The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro Page B
Authors: Laurie Notaro
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cashier nodded, handed it back, and looked at me.
I pointed to myself and raised my eyebrows. “Me, too?” I asked.
“Yep, you, too,” the young woman, who looked to be slightly past the drinking age herself, said politely, and then I suddenly understood that this might be for real.
She might really want to see my ID, I think to myself as I feel a tingle dance up my spine. I might really be getting carded.
I might really be getting carded!
And all of a sudden, I realized I was glad. Happy. Thrilled. Flattered. Delighted. It was more than that, it was wonderful, and made me realize how foolish and masochistic I had been, holding up a picture taken in my twenties and chastising myself because I had aged a little since then! In that mirror at home, I had just hit an ugly Milestone Birthday and was decaying minute by minute, but in Safeway, I was possibly under twenty-one. UNDER TWENTY-ONE. Holy shit, I thought, the light in here must be great. I love Safeway light, I love it! I am never leaving. I am moving to Safeway. I felt my ass tighten, I felt my stomach get flat, I felt my pores shrink to the size of pudding cups. I was young again, and my birthday didn’t matter. I’m not old, I said to myself. I am not middle-aged. I look like a Rolling Stones song. I rock. If you took a picture of me in the Safeway light, I bet it would have looked pretty darn close to the glamour shot in my Dusty Vault of Youth.
I felt so good.
So naturally, I couldn’t leave it at that and enjoy it. Of course I had to poke at it until it burst.
As I handed over my driver’s license, I humbly, almost bashfully, added, “Oh, I bet I’m old enough to be your mom!”
To which the cashier promptly noted as she handed my ID back to me, completely innocently and without malice, “Actually, my mom is younger than you are.”
Instantly and without hesitation, my ass made a plopping sound as it hit the floor, the seams on my jeans popped like gunfire as my stomach returned to its regular size, the hair on my neck sprouted to a length that made Rapunzel’s look butch, and my spine lurched forward as I suddenly lost 70 percent of my bone mass.
Apparently, the look on my face embodied all of these physical atrocities, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I even saw my husband wince. It was not lost on the cashier, who quickly tried to remedy the situation before I needed the assistance of a Hoveround to leave the store.
“But my dad is older than you,” she offered. “By a lot.”
I smiled weakly and wrestled with the urge to reply, “Who the hell is your mother, Loretta Lynn?”
“It’s all gooooood,” she cooed at me as she handed my husband the receipt and we left the store.
“Boy,” I said to my husband as we got into the car. “That was more fun than the birthday you took me to the pound to get a dog and pointed out which ones were going to be put down next.”
The minute we returned home, I raced for the phone, picked it up, and dialed my best friend, Jamie, who lived in Marina del Rey, not only because she’s my best friend but because her birthday was exactly one week earlier. If there was anyone who would understand, it was Jamie.
But it was Jamie’s husband who answered the phone, and he had some news of his own. “Guess what I did this weekend,” he said.
“Took your wife out for dinner for her birthday?” I asked.
“Oh no, better,” he informed me. “I threw her a surprise birthday party!”
“ You did not! ” I said, gasping, completely unbelieving. As a man, he did simply not possess the skills of organizing a sandwich let alone something as complex as a social gathering with a purpose and that also involved advanced levels of trickery.
“I DID!” he boasted.
“You’re lying!” I replied.
“I’m not,” he insisted. “I really threw her a surprise party!”
“Were there other people there besides the two of you?” I questioned suspiciously.
“Yeah, like twenty,” he replied.
“And
I pointed to myself and raised my eyebrows. “Me, too?” I asked.
“Yep, you, too,” the young woman, who looked to be slightly past the drinking age herself, said politely, and then I suddenly understood that this might be for real.
She might really want to see my ID, I think to myself as I feel a tingle dance up my spine. I might really be getting carded.
I might really be getting carded!
And all of a sudden, I realized I was glad. Happy. Thrilled. Flattered. Delighted. It was more than that, it was wonderful, and made me realize how foolish and masochistic I had been, holding up a picture taken in my twenties and chastising myself because I had aged a little since then! In that mirror at home, I had just hit an ugly Milestone Birthday and was decaying minute by minute, but in Safeway, I was possibly under twenty-one. UNDER TWENTY-ONE. Holy shit, I thought, the light in here must be great. I love Safeway light, I love it! I am never leaving. I am moving to Safeway. I felt my ass tighten, I felt my stomach get flat, I felt my pores shrink to the size of pudding cups. I was young again, and my birthday didn’t matter. I’m not old, I said to myself. I am not middle-aged. I look like a Rolling Stones song. I rock. If you took a picture of me in the Safeway light, I bet it would have looked pretty darn close to the glamour shot in my Dusty Vault of Youth.
I felt so good.
So naturally, I couldn’t leave it at that and enjoy it. Of course I had to poke at it until it burst.
As I handed over my driver’s license, I humbly, almost bashfully, added, “Oh, I bet I’m old enough to be your mom!”
To which the cashier promptly noted as she handed my ID back to me, completely innocently and without malice, “Actually, my mom is younger than you are.”
Instantly and without hesitation, my ass made a plopping sound as it hit the floor, the seams on my jeans popped like gunfire as my stomach returned to its regular size, the hair on my neck sprouted to a length that made Rapunzel’s look butch, and my spine lurched forward as I suddenly lost 70 percent of my bone mass.
Apparently, the look on my face embodied all of these physical atrocities, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I even saw my husband wince. It was not lost on the cashier, who quickly tried to remedy the situation before I needed the assistance of a Hoveround to leave the store.
“But my dad is older than you,” she offered. “By a lot.”
I smiled weakly and wrestled with the urge to reply, “Who the hell is your mother, Loretta Lynn?”
“It’s all gooooood,” she cooed at me as she handed my husband the receipt and we left the store.
“Boy,” I said to my husband as we got into the car. “That was more fun than the birthday you took me to the pound to get a dog and pointed out which ones were going to be put down next.”
The minute we returned home, I raced for the phone, picked it up, and dialed my best friend, Jamie, who lived in Marina del Rey, not only because she’s my best friend but because her birthday was exactly one week earlier. If there was anyone who would understand, it was Jamie.
But it was Jamie’s husband who answered the phone, and he had some news of his own. “Guess what I did this weekend,” he said.
“Took your wife out for dinner for her birthday?” I asked.
“Oh no, better,” he informed me. “I threw her a surprise birthday party!”
“ You did not! ” I said, gasping, completely unbelieving. As a man, he did simply not possess the skills of organizing a sandwich let alone something as complex as a social gathering with a purpose and that also involved advanced levels of trickery.
“I DID!” he boasted.
“You’re lying!” I replied.
“I’m not,” he insisted. “I really threw her a surprise party!”
“Were there other people there besides the two of you?” I questioned suspiciously.
“Yeah, like twenty,” he replied.
“And
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