The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro Page B
Authors: Laurie Notaro
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“Miss Notaro,” I heard Dr. Wells say as gently as he could, “I know you are in here for the chin area, but I’m noticing substantial growth on the upper lip, and since we’re already in process, we might as well tackle that too.”
I wanted to gasp I was so embarrassed. I mean, having a little chin growth is one thing, but I had no idea I had a goatee going on. And apparently it was not merely “going on” but was substantial. Not peach fuzz, not one or two stray hairs, but the foundation for a handlebar sort of extremity. With a little bit of wax and some sculpting, who knew what I was capable of? I could hire myself out to fire stations and simply stand on the banks of a flash flood, rescuing people who rushed by in the torrent with merely a toss of my head. And poor Dr. Wells, who I’m sure thought his one-thirty appointment was to laser a woman and not Burt Reynolds, had no idea that he was going to need a rideable lawn mower to tackle the effects of my hormones.
Where is the miracle of spontaneous combustion when you need it? I thought to myself, and then suddenly, my breath was gone. Just gone. I was completely out of air, like something had quickly stolen it right out of me, like I was suffocating.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself emit quite loudly as my lungs desperately and in a panic tried to suck in a breath.
Oh my God, what was that? I asked myself.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself gasp again. It was the same sound you’d expect to hear if, say, you’d been partaking of a Tootsie Pop and it unexpectedly became disengaged from its stick body, rolled down your throat like a bowling ball, and then got lodged there. Like a plug. The sound you would make if that happened was the precise sound I was making, minus the Tootsie.
Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!
The sound of the machine quickly stopped as Dr. Wells pulled off my yellow goggles.
“Miss Notaro, are you all right?” he asked, seeming very concerned.
“Well, I—that thing, I don’t know what it is because I can’t see it, but the cold thing is sucking the air out of my nose,” I replied, trying to explain, because it was. Every time that little vacuum thing got close to a nostril, it felt as if I was drowning and couldn’t get enough air.
“That’s impossible,” the gentle doctor explained. “It’s blowing cold air out, not sucking air in. Are you in any pain?”
“No, not at all, I’m fine,” I tried to reassure him. “I’m fine. You can keep going. I’ll try to hold my breath.”
Then, as soon as the machine turned back on, I felt a pinprick, the cold, and “UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I gasped involuntarily, deep and raspy, as the sensation I felt was remarkably similar to the one I felt when I was ten, wanted to be an Olympic gymnast, and would repeatedly run across our yard and attempt to do a front flip but like the spaz I was would land flat on my back with the wind knocked right out of my lungs on a pool raft I was using for a mat. I would lie there, gasping for breath, as my mother looked out the sliding glass doors, yelling, “You’re an idiot, you know! Gymnasts don’t have legs that touch in the middle!” and then I’d get up and run across the yard again toward the pool raft.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself bellow again, like a water buffalo calling for her calf.
The machine shut off again.
“Miss Notaro, I don’t want to continue if this is causing you discomfort,” Dr. Wells said frankly.
This time I took the goggles off, trying very hard not to imagine myself with my facial hair poking up out of the shiny gel that was smeared all over my face like a glazed donut, gasping uncontrollably like a halfwit writhing on a river raft in the dirt and doing it all wearing tiny yellow goggles.
“Really, I’m okay,” I said again. “Maybe it’s the shock of it being so cold that it’s just a reflex, but I am completely fine and we have a mustache to
“Miss Notaro,” I heard Dr. Wells say as gently as he could, “I know you are in here for the chin area, but I’m noticing substantial growth on the upper lip, and since we’re already in process, we might as well tackle that too.”
I wanted to gasp I was so embarrassed. I mean, having a little chin growth is one thing, but I had no idea I had a goatee going on. And apparently it was not merely “going on” but was substantial. Not peach fuzz, not one or two stray hairs, but the foundation for a handlebar sort of extremity. With a little bit of wax and some sculpting, who knew what I was capable of? I could hire myself out to fire stations and simply stand on the banks of a flash flood, rescuing people who rushed by in the torrent with merely a toss of my head. And poor Dr. Wells, who I’m sure thought his one-thirty appointment was to laser a woman and not Burt Reynolds, had no idea that he was going to need a rideable lawn mower to tackle the effects of my hormones.
Where is the miracle of spontaneous combustion when you need it? I thought to myself, and then suddenly, my breath was gone. Just gone. I was completely out of air, like something had quickly stolen it right out of me, like I was suffocating.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself emit quite loudly as my lungs desperately and in a panic tried to suck in a breath.
Oh my God, what was that? I asked myself.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself gasp again. It was the same sound you’d expect to hear if, say, you’d been partaking of a Tootsie Pop and it unexpectedly became disengaged from its stick body, rolled down your throat like a bowling ball, and then got lodged there. Like a plug. The sound you would make if that happened was the precise sound I was making, minus the Tootsie.
Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!
The sound of the machine quickly stopped as Dr. Wells pulled off my yellow goggles.
“Miss Notaro, are you all right?” he asked, seeming very concerned.
“Well, I—that thing, I don’t know what it is because I can’t see it, but the cold thing is sucking the air out of my nose,” I replied, trying to explain, because it was. Every time that little vacuum thing got close to a nostril, it felt as if I was drowning and couldn’t get enough air.
“That’s impossible,” the gentle doctor explained. “It’s blowing cold air out, not sucking air in. Are you in any pain?”
“No, not at all, I’m fine,” I tried to reassure him. “I’m fine. You can keep going. I’ll try to hold my breath.”
Then, as soon as the machine turned back on, I felt a pinprick, the cold, and “UUUUUUHHHHHHHHHH,” I gasped involuntarily, deep and raspy, as the sensation I felt was remarkably similar to the one I felt when I was ten, wanted to be an Olympic gymnast, and would repeatedly run across our yard and attempt to do a front flip but like the spaz I was would land flat on my back with the wind knocked right out of my lungs on a pool raft I was using for a mat. I would lie there, gasping for breath, as my mother looked out the sliding glass doors, yelling, “You’re an idiot, you know! Gymnasts don’t have legs that touch in the middle!” and then I’d get up and run across the yard again toward the pool raft.
“UUUUUUHHHHHHHH,” I heard myself bellow again, like a water buffalo calling for her calf.
The machine shut off again.
“Miss Notaro, I don’t want to continue if this is causing you discomfort,” Dr. Wells said frankly.
This time I took the goggles off, trying very hard not to imagine myself with my facial hair poking up out of the shiny gel that was smeared all over my face like a glazed donut, gasping uncontrollably like a halfwit writhing on a river raft in the dirt and doing it all wearing tiny yellow goggles.
“Really, I’m okay,” I said again. “Maybe it’s the shock of it being so cold that it’s just a reflex, but I am completely fine and we have a mustache to
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