Read Online It Looked Different on the Model by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laurie Notaro
Ads: Link
these perfectly good tiny telescopes away! The fools he lived with! Idiots! Why were they keeping these from him? He surveyed the land through them, pretended to be a pirate, and gathered them together to add to the telescope collection that he kept in a shoe box in his room. He even found special pink plastic ones, which he considered far more collectible and rarer than the regular white ones.
Now, I’m not sure when he discovered that he most likely had one of the world’s only collections of Tampax applicators under his bed in a shoe box, or that he realized he had been mashing them up to his face, but it just goes to show that sometimes what you think is a magical gift from the toy gods is really a confusing nightmare that you’ll only reveal when you’ve been drinking heavily at parties. And I have to say that, honestly, many, many years later (although the wounds still heal), his method of discovery has not exactly changed. Or improved.
Yesterday, someone I live with pulled a jar of salsa out of thefridge, opened it, and said, “There’s white all in there. What do you think that is?”
I said I didn’t know and told him to taste it, but the person put the lid back on the jar and returned it to the fridge. After a second, I asked him why he put it back and he said, “You might eat it.”
So clearly we’re still facing challenges in the mystery-solving department, and if my husband happened to touch his pillow with muddy fingers and forgot about it, that really wasn’t my fault. Or my problem.
But the next day I was bringing some laundry up to the bedroom when I saw my little geriatric cat, Barnaby, walking along the bed near the headboard. Honestly, I didn’t like the cat walking all over my bed, but he was old and I doubted he was going to see another ring grow under his bark, if you know what I’m saying. I thought, fine, walk on the bed. I love pulling animal fur out of my mouth at three in the morning.
He was flitting around on the bed, and when I went to put some of my husband’s socks away, he came to that side of the bed and promptly sat down on my husband’s pillow, square in the center.
“Oh, you need to get off that,” I said, and lifted him up, repositioning him on the comforter pointing toward my side. He was happy. His little stump of a tail was up and he flicked it.
I gasped.
“I know that star!” I said as I snapped my fingers in victory. “
I knew I wasn’t eating candy
!”
That night, my husband got into bed with a book in his hand, ready to have a nice, relaxing bedtime, but then he noticed a new chocolate star right smack in the center of the pillow.
He looked at me and shook his head.
“I don’t know how or why this is hilarious to you, but it is annoying to me,” he informed me, and he put the pillow behind him.
“I told you I have nothing to do with that,” I replied.
I grabbed Barnaby from the edge of the bed and turned his tail toward my husband.
“But does
this
look familiar?” I asked.
He looked at Barnaby, then the pillow, then Barnaby, then the pillow, and I almost thought he was going to reach for the cat and put it back in the fridge in case I might still eat it.
“Let me give you a hint: I wouldn’t wish on this one!” I said.
My husband shook his head. “I just don’t know where you’re going with this,” he said, getting a wee bit angry. I knew I had to cut to the chase.
“May I present,” I said, doing some fancy game-show-hostess finger moves under my cat’s ass, “Barnaby’s Little Chocolate Star!”
Then I moved his tail down like a lever. “IT’S AN ASS,” I said with the tail down.
“It’s a stamp!” I said, lifting the tail up.
“It’s an ass,” I said, moving the tail back down again.
“It’s a sta—”
My husband looked me dead in the eye.
“You need to tell me right now that you’ve been eating chocolate in this bed,” he said firmly.
And, in a way, I wished I could have. But I already knew what
Now, I’m not sure when he discovered that he most likely had one of the world’s only collections of Tampax applicators under his bed in a shoe box, or that he realized he had been mashing them up to his face, but it just goes to show that sometimes what you think is a magical gift from the toy gods is really a confusing nightmare that you’ll only reveal when you’ve been drinking heavily at parties. And I have to say that, honestly, many, many years later (although the wounds still heal), his method of discovery has not exactly changed. Or improved.
Yesterday, someone I live with pulled a jar of salsa out of thefridge, opened it, and said, “There’s white all in there. What do you think that is?”
I said I didn’t know and told him to taste it, but the person put the lid back on the jar and returned it to the fridge. After a second, I asked him why he put it back and he said, “You might eat it.”
So clearly we’re still facing challenges in the mystery-solving department, and if my husband happened to touch his pillow with muddy fingers and forgot about it, that really wasn’t my fault. Or my problem.
But the next day I was bringing some laundry up to the bedroom when I saw my little geriatric cat, Barnaby, walking along the bed near the headboard. Honestly, I didn’t like the cat walking all over my bed, but he was old and I doubted he was going to see another ring grow under his bark, if you know what I’m saying. I thought, fine, walk on the bed. I love pulling animal fur out of my mouth at three in the morning.
He was flitting around on the bed, and when I went to put some of my husband’s socks away, he came to that side of the bed and promptly sat down on my husband’s pillow, square in the center.
“Oh, you need to get off that,” I said, and lifted him up, repositioning him on the comforter pointing toward my side. He was happy. His little stump of a tail was up and he flicked it.
I gasped.
“I know that star!” I said as I snapped my fingers in victory. “
I knew I wasn’t eating candy
!”
That night, my husband got into bed with a book in his hand, ready to have a nice, relaxing bedtime, but then he noticed a new chocolate star right smack in the center of the pillow.
He looked at me and shook his head.
“I don’t know how or why this is hilarious to you, but it is annoying to me,” he informed me, and he put the pillow behind him.
“I told you I have nothing to do with that,” I replied.
I grabbed Barnaby from the edge of the bed and turned his tail toward my husband.
“But does
this
look familiar?” I asked.
He looked at Barnaby, then the pillow, then Barnaby, then the pillow, and I almost thought he was going to reach for the cat and put it back in the fridge in case I might still eat it.
“Let me give you a hint: I wouldn’t wish on this one!” I said.
My husband shook his head. “I just don’t know where you’re going with this,” he said, getting a wee bit angry. I knew I had to cut to the chase.
“May I present,” I said, doing some fancy game-show-hostess finger moves under my cat’s ass, “Barnaby’s Little Chocolate Star!”
Then I moved his tail down like a lever. “IT’S AN ASS,” I said with the tail down.
“It’s a stamp!” I said, lifting the tail up.
“It’s an ass,” I said, moving the tail back down again.
“It’s a sta—”
My husband looked me dead in the eye.
“You need to tell me right now that you’ve been eating chocolate in this bed,” he said firmly.
And, in a way, I wished I could have. But I already knew what
Similar Books
