Notaro - Autobiography of a Fat Bride : True Tales of a Pretend Adulthood

Acknowledgments

In lieu of taking everyone out to dinner, Id like to extend some special thanks. Stop the whining, a free dinner will be forgotten and gone in approximately twelve hours, while your name in print will last a lifetime, or at least for the time it takes for this book to wind up in the outlet stores, when you cheap bastards will finally buy it because you never got the free copy I promised you.

Thanks:

To Jenny Bent, without whom Id still have a shitty job. A million thanks for a million thingsfor being the first one in a really long time to believe in me, for the counseling, for listening to me, for letting me talk, for telling me to shut up, and for the biggest prune I will never forget. Oh my God, that was a joke!

To Bruce Tracy, for his patience, direction, support, and friendship, and for letting me keep my voice. Unfortunately, Ive had editors who are as bad as he is good, and thus, I know enough to appreciate how lucky I am. And I know it.

To my family, for not disowning me after I wiped the shame well dry, for pretending they thought the first book was good, and for not vaporizing my advance by calling in all of my loans. That would have sucked.

Thanks to my ball and chain, who usually just sits and shakes his head. Im sorry you married a big ole bag of trouble like me, but God gave me big boobs to make up for it. You are the best in the world right now, you know.

To my dad, who foolishly passed out my first book to his friends and colleagues without reading it first, for assaulting warehouse shoppers with it in Costco and harassing them until they bought it, and for teaching me: 1) never buy anything in a dented box; 2) anyone who doesnt agree with you is an idiot; and 3) anyone who ever fired me was an asshole and dumber than dog shit. Thanks, Dad, and thanks for supporting me when I was jobless and drumming up material for the book, or in other words, lazy. But sorry, I still, apparently, cannot hang on to a job in any capacity.

To my mom, who now finally understands that her life is nothing now but a source of material, for being a really good sport, and for keeping her shoe on and not smacking me every time she sees me. You rock, Mom. No, Mom, I didnt mean it in a dirty way.

To Nick and David, thanks for the material that you have yet to provide, and dont worry about it, Ill do for you what Grandma did after she ruined me and pay for your psychotherapy. Fair and square. You are both the best little boys ever and I love you so much. And a very special thanks to your mom for getting Aunt Laurie off of the reproductive hook, so to speak.

To Nana, who makes me laugh, tells me crazy stories, and always surprises me. I have the best Nana ever.

To the Idiot Girls, Jamie, Nikki, Sara, Kate, Sandra, and Krysti, and the Idiot Guy, Jeffsorry for all the embarrassment I caused you after the last book, but HEY, you got your name in the liner notes and didnt even have to diddle a guy in the band for it, so STOP COMPLAINING! I am lucky to have you as friends, and even luckier that were still friends.

To David Dunton, for being the best friend I only met once, for helping me through some pretty rough spots, for dorking out with me, and for Prime Burger. Forever appreciated, truly.

To Pamela Cannon, for striking the match, and for being one of the coolest chicks I could have ever hoped to know.

To Meg Halverson, Bill Hummel, Theresa Cano, Kathy Murillo, Coni Bourin, Laura K. Smith, Alexa Cassanos, Katie Zug, Sessalee Hensley, Jules Herbert, Donna Passanante, Nina Graybill, Annie Klein, Lisa Dicker, Brent Babb, Curtis Grippe, Brian Griffith, Steve Larson, Patrick Sedillo, Charlie Levy, Jon Kinyon, Jamal Ruhe, Dave Purcell, Monica Reid, Craig Browning, Duane Neff, Amy Silverman, Sonda Andersson-Pappan, Beth Kawasaki, Eric Searleman, Charlie Pabst, Bill Homuth, Sharon Hise, the Public Library Association, the Arizona Library Association, the ladies at the B&N in Fairfax, Ms. Nancy Sinatra, and, of course, bookstores little and big for your help, kindness, support, or for not calling security on me.

And, most important, to Idiot Girls all over the world and everyone who read the last book, wrote a letter, dropped me an e-mail, passed the book on to a friend, confessed that they belonged in the club, stopped by to say hi, or came to a reading: THANK YOU. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. The best part is meeting you, laughing with you, and knowing that Im not the only one. You know what I mean.

You rule.

love, laurie n.

ALSO BY LAURIE NOTARO

The Idiot Girls Action-Adventure Club

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LAURIE NOTARO has never written for Rolling Stone, Esquire, Harpers, The New Yorker, Truckin, Lowrider, Coin World, Knives Illustrated, Whispers from Heaven, Dog Fancy, American Logger, Farm Show, Supermodels Unlimited, or McSweeneys. She lives, and will probably die, in Phoenix, Arizona. Miraculously, this is her second book.

Here she is at her wedding reception, mere minutes after getting married and apparently returning from a satisfying trip to the meatball pyramid. As her lucky new spouse closes the deal by signing the marriage license, his new bride is not only taking that opportunity to dig a meatball particle out of her teeth with her tongue, but has also completely abandoned the effort of sucking her stomach in, never to return.

Its Not You, Its Me

I am the sucker.

Bens standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets; his hair, normally straight and elbow-length, is now appallingly cornrowed as his head hangs toward the ground because Ive caught him.

Ive caught him.

Hes too goddamned scared to make a move and I dont blame him, because hes my boyfriend and I caught him, just now, packing up all of his crap into a piece-of-shit hippie van because hes running off to Seattle to follow his dream, which is growing pot, smoking it, and learning to play Neil Youngs Old Man on an acoustic guitar in order to perform it as a birthday gift for his dad, a man he has never met.

He is running away.

With HER.

Turn to the right, there she is, standing behind the van, trying to hide from me; its Dog Girl, his ex-girlfriend, dressed in a tremendous gauze dress and with matching cornrow hair.

She made the curtains, he mutters, still looking at the sidewalk.

WHAT? I said, shaking my head.

She made the curtains, he repeats. For the van. She sold her car and bought the van.

For a moment, Im confused and I wonder about what Im supposed to do with this. Am I supposed to fight, and kick and scream, am I supposed to oppose it? I have no idea, and I dont do anything. I just walk away.

Dont you want to hit me? he calls out.

Dont you want to yell at me, tell me you hate me? he yells to me.

I just shake my head, and keep walking.

Its not you! he shouts one last time. Its me!

Thats enough to make me stop dead in my tracks.

Really? I ask as I spin around. Are you sure its you? Because that would make my day, just knowing that it was YOU and NOT ME, especially after I just caught you in the middle of an escape attempt. Is it you? Is it really you, Ben?

Well, I guess its me a little bit, he stammers as Dog Girl peeks an eye out from behind the purple curtains as one of her hair ornaments chimes. But, well, if you really want to know, Id say that yeah, its mostly you.