Read Online The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro - Free Book Online
Authors: Laurie Notaro
Tags: Fiction
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innocuous as “How are you?” the Talker persists in conversation until your gastrointestinal system has recoiled and everyone else in the bathroom has discovered that your mom is a lesbian, your husband has left you, and there’s a wart on your left hand. Words of caution:
SILENCIO!
Once the door closes on that stall, I am a nameless entity. If I am at work, I do not exist as Laurie your coworker, Laurie in the car pool, or the Girl That Everyone Hates. I am simply the Anonymous Pee-er. Do not attempt to make conversation with me. Do not ask me questions, and especially do not say, “BOY! Indian food again, huh?” When considering opening your mouth, let this come to mind: “Hear Me Unzip, Button Your Lip!”
The Waiter: Pity the Waiter. Unlike the others on this list, the Waiter is no criminal, sadly just a victim. Typically, the Waiter has urgent emergencies at hand, yet is too polite and thoughtful to shoot off a missile while others are present. The Waiter is often in pain, clutching her abdomen in order to keep her organs from exploding. She is minutes away from death. Unfortunately, many don’t recognize the symptoms of a Waiter and hang around the bathroom like it was a free-sample booth at Costco. If you suspect there is a Waiter in your presence, leave immediately. If you are a Waiter yourself and sense that you are engaged in something of a Mexican standoff with another Waiter, call a truce, count to three, courtesy flush for background noise, then release. Offer to exit first, but only with the promise that the rival Waiter will not emerge until you have cleared the premises, lest you see each other’s face. Don’t forget now: “Silence, No Doubt; Just Get the Hell Out.”
The Primper: If the Waiter has a mortal enemy, it is the Primper. I hate the Primper. HATE THE PRIMPER! If there’s a horrifying sound a Waiter never wants to hear, it’s the THUMP of a purse on the counter. Then the digging sound of the Primper’s claws trying to find makeup, hairbrushes, and perfume. You see, I feel that if you cannot complete your prep work by the time you leave your house in the morning, you have completely forfeited your right to do so at any other point in the day. Your opportunity is over and you have lost your chance. Once, I was stuck in a bathroom waiting for a Primper to leave while my intestines threatened to shoot out of my belly button for hours. By the time the ordeal was over, it was dark outside, and everyone in my office thought I had gone home. So the next time you plop that feed bag next to the sink, recall: “Face of a Gnome? Do Your Makeup at Home!”
So all of you Trespassers, Hoverers, Talkers, and Primpers, beware. I’m waiting for you, ready to pounce from inside my favorite stall. And just because I haven’t seen your face, it doesn’t mean a thing.
I know your shoes.
Going Courtin’
It was 6:17 in the morning. I did not deserve this.
I don’t even think the sun gets up that early, but there I was, listening to the radio as the alarm went off, fumbling through four empty cigarette packs before I hit gold. I had seven little soldiers left. Not enough.
It was going to be a long day.
The night before, I hadn’t fallen into bed until four, and two hours’ worth of tossing and turning certainly wasn’t going to be enough to soften the blue bags under my eyes. What the hell, I thought, who do I have to impress? The court reporter? The bailiff? The judge?
I passed on dolling myself up, even left off the eyeliner. I searched the floor of my bedroom for my best Janis Joplin outfit (my groovy vest, my pants with the ripped-out butt, and my boots held together with electrical tape), shook off the majority of the cat hair, and got dressed. I slopped on the Secret and smoked a second soldier while I fed the Farm and started for the glory of morning traffic.
I was off to jury duty.
The summons had arrived at my parents’ house several weeks before, and my mother was thrilled. She
SILENCIO!
Once the door closes on that stall, I am a nameless entity. If I am at work, I do not exist as Laurie your coworker, Laurie in the car pool, or the Girl That Everyone Hates. I am simply the Anonymous Pee-er. Do not attempt to make conversation with me. Do not ask me questions, and especially do not say, “BOY! Indian food again, huh?” When considering opening your mouth, let this come to mind: “Hear Me Unzip, Button Your Lip!”
The Waiter: Pity the Waiter. Unlike the others on this list, the Waiter is no criminal, sadly just a victim. Typically, the Waiter has urgent emergencies at hand, yet is too polite and thoughtful to shoot off a missile while others are present. The Waiter is often in pain, clutching her abdomen in order to keep her organs from exploding. She is minutes away from death. Unfortunately, many don’t recognize the symptoms of a Waiter and hang around the bathroom like it was a free-sample booth at Costco. If you suspect there is a Waiter in your presence, leave immediately. If you are a Waiter yourself and sense that you are engaged in something of a Mexican standoff with another Waiter, call a truce, count to three, courtesy flush for background noise, then release. Offer to exit first, but only with the promise that the rival Waiter will not emerge until you have cleared the premises, lest you see each other’s face. Don’t forget now: “Silence, No Doubt; Just Get the Hell Out.”
The Primper: If the Waiter has a mortal enemy, it is the Primper. I hate the Primper. HATE THE PRIMPER! If there’s a horrifying sound a Waiter never wants to hear, it’s the THUMP of a purse on the counter. Then the digging sound of the Primper’s claws trying to find makeup, hairbrushes, and perfume. You see, I feel that if you cannot complete your prep work by the time you leave your house in the morning, you have completely forfeited your right to do so at any other point in the day. Your opportunity is over and you have lost your chance. Once, I was stuck in a bathroom waiting for a Primper to leave while my intestines threatened to shoot out of my belly button for hours. By the time the ordeal was over, it was dark outside, and everyone in my office thought I had gone home. So the next time you plop that feed bag next to the sink, recall: “Face of a Gnome? Do Your Makeup at Home!”
So all of you Trespassers, Hoverers, Talkers, and Primpers, beware. I’m waiting for you, ready to pounce from inside my favorite stall. And just because I haven’t seen your face, it doesn’t mean a thing.
I know your shoes.
Going Courtin’
It was 6:17 in the morning. I did not deserve this.
I don’t even think the sun gets up that early, but there I was, listening to the radio as the alarm went off, fumbling through four empty cigarette packs before I hit gold. I had seven little soldiers left. Not enough.
It was going to be a long day.
The night before, I hadn’t fallen into bed until four, and two hours’ worth of tossing and turning certainly wasn’t going to be enough to soften the blue bags under my eyes. What the hell, I thought, who do I have to impress? The court reporter? The bailiff? The judge?
I passed on dolling myself up, even left off the eyeliner. I searched the floor of my bedroom for my best Janis Joplin outfit (my groovy vest, my pants with the ripped-out butt, and my boots held together with electrical tape), shook off the majority of the cat hair, and got dressed. I slopped on the Secret and smoked a second soldier while I fed the Farm and started for the glory of morning traffic.
I was off to jury duty.
The summons had arrived at my parents’ house several weeks before, and my mother was thrilled. She
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