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We Thought You Would Be Prettier

Cover of We Thought You Would Be Prettier

We Thought You Would Be Prettier

True Tales of the Dorkiest Girl Alive
She thought she'd have more time. Laurie Notaro figured she had at least a few good years left. But no--it's happened. She has officially lost her marbles. From the kid at the pet-food store checkout...More
She thought she'd have more time. Laurie Notaro figured she had at least a few good years left. But no--it's happened. She has officially lost her marbles. From the kid at the pet-food store checkout...More
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Description-
  • She thought she'd have more time. Laurie Notaro figured she had at least a few good years left. But no--it's happened. She has officially lost her marbles. From the kid at the pet-food store checkout line whose coif is so bizarre it makes her seethe "I'm going to kick his hair's ass!" to the hapless Sears customer-service rep on the receiving end of her Campaign of Terror, no one is safe from Laurie's wrath. Her cranky side seems to have eaten the rest of her--inner-thigh Chub Rub and all. And the results are breathtaking.

    Her riffs on e-mail spam ("With all of these irresistible offers served up to me on a plate, I WANT A PENIS NOW!!"), eBay ("There should be an eBay wading pool, where you can only bid on Precious Moments figurines and Avon products, that you have to make it through before jumping into the deep end"), and the perils of St. Patrick's Day ("When I'm driving, the last thing I need is a herd of inebriates darting in and out of traffic like loaded chickens") are the stuff of legend. And for Laurie, it's all true.

    From the Trade Paperback edition.
Excerpts-
  • From the book Doing America 1

    Are you stupid?" the man behind the counter at the garage yelled at me. "Just how stupid are you? How could you be so stupid?"

    Honestly, I just stood there, too shocked to say anything.

    "Are you an idiot?" he asked, shaking his hand at me.

    "Funny you should ask that," I said, trying to make a joke as I reached into my purse. "As a matter of fact . . ."

    I slid the book across the counter toward him.

    "What's this?" he asked, looking over the rim of his grimy circa-1970s glasses. "Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure . . . what? Club? Is that Club? You one of these idiots?"

    "Yeah," I said and tried to laugh. "Pretty much. Guess you could say I wrote the book."

    And to tell the truth, that was no lie.

    In fact, I was only a matter of days into my book tour and I had already been called an idiot numerous times.

    "I think if you get on a plane right now you're an idiot," my mother warmly informed me a week before my plane left for New York. "It's an ORANGE ALERT, you know. ORANGE. Orange isn't something to fool around with! Fool around with yellow, green, or purple, but don't mess with orange! Because I'll tell you right now, if the orange terrorist gets on a plane, it's going to be the one you're on."

    "I know," I said, trying to reassure her. "At least if it was the purple terrorist, he'd be easy to spot. He can sing 'I Love You' all he wants, but when that giant eggplant marches down the aisle, no one loves Barney if he's gonna be sitting in your row."

    "You shouldn't be kidding around, you should be scared," my mother said, simply because she was.

    "Scared?" I questioned bravely. "Listen, I've got a freckle on my arm that's changing colors more frequently than a Rainbow Brite, I have a tooth in the back of my mouth that's thumping louder than a stereo in a '79 Monte Carlo with a chain steering wheel, and either the zipper on the back of my sweater got bent at the dry cleaner's or I now have a neck hump the size of a bagel. I ran out of fear before I even left the house this morning."

    But honestly, even I didn't believe myself.

    Although I was determined not to let a silly old orange alert keep me from my long-awaited book tour, my mother had planted a seed. In fact, I had caught my imagination wandering about such an event. I had even choreographed scenarios in my head of lunging at the terrorist with a Vulcan grip and a swift kick where it counts. Then I would throw the weeping, bruised evildoer to the ground and shout, "You tell Osama Yo Mama to bring it on with the chicks who simultaneously have acne, gray hair, and suspicious moles, buddy! Because THAT is anger, Captain Cave, THAT IS ANGER!"

    Suddenly, I look down and am dressed in a denim jumpsuit unzipped to my sternum, and behind me, Kate Jackson and Jaclyn Smith (please, don't talk Drew Barrymore to me--I was a teenager in the seventies and eighties, and as a result spent nearly a decade of my life with curling-iron burns on my ears, neck, and forehead, some of which matured into scars. Let me have my Farrah Fawcett dream--I have earned it) are ready to hand out free samples of Kickbutt Pie. Oh yeah, and my frosted, immaculately feathered hair ROCKS, making a majority of the other passengers visibly jealous. Now, despite the bravado of my Nick at Nite mind, I was days away from the date of my trip and I was trying very hard not to let my mother's words sink into my brain and nest there. Typically before a big trip I am so excited that I head to the airport days in advance, eating Cinnabons like a bear heading into hibernation. This time, however, I hadn't even started packing for the three-week-long...
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    Random House Publishing Group
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True Tales of the Dorkiest Girl Alive
Laurie Notaro
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