Read It Looked Different on the Model Online
Authors: Laurie Notaro
It Looked Different on the Model (5 page)
Fig. 274
The Monk
Origin:
Soy products, gluten-free muffins, lactose-free yogurt
Culprit:
All residents of Seattle
Habitat:
Yoga class, Whole Foods
Outstanding qualities:
Can emit three tones at once
with perfect pitch
Fig. 345
Little Mouse
Origin:
Cheese, particularly spray, boxed, or jarred
Culprit:
Dogs, 7th-grade math teachers, uncles
Habitat:
Teachers’ lounge, comic-book stores, your pillow
Outstanding qualities:
Easily translates to weaponry, bio and traditional
Fig. 219
The Countess
Origin:
Foie gras, canned meat, asparagus
Culprit:
Aristocrats, porn stars, pirates
Habitat:
High seas, dressing rooms, wine tastings, first class, on location in San Fernando Valley
Fig. 459
The Zipper
Origin:
Protein bars, excessive amounts of pork products
Culprit:
Rock climbers, ex-boyfriends, trapped miners
Habitat:
Caves, REI
Outstanding qualities:
May cause physical damage if the culprit is sitting during transmission
Fig. 346
Too Many Cherries
Origin:
Overindulgence of dried or seasonal fruit
Culprit:
Women of advancing age, romance writers, Nancy Pelosi
Habitat:
Coffe shops, comfort shoe stores, J. Jill
Fig. 248
SOS
Origin:
Bologna sandwiches, eggs prepared any way, generic sodas
Culprit:
Enlisted men, evangelists
Habitat:
Tight quarters, baggage claim
Fig. 475
Mr. Grunt
Origin:
Hot dogs, frozen burritos, fake crab
Culprit:
Retirees, dead gym teachers
Habitat:
Costco sample carts, will hover over the backs of couches, all public transportation
Fig. 363
Hippie
Origin:
Organic matter, unspecified
Culprit:
Anyone dirty, poets, “peaceniks”
Habitat:
Commonly found unattended at Burning Man, protests of any sort, bulk-food aisle.
Outstanding qualities:
Scatters like buckshot with potential of up to a mile radius
I
had been dreading this day for more than a year.
I felt my heartbeat speed up as I took another step forward in line, one customer closer and a few feet nearer to the counter. I kept my eyes down, focusing on the scrape on the top of my boot or on the collection of measuring cups and kitchen accessories that lined the aisle where I was trapped. I didn’t want to look up. I couldn’t even bring myself to try.
The Mean Lady might be looking at me.
Typically I don’t have such anxiety while waiting in line at the post office, but, to tell the truth, I was on the verge of a panic attack. I was starting to sweat, and there was no doubt that I felt jittery to the point that I thought I might explode.
I cursed myself for not taking a Valium in preparation. I wasn’t supposed to be here.
And the Mean Lady knew that.
I looked up quickly. She had her eyes locked on me like the infrared laser beam of an unmanned drone.
A wave of trepidation swallowed my body, especially my GI tract, and I felt the smothering desire to flee. I was almost ready to turn on my heels and head back out the door when I remembered the package in my arms, and a bolt of bravery hit
me. No, it said. You must stay. You have things to mail for your little nephew, your little nephew who will only wear something referred to as “unders” briefs from a kids’ store called Hanna Andersson, an outlet store of which just happens to be across the street from Jamie’s house.
Do it for the boy, the bolt of bravery said.
Do it for the unders
.
So I stayed, despite the terror, despite the laser eyes, despite the consequences. When I walked into the store, I already knew my chances of making it up to the counter were as slim as my mother making it through a pregnancy without smoking.
When we first moved in to our house in Eugene, I used to enjoy going to our little post office satellite station, located inside the drugstore and stocked to meet literally any human need you might have within the bounds of the law. It has a garden section, pet department, party-goods area, several rows of greeting cards—in essence, it’s a drugstore but with way more stuff hanging from the ceiling, stacked on the shelves, and popping out from the walls. It’s not a place you want to go if you’re averse to confined, cramped quarters or get easily embarrassed if you knock things down, because that’s just part of the experience. I’m not sure how many people with OCD have spontaneously combusted in that store, but I’m sure the number is not insignificant. You walk in, wander through the labyrinth of sparkly Hello-Kittied hologrammed trinkets, topple over end caps, get lost, suddenly find yourself examining a condom with a pirate on it, and then attempt to claw your way back out by following hints of daylight. The store has a whole lotion department, packages of fake poo, hillbillies you can grow from a capsule, what some people would say is the largest collection of aging candy on the West Coast, and more Christmas villages than the European Union, including Turkey. It looks as if you
took my bedroom in seventh grade and put price tags on everything. I truly am at a loss to explain it in all of its cataclysm, although my old friend Grace summed it up nicely by describing it as the “Best Place to Get Impaled by a Unicorn.”