We Thought You Would Be Prettier: True Tales of the Dorkiest Girl Alive
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She thought she’d have more time. Laurie Notaro figured she had at least a few good years left. But no–it’s happened. She has officially lost her marbles. From the kid at the pet-food store checkout line whose coif is so bizarre it makes her seethe “I’m going to kick his hair’s ass!” to the hapless Sears customer-service rep on the receiving end of her Campaign of Terror, no one is safe from Laurie’s wrath. Her cranky side seems to have eaten the rest of her–inner-thigh Chub Rub and all. And the results are breathtaking.
Her riffs on e-mail spam (“With all of these irresistible offers served up to me on a plate, I WANT A PENIS NOW!!”), eBay (“There should be an eBay wading pool, where you can only bid on Precious Moments figurines and Avon products, that you have to make it through before jumping into the deep end”), and the perils of St. Patrick’s Day (“When I’m driving, the last thing I need is a herd of inebriates darting in and out of traffic like loaded chickens”) are the stuff of legend. And for Laurie, it’s all true.
Id,” my husband replied immediately. “If there were twenty boxes of expensive shoes in this kitchen, twenty boxes of books you were never going to read, or twenty bags of Double Stuff Oreos, I’d give that answer the green light. Or if you were a fat little red dog with a farting problem, maybe. But an item that serves another being’s needs aside from your own? Not a chance. Spill that empty soul of yours, sister.” I sighed. “There’s this guy at the pet food store . . .” I started. “Ah-HA!” my
cute as the girl on my cover, I went to the bookstore and bought him a new one. I came home, and after visiting my office closet, I slipped into my husband’s office quietly as he watched TV in the next room. I placed the new, unsoiled, perfect new Lolita on his keyboard. As I opened the door to leave, it abruptly stopped three-quarters of the way, blocked, I saw, by several tall, teetering stacks of books, shiny new books and some used, none of which I had ever seen before. The book box was
boots sized for models—but models don’t walk, they have drivers! They’re lazy skinny people! It’s a horrible side effect of having such a finely sculptured calf, as opposed to a flat, flappy supermodel one.” “You are so right!” Jamie gushed. “Who wants a pancake for a calf when you can have a Cinnabon? This calf shows the dedication to my sport, even if I really haven’t considered taking one up yet!” “I have a hobby,” I volunteered meekly. “It’s chicken fried steak.” “I have just the boots for
own TV, for they had indicated as much, and I felt so liberated from the plebeian television-viewing habits of my family that in preparation I walked down to Circle K and bought my own damn TV Guide. With a pink highlighter I carefully marked all the shows I could watch in complete and utter freedom, as my ten-year-old life no longer held any obstacles to my delighting in Little House on the Prairie alone and in private, or the Battle of the Network Stars, when I could cheer on Ma Ingalls without
as class loser was probably only moments away, being as his juicer looked more like a gas pump and his ashtrays resembled lumps of toxic waste. The girl who walked away with the Most Untalented honors from last week nodded in agreement. “Well, if that’s what you want,” the instructor said with a frustrated sigh, and then continued in a flat voice, “Which of these paintings hit the mark, and which are Fabulous But Would Be Even More Stunning with Some Tips?” Despite the ground the Sucky