forty-seven inches, fifty-four inches, and even larger TVs, at a fraction of the price that mine cost.

Yet I remained loyal to my big TV.

I want one marriage that lasts.

I hadn't even heard of such a thing as a smart TV until somebody mentioned it to me, and I thought they were kidding, then when my other TV died, I replaced it with a smart TV.

I admit, I don't even know what that meant when I bought it. All I knew was that the price was right, and that they weren't charging extra for its brainpower.

So I got it home and right off the bat, I knew my new TV was smarter than I am because I couldn't even understand its remote control. It's black, and in the center is a little cube called the Smart Cube.

I'm not making this up.

All I'm doing is telling you what my TV tells me to.

If I press the Smart Cube, onto the screen pops something called the Smart Hub.

We get it.

My TV is smart, not humble.

I looked at the array of buttons on the Smart Hub, astounded. They were buttons I'd never seen before on a television, like Shop TV.

Wow.

It's not a television, it's a store.

I didn't push the Shop TV button, for obvious reasons. If I start buying things from my TV, my new address will be the poorhouse.

Which would not be Smart.

Then there's a button called Social TV, which I gather is for any parties my TV wants to attend or clubs it wants to join.

Like Mensa.

There is even a button for Fitness, which I fully intend to avoid, again for obvious reasons. I pressed it just to let you know what it says, and it contains something called Cardio Blast and Sexy Beach Abs.

Luckily I don't need either of these things.

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 clich
é
s 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.