After my recent residence in the land of vampires, werewolves, fairies and a woman named Sookie who believe it or not is not a stripper, it felt a little strange to read a book with absolutely no paranormal anything. (By the way, am I the only one slightly disturbed to discover that Barnes and Nobles has an entire “Teen Paranormal Romance” section? When did that become an actual thing?)I kept expecting people to start biting each other or refuse to walk in the day light. Closest thing I found in The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death was Laurie Notaro describing the flop sweat erupting from her thighs walking to her car in the scalding Phoenix heat.
Having read a few of Notaro‘s earlier books, I figured this would be a good mental pallet cleanser of a segue back into actual books. Not as crazy-out-of-this-world as Bon Temps, but also not as serious as reading some Salman Rushdie. I expected to laugh and giggle along with the idiocy that runs through her writing. And as is fitting of a fellow idiot girl, it took me until the 2nd entry to realize I was not reading a novel but a collection of personal essays. Duh me.
Once I wrapped my head around that, two things happened.
First: I remembered how much I love Notaro and authors like her. I’ve said it before, so please bear with me as I say it again. There is something special about books like this. Book that don’t fit in with the typical cannon and the highbrow idea that all literature (which must be said in a snooty British accent) must be dramatic and full of pain and sorrow and loss. That books that get labeled “chick-lit” are nothing more than mindless fluff. IN reality, authors like Notaro, Jennifer Weiner, Sophie Kinsella , and Meg Cabot are writing about that it’s like to be an adult woman in the post-feminist post-modern post-Mary Tyler Moore world where women are have more to worry about that finding a husband and raising children.
These are books and stories about the reality of marriage, about what it’s like to freak out that the doctor performing your laser hair removal is handsome, and the sudden realization that you are not as cool as you were in college despite all attempts to ignore the reality of your suburban tendencies.
They are relatable and true and an unflinching view into the minds of educated, independent, insecure and real woman. So while I know some of my professors will want to send the English Department Repo Men (who I imagine show up in tweed jackets and bow ties looking like less sexy versions of Indian Jones) to seize my M.A., I can’t help but loves this genre, and want to thank Mrs. Notaro and these authors, these brave, funny and insightful girls for giving a voice to real women.
And second: as I was reading this collection of essays, essays that detail the frustration of dealing with treadmill repair people, of the absurdity of finding a towel in a hotel room folded into a shape somewhere between a walrus and a vagina, and the abject terror of sitting next to an open-mouthed cougher on a plane, I kept thinking “that’s just like the time I fell to the floor laughing in a Vegas elevator as my drunk friend said our fellow passengers, 2 men of different races, looked like twins but different colors” or “oh man… that’s totally like my code 3 moment!”
My point is, that this book inspired me in a way I have never been before. See, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But, it’s so hard. Because people always tell you to write what you know… and what I know is pretty boring. I grew up in a perfectly pleasant middle class home with parents who love me and not a hint of a “funny uncle”, hungry stomach, or real drama other than the Jr. High dilemma of begging my mother to let me please god please pluck the uni-brow people keep making fun of.
Because of that, every time I try to sit and write, I draw a blank. But now, now I have ideas. Laurie Notaro reminded me of all my own idiot girl moments. All the times I have made an ass out of myself in public. All those stories I repeat at parties or during the getting to know you stage of new friendships. Those silly instances that get molded into your personal mythology, the stories your friends were there for and remind you of and ask you to tell when you meet their new boyfriends. Notaro made me realize that these are my stories, and they they are what I know... and that they are what I should be writing about.
So I warn you now that you just may be hearing some of those stories soon. You can thank, or blame, Mrs. Notaro for that too.
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