“I’m drunk?” I asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she answered with a definite nod. “I am drunk, too.”
“That rocks,” I decided. “Then I’m taking pictures of the coochie.”
Now, honestly, as I took photos of the terrycloth genitalia from all sorts of angles and under different light sources, I wasn’t sure what sort of message Ardhi and James were trying to send us. Was it to say, “Thank you for the pizza and we would like to repay you in this manner, should you be interested,” or was it to say, “Have a good night you old lesbians, and here’s a little something to get you started”?
I still haven’t figured it out. But then again, I don’t think it matters. They got a sort of semi-decent meal and I have forty pictures of a towel that remarkably resembles a giant walrus vagina.
“Will you stop that?” Jamie finally insisted as she took the camera out of my hand. “You’ve taken so many pictures already that you’d think it was Jenna Jameson on that bed.”
“Shame on me,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “This is pathetic. I haven’t been this drunk in years and all I can manage to do is take pictures of towel porn. God. What’s happened to me? I haven’t even fallen down yet or had my Drunken Meal of Frenzy. What time is it? Is it like four in the morning? Do you think there are Taco Bell tacos at the buffet? Hey! Let’s go back to the lounge. Maybe if I trip a waitress we can get thrown out or I can provoke an angry verbal exchange with a Republican about foreign policy or funding for Head Start!”
Jamie sighed. “It’s a quarter to ten,” she said tiredly. “I’m taking an Advil and a Benadryl to fend off a hangover because we’re getting up early to hike the Chilkoot Trail in Skagway. If you were wise, you would join me.”
I gasped loudly. “What? And waste this buzz?” I replied. “Oh my god! Let’s get this party started! I just remembered I have a Percocet floating around at the bottom of my purse from my last oral surgery. It’s a little dirty, and it might be expired by now, but do you wanna split it?”
Jamie, who was already in her pajamas, gave me one last look and then turned out the light.
“Ow,” I said as my shin smacked into the bed frame while I was trying to climb into bed. “I think that’s gonna leave a bruise.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to extend my sincere thanks to the following people who were essential in the before, after, and during of the never-ending completion of this book, which took so long it has now become legend: the amazing Bruce Tracy, the lovely Jenny Bent, and the hilarious Lore Carillo (whose creative genuis gave birth to the ubiquitous “Flaming Tantrum” and whose generosity didn’t permit her to argue when I announced I was stealing it), the guy who said it was okay to write that he touched poop in our basement, Libby McGuire, my family, Kim Hovey, Beth Pearson, Laura Goldin, Amelia Zalcman, Brian McLendon, Kate Blum, Diana Franco, Ryan Doherty, Dave Dunton, Jamie, Greg, Jeff Abbott, Dona Passannante, Meg Halverson, Bill Hummel, Kathy Cano-Murillo, Theresa Cano, Amy Silverman, Cindy Dach, Deborah Sussman Susser, Kartz Ucci, Erica Ashcroft, Heather Megyesi, Nancy Ragghianti, Grace Dunstan, Michelle Loyet, Michelle Jennings, Sharron Reed, and the rest of the cupcakes that I adore over at the IG board.
And thank you to my Nana, who I love and miss very, very much.
Muchas gracias,
Laurie
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
LAURIE NOTARO was born in Brooklyn, New York, and raised in Phoenix, Arizona. She packed her bags for Eugene, Oregon, once she realized that since she was past thirty, her mother could no longer report her as a teenage runaway. She is the author of The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club, Autobiography of a Fat Bride, I Love Everyone (and Other Atrocious Lies), We Thought You Would Be Prettier, An Idiot Girl’s Christmas, and the novel There’s a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell. She is currently at work on a plan B (to take effect when her book contract runs out) including selling hot dogs at Costco, selling hot dogs from a street cart, selling hot dogs at high school football games, or being the stop sign holder for road construction crews. At press time, she is still married, and she has an adorably disobedient dog that wears sweaters and loves chicken strips. (Clearly, Notaro has no children.)
ALSO BY LAURIE NOTARO
There’s a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell
An Idiot Girl’s Christmas
We Thought You Would Be Prettier
I Love Everyone (and Other Atrocious Lies)
Autobiography of a Fat Bride
The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club
This is a work of nonfiction.
Some names and identifying details have been changed.
Copyright © 2008 by Laurie Notaro
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
VILLARD and “V” CIRCLED DESIGN are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Notaro, Laurie.
The idiot girl and the flaming tantrum of death: reflections on revenge, germophobia, and laser hair removal / Laurie Notaro.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50718-1
1. Notaro, Laurie. 2. Humorists, American—20th century—Biography. 3. Young women—Humor. I. Title.
PS3614.O785Z4675 2008
814'.6—dc22 2008005250
www.villard.com
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