It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [43]
If you’re sure you wanna buy a ticket to no-man’s-land, get an eyeful. Drink it in, my friend. No, that’s no loincloth, those are the panties that I save for Midol days, with the torn waistband and an aggressive stubbornness that OxiClean couldn’t conquer. And yes, that just might be fire shooting at you out of my nipples, drawn in Sharpie, and when I turn around, those just might be the words “KISS IT” and an arrow pointing to my ass, which no human eyes have seen since 1994.
Until now.
Enjoy.
And don’t worry. I’ll be back.
Show Ho Ho Time
The moment I walked into my neighbor’s Christmas-perfect living room, I felt inadequate.
I had never seen a Christmas tree in a non-retail situation look so pristine; the wood-stoked fire in the fireplace roared heartily, and the aroma of a freshly baked ham drifted all around us. The décor was so perfect that I expected Diane Keaton to waltz through at any minute, wearing all off-white cashmere. I wasn’t sure how my husband and I were going to work our way into the mix, but we were going to try, and I suddenly felt very lacking about the Christmas wreath hanging on my door, which I had cobbled together like a craft mom from fir and cedar debris that had crashed into my yard during the last storm.
Being new on our street, we were thrilled when our neighbors invited us to their holiday gathering, since we were anxious to get to know the people in our community. We had already encountered some of the folks on our street, but this was a chance to not only get to meet a wide variety from around the neighborhood but to show our hosts that we were friendly, personable, and nice.
Martha, our hostess, was welcoming and warm and showed us into the kitchen, where the holiday goodies had been spread out. Careful not to appear as either gluttons or too picky to enjoy the food that she had obviously gone to a great deal of effort to prepare, we took a little of this, a little of that, and tried to mingle. It was a house full of people that we had never met before, which is not easy when you’re limiting your drink to apple juice to ensure that “the new neighbors across the street desperately putting on a good front” don’t become “the alcoholics that just moved in, let the house go to shame, and are probably selling drugs, because she’s home all day.” We met the retired lawyer from up the street, whom I had seen walking his min pins several times a week; the librarian, who was the star in the senior-center holiday program; and a young wife who was there with her husband and really didn’t know a soul, either. She, however, was slightly less concerned with first impressions than I was, evidenced by the nearly empty wineglass in her hand. That is foolish, I thought. Glug, glug, glug! This is a neighborhood holiday gathering, not a bachelorette party. You need to be on your best behavior. This is showtime, lady!
A half hour later, disaster struck. We had just finished nibbling on our ham and snacks when Martha came into the room and made a sweeping cull, choosing people here and there without any indication of criteria. Somehow, my husband escaped, but I wasn’t so lucky. With Martha’s hand at my elbow, I was guided into the living room with the rest of her picks. Once she had herded us in front of the piano, she had a helper hand out copies of the “Jingle Bells” lyrics to the guests, and she sat down behind the keyboard. I had been wrong.
This was showtime.
Oh, how I wish I had not only forgone the apple juice but had downed several shots. I am simply not a singer. I do not come from a family of singers. When we get together and warble “Happy Birthday” to one another over cake and candle, it doesn’t sound as much like a song as it does a pack of jackals yapping over a fresh carcass. And in my case, it’s nothing that you want to inflict on the innocent, or at least on people who haven’t reported us to the city yet. Who is flat, off-key, or tone deaf in the Notaro clan is all up in the air—it doesn’t matter, and we can’t tell, anyway. The fact of the matter