Read Online It Looked Different on the Model by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laurie Notaro
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breast or under area might be unintentionally grazed. It is within the possibilities of natural movement and lifesaving, and it is both necessary and essential not to read between the lines.
You Must Be My Lucky Star
“Y ou need to stop eating in bed,” my husband said, after I had just gotten all comfy under the covers. “I know you’re eating candy in here. Please don’t do it again.”
“I don’t eat candy in bed,” I protested, surprised that he would even think such a thing.
“But you do,” he said, laughing at me. “Look at my pillow. It’s covered in melty bits of chocolate that fell out of your mouth during one of your nighttime Ambien candy binges. All I’m asking is that you eat the candy downstairs and don’t bring it in here.”
I looked at his pillow and, sure enough, it had dots of what looked like little chocolate stars on one side of it.
“Well, that’s not me,” I argued. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“Well, I don’t know what else it could be,” he mentioned one last time, and turned out the light.
I didn’t know what it could be, either, I thought. I really wasn’t eating candy in bed. That I remembered, anyway. That was ridiculous. Wouldn’t I remember eating candy in bed, even if Ambien Laurie had participated in a nighttime chocolatebinge? There would be evidence, I reasoned. She’s a pig. She leaves wrappers everywhere. Or little bites of things. Or it would still be in my hair. It was impossible, I reasoned, because otherwise it would be too sad to be true. One should always remember eating chocolate.
So the next morning I searched the house for empty Hershey’s wrappers or anything comparable that Ambien Laurie might have attacked. I suddenly remembered I had a bar of dark chocolate to make frosting saved in the spice cabinet, and I started feeling very, very guilty that I was the Chocolate-Star Bandit. But then I opened the cabinet door and it was still there, nestled in its as-yet-untouched wrapper.
I didn’t find anything, and I knew that if I didn’t find it, she didn’t eat it.
Two nights later as I climbed into bed, however, my husband had his pillow in his hands and was closely examining it.
Then he looked at me with his lips pursed.
“I don’t know if you think this is funny,” he told me. “But I already asked you to stop eating candy in bed. Now it looks like this is one big joke to you. There are more chocolate stars on my pillow.”
I threw my hands up and shrugged.
“You got me,” I said honestly. “There’s not even any chocolate in the house besides Baker’s chocolate. I looked all over yesterday morning, and nothing. I don’t know what you want me to say. All I can tell you is that it’s not me.”
“
Very funny
. I hope you’re getting a big laugh out of this,” he said as he turned over, rammed his head into the chocolate-star pillow, and turned out the light.
Whatever, I thought. I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to do, confess to something that I knew I hadn’t done, just to make my husband think that I wasn’t playing ajoke on him? Plus, this wasn’t the first time that my husband had misidentified something.
When he was a kid, it was his job to take out the trash, and inevitably, because he was seven, the trash sometimes piled up. When his mother would take him to task and make him do his job, garbage would end up getting spilled on the way out to the alley, because there was so much of it. It was during one of those unfortunate runs that my husband discovered that trash—once an unenviable chore that he hated—was actually a treasure trove of toys. He looked at the bounty spread out before him on the sidewalk; there were cardboard rolls, tinfoil balls that could be made into anything, and little white telescopes. Tons of them. So many of them that he couldn’t figure out how these marvelous things had not been seen before. Obviously, they had come from the house, and someone was throwing
You Must Be My Lucky Star
“Y ou need to stop eating in bed,” my husband said, after I had just gotten all comfy under the covers. “I know you’re eating candy in here. Please don’t do it again.”
“I don’t eat candy in bed,” I protested, surprised that he would even think such a thing.
“But you do,” he said, laughing at me. “Look at my pillow. It’s covered in melty bits of chocolate that fell out of your mouth during one of your nighttime Ambien candy binges. All I’m asking is that you eat the candy downstairs and don’t bring it in here.”
I looked at his pillow and, sure enough, it had dots of what looked like little chocolate stars on one side of it.
“Well, that’s not me,” I argued. “I have nothing to do with that.”
“Well, I don’t know what else it could be,” he mentioned one last time, and turned out the light.
I didn’t know what it could be, either, I thought. I really wasn’t eating candy in bed. That I remembered, anyway. That was ridiculous. Wouldn’t I remember eating candy in bed, even if Ambien Laurie had participated in a nighttime chocolatebinge? There would be evidence, I reasoned. She’s a pig. She leaves wrappers everywhere. Or little bites of things. Or it would still be in my hair. It was impossible, I reasoned, because otherwise it would be too sad to be true. One should always remember eating chocolate.
So the next morning I searched the house for empty Hershey’s wrappers or anything comparable that Ambien Laurie might have attacked. I suddenly remembered I had a bar of dark chocolate to make frosting saved in the spice cabinet, and I started feeling very, very guilty that I was the Chocolate-Star Bandit. But then I opened the cabinet door and it was still there, nestled in its as-yet-untouched wrapper.
I didn’t find anything, and I knew that if I didn’t find it, she didn’t eat it.
Two nights later as I climbed into bed, however, my husband had his pillow in his hands and was closely examining it.
Then he looked at me with his lips pursed.
“I don’t know if you think this is funny,” he told me. “But I already asked you to stop eating candy in bed. Now it looks like this is one big joke to you. There are more chocolate stars on my pillow.”
I threw my hands up and shrugged.
“You got me,” I said honestly. “There’s not even any chocolate in the house besides Baker’s chocolate. I looked all over yesterday morning, and nothing. I don’t know what you want me to say. All I can tell you is that it’s not me.”
“
Very funny
. I hope you’re getting a big laugh out of this,” he said as he turned over, rammed his head into the chocolate-star pillow, and turned out the light.
Whatever, I thought. I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to do, confess to something that I knew I hadn’t done, just to make my husband think that I wasn’t playing ajoke on him? Plus, this wasn’t the first time that my husband had misidentified something.
When he was a kid, it was his job to take out the trash, and inevitably, because he was seven, the trash sometimes piled up. When his mother would take him to task and make him do his job, garbage would end up getting spilled on the way out to the alley, because there was so much of it. It was during one of those unfortunate runs that my husband discovered that trash—once an unenviable chore that he hated—was actually a treasure trove of toys. He looked at the bounty spread out before him on the sidewalk; there were cardboard rolls, tinfoil balls that could be made into anything, and little white telescopes. Tons of them. So many of them that he couldn’t figure out how these marvelous things had not been seen before. Obviously, they had come from the house, and someone was throwing
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