It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [83]
“Was that a wolf or a chupacabra?” I asked. “We don’t need to fight over the translator. It’s a walkie-talkie, not the hindquarters of an elk.”
“But it’s not understanding me,” my husband said.
“Can’t you see how frustrated I am?” the translator relayed. Angry face.
“Really?” I asked him. “Because I think this walkie-talkie could easily work at the United Nations.”
“No,” my husband insisted. “It’s broken. It’s clearly off. Maybe we need new batteries for it.”
“Maybe it just needs time to heal,” I suggested.
And then I saw a shadow pass by the front door, and before I could put on my cameltoe pants, rip off a bra, or become soaking wet, the first note of the mailman ringing the doorbell hit the air. This was followed immediately by the frantic scratching of lupus dog toes clawing wood floors, as Maeby came around the corner into the living room like a hillbilly with a pit crew and a sponsorship from Walmart.
And there was no preparing for it. The bark, high and shrill and real, sliced through the living room like a machete through a block of government cheese. My husband and I both winced as she charged through her excruciating symphony, her dagger bark so painful it reached up and punched me in my sinuses.
Then, as soon as it shot out of her mouth, it ended once she realized it was Dave, the postman, who is her best friend.
“Wait …” my husband said, staring at the translator. “I’m getting something, I’m getting something …” I bent in closer to see.
And there, on the screen, in response to Maeby’s bark, was “We’re having fun now!” and a big, fat smiley face.
My husband and I looked at each other.
He was the first one to say it.
“Oh, my Dog,” he mumbled quietly. “That’s her happy noise.”
“We’re in trouble now,” I replied, almost in a whisper.
“Please be nice to me,” my husband barely added.
I’m Touched
“Just relax,” Brandie said, as she reached forward to give me a hand massage. “This is going to be fun.”
It was the first time I had been to this particular salon to get my hair done, and when Brandie, the colorist, was done applying the color, she informed me that as part of the salon service I could either have a hand massage while we waited to wash my hair out or I could have my makeup consultation.
Now, the last time I had my makeup done was the day I got married, and I walked out of that salon looking less like a girl who was about to snag a cute boy for the rest of her life and more like an undercover cop who was about to go stand out in front of a cheap motel and arrest ministers. All I needed was a fur vest and a chipped eyetooth. So I wisely passed on the dolling-up and chose the hand massage instead, because I’d never had one.
I limply presented my paw, which Brandie took and started … massaging. I tried my best to ignore it.
“Just relax your hand,” Brandie said calmly.
“Okay,” I said with a little laugh.
“Are you relaxing it?” she asked me.
“I am,” I replied.
“Because it doesn’t feel relaxed,” she hinted.
“I’m very relaxed,” I said with a nod and a smile.
She kept doing more massaging things.
“Juuuuuust relax; let your hand go limp,” she said softly.
“I did,” I let her know.
She looked up at me and smiled, but even I could see that my hand looked like I had pulled it from a freezer covered by tarps in the basement of a clown’s house. And, honestly, that’s about as limp as I go.
“Maybe we should stop,” I suggested, pulling my hand lightly at first, then tugging harder, then finally yanking.
“See? It’s cool!” I said very cheerily. “Thank you very much. That was nice.”
“Okay,” Brandie said, a bit alarmed at my aggressive limb recall. “Would you like to play with some eye shadow?”
“Maybe I should have magazine time now,” I suggested.
“That’s a great idea,” she said, a little too eagerly.
As soon as my hair was done and I got in the car to go home, I called my sister.
“You wouldn’t believe what just happened,” I said as soon as she answered. “I freaked out over someone giving