It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [87]
I know I wouldn’t have ended up being me, and my sisters wouldn’t have ended up being them. Could you imagine if I just smeared my face with Mexican-smuggled Retin-A that expired four years ago, and my mother looked across the kitchen table to tell me how great my skin looked, instead of telling me that I just gave myself face-wide melanoma? I would have no choice but to burst into tears immediately and cry, “Why are you so boring? Jesus! Stop licking me!”
I like my family just the way it is, and if I had to pick a Licked Laurie or a Non-Licked Laurie, I’d go with the latter, of course (with the option to have fewer moles and fill in the bald spot). My mother taught me never to buy green beans after a lady with too much boob showing has touched them. That’s valuable advice not all nine-year-olds get. I still use it to this day, only now it applies to hippies and the food they bring to potlucks.
My husband concurs, because a licked person would never agree to crabwalk around the backyard as a form of marital exercise; test the old wives’ tale that earlobes are in exact alignment with your nipples (not on me, over shirt, and ruled completely false); follow an email from him to meet him in the living room in five minutes for a balancing contest (only then to have him make fun of my choice of balancing position, which he said was “too American” and that it “didn’t even mean anything” because I had my leg up, toe pointed forward, my arms up at about forty-five-degree angles, and my fingers were apparently pointing, too. WTF ever. I won); or agree that you should change the name of your canine companion to Doggy McPushy because she believes I am the guest in the bed at night.
“When you say ‘Doggy McPushy’ with a cough drop in your mouth,” my husband just informed me, “it takes on an entirely different meaning.”
“A licker would never get that joke,” I replied.
“I like you just the way you are, but it would be nice if you could leave some jelly beans for someone else,” he said, coming in for a hug, to which I felt forced to immediately throw my hands up and cry,
“Blueberry!!”
Acknowledgments
Thank you to the readers out there for your great letters, your hilarious posts, and your crazy comments, and for keeping in touch with me, but most of all for reading: I can’t do what I do unless you do what you do. Even Steven. You guys never fail to make my day, every day.
Thank you to Jenny Bent, who let me tell the tale of the French dog after many, many years; Pamela Cannon, who expertly poked at this manuscript like a coroner, polished it, and got it ready to take to market; Beth Pearson, who rightfully questioned every suspicious comma; and Brian McLendon and Diana Franco who pushed it like good drugs.
As always, mountains of gratitude to the guy I married, who can make me laugh faster than anybody on the planet and will let me dork out in strange and unpredictable ways without calling a doctor to Frances Farmer me. Who knew I was capable of making a good choice? And thanks to my family and friends: keep doing what you’re doing. I’m still collecting material for the next book, you know.
Additionally, I have copious amounts of humble gratitude for Jody Lucas, who unwittingly shared the story of her friend, Lucy Fisher, with me, which set the stage for Spooky Little Girl. I’d also like to thank her for not scolding me as loudly as she could for my resistance to flossing, and for handing over enough free toothpaste, toothbrushes, and teeth picks to make a girl with bleeding gums smile. I hope I did her friend Lucy justice, especially since when we meet, Jody is armed with pointy, sharp metal objects headed for my mouth.
And finally, many thanks to Kelly Kulchak and Kathy White for their support, notes, and for driving me around when it’s 113 degrees in L.A.
Many, many thanks,
Laurie
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURIE NOTARO has disproportionately chubby arms, which once helped her save the life of her best friend, who was trapped in a wheelchair and choking on a quiche. She has fought a size M shirt in a dressing