I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies) by Laurie Notaro Page A

log? Huh? Did you? Did you or did you not see my simulated face crying out for help as my skinny, thin, and perfectly toned arms tried to beat at the flames that were licking my body, which looked like to me was probably a size six? I finally had inner thighs that had never rubbed together, they had never even once touched, and now they are gone! That is a tragedy nearly unparalleled!”
    And then I clicked the urn numerous additional times to emphasize my point.
    It was right about that time that my husband stood up, leaned in closer to the screen, and pointed again.
    “What IS THAT? What is that thing right near the fireman’s foot in the front yard? Oh my God.
Oh my God.
What . . . what
have you done
?!!”
    “It’s just a turkey leg, you leave them all over the place,” I let him know, and then went back to my keyboard for more clicks on the urn. “I’m going to make you cry until you’re dehydrat—”
    And then I saw what my husband saw. A big, spreading puddle right at the tip of the fireman’s boot.
    “Oh dear Lord,” I commented quietly as my hand covered my mouth in shock.
    “I hope you’re happy!” my husband yelled. “
I hope you are happy.
LOOK AT THAT. I’ve peed my pants!! I’ve wet myself in front of a fireman!”
    “Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, you certainly have.”
    “HOO HOO HOOOO!” Laurie’s Husband continued to cry as pee-pee ran down his leg and pooled in the front yard, and left a big, round dark spot on the front of his jeans.
    “You were so busy making me cry and mourning you that you didn’t bother to notice that my bladder needs were at alarming levels!” my husband scolded me.
    “Well, it’s not my fault. Maybe if you realized you had to tinkle when I was a bonfire,” I replied, “I might still be alive!”
    “Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I do need to use the rest room,” my husband said. “And all of that mourning has made me hungry! What are we making for dinner?”
    “Oh,” I said as I shook my head. “Not on your life!”

         
    The Attack of BeanieQueenie

    I ’ve always been the mean sister. Always.
    In my family, there’s the nice sister, the sensitive sister, and then me. In my role as the oldest child, I believe I have the right to be a little resentful, since my territory has been invaded not once, but twice.
    So when the sensitive sister—or “BeanieQueenie,” as she’s known to the cyber world as an homage to her love for Beanie Babies—left for Flagstaff earlier this summer to work on her master’s degree, I was really good and answered all of her e-mails. In them, I even offered to bring her warmer clothing and told her how I was pretty sure I had seen Divine, Gertrude Stein, and the Venus of Willendorf naked at the gym.
    Soon, however, her e-mails trickled off as she made friends with other students, and her phone calls became more infrequent. And then, two weeks ago, something odd happened.
    She started e-mailing again. It was slow at first, maybe one every couple of days, then one every other day, then every day. Two every day. Three every day.
    Every time I got a message from BeanieQueenie, I sighed and shook my head. I knew what it was.
    It was all CRAP.
    Crappy jokes. Crappy stories with crappy punch lines. Crappy good-luck totem poles. Crappy psychological tests that are supposed to determine your crappy personality by playing word-association games. I didn’t even get a personal greeting anymore; instead it was, “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the word ‘coffee’?” to which I naturally answered, “Only if I’ve had a lot to drink,” just to discover at the end of the message that “coffee” was supposed to represent my attitude about sex.
    When the damage escalated to four messages in one day, I knew something had to be done and sought commiseration with my other, nicer sister.
    “Yeah, I know,” she said, also with a sigh. “BeanieQueenie has been sending all