I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places Read online

  That would be me.

  Francesca loved Breyer ponies, as well as My Little Ponies, then segued into reading books about horses and watching movies about horses, and in time it became pretty obvious that she was horse-crazy and I should really scrape some money together to get her riding lessons.

  Because every mother knows that if you have any extra money, it is going for something the kids want, which is as God intended.

  (Because somebody did it for you, didn’t they?)

  And so once a week, we drove an hour to take horseback-riding lessons in the country, and the more we did it, the more she loved it, by which point it began to be pretty clear to me that we should just move to the country, because it’s cheaper, prettier, and as a writer, I could live in the middle of nowhere.

  The stable provided Francesca with a horse to ride, but in time my writing career took off, thanks to all of you, and I was able to get her a real horse, and not only that, she got me interested in riding, so I started lessons, too. And about the same time, we looked around in the country for other people for her to ride with and we discovered something called Pony Club.

  Pony Club is a nonprofit organization that was started in Britain but grew to attract horse-crazy kids, mostly girls, from everywhere and teach them the basics of horse-keeping.

  Which is a lot more fun than housekeeping.

  And they also get to form teams and compete against other Pony Clubs, just like a regular team sport, which means that Horse Moms do the things that Soccer, Baseball, Basketball, and Football Moms do, like drive kids to practice, make sure they have the right equipment, and desperately comb grocery-store shelves for healthy snacks in a world when unhealthy snacks are calling their name.

  The only difference is that Horse Moms have to pick up manure.

  Literally.

  So Francesca joined Pony Club when she was about thirteen, and I met a circle of moms who had nothing in common but the fact that their kids were crazy about horses. We were a disparate group of Democrats, Republicans, Independents, nonprofit organizers, small-business owners, financial analysts, divorced and married, and we came from very different backgrounds. But like me, many of those moms had taken up riding themselves, if not out of curiosity, then in self-defense, because you’d better know what you’re doing with a horse or you’re liable to get kicked in the head.

  And so began the origin of my friendship with these women—Nan, Paula, Pam, Karen, and Jodi—and I’m surprised to report that this friendship has continued even though all of our daughters have grown up and all of our lives have changed in so many ways I can’t begin to enumerate them, but they look a lot like the aisle of a greeting-card store; there are birthdays, anniversaries, second and third marriages, illness, deaths, and most lately, grandchildren.

  God bless Hallmark.

  I say this not in a denigrating way, because it came as a lovely surprise to me that if you stay close with a group of women, not only over ten years, but over twenty or even longer, you will share with them the major events in their lives, the ups and the downs, all of the tears and the joy, and the friendship will gain a momentum of its own, even if you don’t see each other that often.

  And so maybe three times a year, we all invade Karen’s house and she makes us something delicious, and we’ve been doing this for so long that we hope she will make her hearty minestrone soup or her incredible corn salad.

  When you crave dishes that your friends make, you’re living your life right.

  I just returned from one of those nights, and Karen made the hearty minestrone because it’s that time of year, and we sat around the table and caught each other up on what our life is like, as well as what our kids’ lives are like, and even what our horses’ lives are like.

  And our dogs and chickens, too.

  Because animal people never know when to quit.

  By the way, we still don’t have anything in common, even after all these years, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Nor does the fact that our kids are grown and that some of us don’t even ride anymore.

  We still have all of our differences, and in some ways we’ve become even more different. I didn’t even realize how different until tonight, when the subject turned to politics, in an election season.

  And even though we disagreed on fundamental issues, all of us love each other too much to let that part us.

  We had each other.

  And we had hearty minestrone.

  And sometimes, that is more than enough.

  You Aren’t What You Eat

  Lisa

  I’m here to tell you that life isn’t fair.

  John F. Kennedy said that first, but he wasn’t talking about his weight.

  I say this because I gained ten pounds in three months.

  I don’t know which number is worse, the ten or the three, but the fact that they occur together is the combination platter.

  Or maybe I should stop with the food analogies.

  Do you think it means anything that food is the first thing I think of?

  Nah.

  Or that I actually look forward to meals?

  Yay, I get to eat!

  Legit!

  The ten pounds I gained were the same ten pounds it had taken me six months to lose, which I had accomplished by eating less and moving more. Not exactly an innovative approach, but the only one that’s ever worked for me. I ate smaller portions, which took me time to get used to, and I increased my exercise level by biking twice a week instead of once. And making sure I used my treadmill desk in the On position.

  Who knew.

  I’m not completely surprised that I gained some weight because when the cold weather came on, I stopped biking, and when my deadline hit, I used the treadmill desk at a standstill, but still it seemed hard to explain.

  I was only a little bad. I wasn’t as bad as ten pounds’ worth.

  In other words, the punishment didn’t fit the crime.

  And by the way, before you flip over to that author photo and tell me that I don’t need to lose weight, remember Photoshop.

  I try to keep my author photo as fictional as my novels.

  Also it’s an ancient photo, which is intentional.

  I’m frozen in time, somewhere around freshman year of high school.

  (Please, I’m not the only author who does this. And the men are just as guilty as the women. You know who you are.)

  But anyway, I just got back from my annual visit to the gynecologist, and she and I had our usual great talk, at least before she whips out the speculum.

  When the speculum makes an appearance, we both shut up.

  But before that, she always asks me how I’m feeling, then she works her way around to asking me if I’ve become sexually active since last year.

  Uh, no.

  The answer has been the same for six years now.

  I always tell her that she was the last person who looked at my vagina.

  In fact, my Pap smear counts as a date.

  We both laugh.

  But I’m not kidding.

  Actually, I think it’s been six years, but it could’ve been longer.

  I forget the exact number.

  It seems like a technicality.

  In my last novel, I wrote a sex scene from memory.

  It worked, for me.

  But to stay on point, the gynecologist always tells me, as she did today, that if I become sexually active, intercourse may be painful.

  I tell her that it’s painful not having intercourse.

  She laughs again.

  Then I thank her for saying all the things she always says, and you have to be living under a rock or maybe never turning on a television to not know that intercourse at my age could be painful and that there are three hundred things they can prescribe for this condition, but none of them includes sleeping with Bradley Cooper.

  Get with it, gynecology.

  Anyway, so I started whining to her about the fact that I gained ten pounds, and she s
aid that was to be expected because women over fifty burn one hundred fewer calories a day, no matter what they do.

  Wait, what?

  I didn’t know that.

  In other words, even if you eat the same amount and keep the same activity level, you won’t lose the hundred calories a day that you used to.

  That you deserve to lose.

  That you sacrificed to lose.

  And that, my friends, is UNFAIR.

  I had read that your metabolism slows down as you get older, but I had never heard it quantified before.

  I instantly thought of all the things that are a hundred calories, namely those little cookie snack packs that I’d finally cut out, which come premeasured for a hundred calories. Through sheer willpower, I’d stopped eating them, but it wasn’t helping.

  My metabolism was eating them for me.

  I hate you, metabolism.

  And then my gynecologist added the kicker, that after menopause, your body shape changes and your weight redistributes, so that the fat collects in your belly.

  Nooooo!

  That was news to me, too.

  Because I’m getting a beer belly though I don’t even drink beer.

  I first noticed this on book tour, when I had to put on real clothes with actual waistbands, zippers, and buttons.

  The frenemies of every middle-aged woman.

  I had thought my newly chubby tummy was just part of my overall weight gain, but now I see that it’s taken up permanent residence.

  I hate you, menopause.

  Well.

  So I came home, texted all of my girlfriends on a group text, and whined to them about what I had learned from the gynecologist. And my girlfriends all texted me back, commiserating about metabolism, menopause, and speculums in general.

  (Sorry. Specula.)

  And we ended up kidding each other about our newly chubby bellies, and ultimately deciding by text that we would all save on heating bills until we dropped dead.

  Then I set the phone aside, because it was time for lunch.

  I started to make myself my usual salad, with honeycrisp apples, cheddar cheese, and walnuts.

  And the more I chopped, the better I felt.

  Truly, I wouldn’t mind losing the ten pounds again.

  But I’m not going to beat myself up about it, like I used to when I had a metabolism that actually did its job.

  I may have my belly, but I also have the best girlfriends in the world, and we have shared so much over time.

  They’re my buffer against the unfairness of life.

  They’re what reminds me of what really matters.

  Love.

  I started this little book talking about changing the way I think about having sand in all the wrong places.

  Remember, I flipped it.

  It’s really just the pixie dust of summer.

  But I had forgotten my own lesson.

  I needed to stop worrying about my belly.

  And focus on my heart.

  Amen.

  Acknowledgments

  Lisa and Francesca

  This is where we get to say thank you, because thank-yous matter! We would like to express our love and gratitude to St. Martin’s Press for supporting this book and its predecessors. First thanks to Coach Jen Enderlin, our terrific editor, as well as to the brilliant John Sargent, Sally Richardson, Jeff Dodes, Paul Hochman, Jeff Capshew, Stephanie Davis, Brian Heller, Brant Janeway, Lisa Senz, John Karle, Tracey Guest, Dori Weintraub, Michael Storrings, Anne-Marie Tallberg, Nancy Trypuc, Kerry Nordling, Elizabeth Wildman, Talia Sherer, Kim Ludlum, and the entire sales force. We got these books on the New York Times Best Sellers list, and we thank you for everything you do to support us!

  We’d also like to thank Mary Beth Roche, Laura Wilson, Samantha Edelson, and St. Martin’s audiobook division for giving us the opportunity to record our own audiobooks. We love to do it, and we love audiobooks!

  Huge thanks and love to our amazing agents. Lisa would like to thank Robert Gottlieb of the Trident Media Group and his incredible team: Nicole Robson, Emily Ross, Alicia Granstein, Brianna Weber, Claire Roberts, and Sabine Jansen.

  Francesca would like to thank Andrea Cirillo, Amy Tannenbaum, and Rebecca Scherer of Jane Rotrosen Agency. I’m thrilled to have found such a brain trust of wit and wisdom in these three incredible women—you have already exceeded my hopes for what a thoughtful, caring literary agent can be, and we’re just getting started.

  Thanks to The Philadelphia Inquirer, which publishes our “Chick Wit” column, and to our editor, the wonderful Sandy Clark.

  One of the best people in the world is Laura Leonard, and her advice, friendship, and love sustain us. Laura, thank you so much for all of your great comments on and suggestions to this manuscript. We owe you, forever.

  Love to our girlfriends, who let us tell stories about them! Lisa would like to thank Nan Daley, Paula Menghetti, Sandy Steingard, Rachel Kull, and Franca Palumbo. Francesca would like to thank Rebecca Harrington, Katy Andersen, Courtney Yip, Janie Stolar, Megan Amram, and right-hand man, Ryder Kessler—I endeavor to bring half the humor, insight, and wicked fun to these stories that you bring to my life. We’re blessed in all of you.

  Family is the heart of this book, because family is the heart of everything. Special thanks and love to Brother Frank, as well as the late Mother Mary and Big Frank Scottoline, though they are with us always.

  Finally, thank you to our readers.

  You’re family, too.

  Other Nonfiction by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella

  Does This Beach Make Me Look Fat?

  Have a Nice Guilt Trip

  Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim

  Best Friends, Occasional Enemies

  My Nest Isn’t Empty, It Just Has More Closet Space

  Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog

  Fiction by Lisa Scottoline

  Most Wanted

  Every Fifteen Minutes

  Keep Quiet

  Don’t Go

  Come Home

  Save Me

  Look Again

  Daddy’s Girl

  Dirty Blonde

  Devil’s Corner

  Running from the Law

  Final Appeal

  Rosato & DiNunzio Series

  Corrupted

  Betrayed

  Accused

  Rosato & Associates Series

  Think Twice

  Lady Killer

  Killer Smile

  Dead Ringer

  Courting Trouble

  The Vendetta Defense

  Moment of Truth

  Mistaken Identity

  Rough Justice

  Legal Tender

  Everywhere That Mary Went

  About the Authors

  Lisa Scottoline is a New York Times bestselling and Edgar award–winning author of twenty-seven novels and coauthor of six humor memoirs in this series. She also writes a Sunday column for The Philadelphia Inquirer. She has 30 million copies of her books in print, and she has been published in thirty countries. She lives in the Philadelphia suburbs with an array of disobedient pets. You can visit Lisa at scottoline.com or sign up for email updates here.

  Francesca Serritella is a New York Times bestselling author and columnist for The Philadelphia Inquirer. She graduated cum laude from Harvard University, where she won the Thomas Temple Hoopes Prize for her novella. She lives in New York City with one dog and one cat, so far, and she is working on a novel. You can visit Francesca at francescaserritella.com or sign up for email updates here.

  “Listening to this book is like catching up with your funniest friend over a long lunch.”

  —Library Journal on Have a Nice Guilt Trip

  ENJOY LISTENING TO LISA SCOTTOLINE AND FRANCESCA SERRITELLA!

  Audiobooks available on CD and for digital download Click here to listen to excerpts from the audiobooks.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  I’ve Got Sand in All the Wrong Places • Lisa

  Fighting Like … • Francesca

  Little Black Dress? • Lisa

  Ho Ho Ho • Lisa

  Not a Creature Was Stirring • Lisa

  Auld Lang Sayonara • Francesca

  Changing Tide • Lisa

  Love Match • Lisa

  SWF Seeking Tamiflu • Francesca

  With Apologies to Mother Mary • Lisa

  The Storm Has Passed • Lisa

  Swipe Me Tender • Francesca

  Requiem for a Meal • Lisa

  People of Earth • Lisa

  The Quitters Club • Francesca

  Spanked • Lisa

  Advice to a Young Tradeswoman, Written by an Old One • Lisa

  How Much Is a Tracksuit? • Francesca

  Doggie Dramz • Lisa

  Mommy’s Day Out • Francesca

  Celebrity Crushed • Lisa

  This Is the Pits • Lisa

  Judge Doorman • Francesca

  Got Limes? • Lisa

  I Saw the Sign • Lisa

  Incident Report • Francesca

  Laugh at My Pain • Francesca

  It’s Not About Me • Lisa

  Mother Mary Flunks Time Magazine • Lisa

  Barbarians at the Frontgate • Lisa

  Milestone or Millstone? • Lisa

  Topping the Leader Board • Lisa

  Upgrading the Macaroni Necklace • Francesca

  The Amazing Disappearing Middle-Aged Woman • Lisa

  Bachelorette Bouncer • Francesca

  Tan, Don’t Burn • Lisa

  Protect the Candle • Lisa

  Unhappy Madison • Lisa

  Breaking and Rentering • Francesca