The Potty Mouth at the Table Read online

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  CONTENTS

  Antiques No Show

  That Damn Hobo

  The Potty Mouth at the Table

  Don’t Make Me the Asshole

  Legends of the Fall

  Striptease

  Live from the Bellagio

  Writers’ Group

  The Accidental Profiler

  Tiny Dancer

  Fabric Obsession

  The Guantánamo Bay Knitting and Book Club

  Busted

  Thanksgiving!!!!

  Nettle Mind

  I Hate Foodies

  Hierarchy of Foodies

  Am I a Book Snob?

  Death Cab for Cooties

  The Red Chair

  I’m Gonna Get You

  Sins of the Pin

  Horny

  Six Things I Never Want to Hear (Again) While Standing in Line at the Pharmacy

  I Only Want to Know If You Have Herpes

  Spit Swap Meet

  A Handy Manual for a Widower, My Husband

  If I Only Had a Brain

  Who Said It Was Donut Time?

  Yelp Me

  You Are Not Invited

  Blackout

  Rewinding

  Acknowledgments

  Author Q&A

  About Laurie Notaro

  To the bravest of them all,

  Kartz Ucci

  ANTIQUES NO SHOW

  Turn that off!” I yelled to my husband from my office as soon as I heard the old-timey music broadcast from the television. My husband knew better, and I mumbled that as I heard him scramble for the remote control and then abruptly change the channel.

  “I hate them!” I called out for emphasis. “Go to hell, Antiques Roadshow! Go to hell!”

  My husband then flipped to what sounded like a woman screaming as she was being covered with tarantulas. “Do you prefer this?” he asked, turning up the volume.

  “Yes,” I replied adamantly. “I don’t ever want to hear that stupid-ass flute played in this house again.”

  “I think it’s a clarinet,” he corrected me. “It’s definitely from the woodwind family.”

  “I don’t care what it is!” I screeched. “I would rather be standing in the hall in my underwear and hear your mom’s voice right behind me than hear that song again! Hustlers! Grifters! Swindlers! Mountebanks!”

  In the next second, my husband’s head popped into the doorway of my office.

  “Do you really hate them so much that you went to thesaurus.com to come up with new words to toss out in your Antiques Roadshow rages?” he asked candidly.

  “What would you call them if they did that to you?” I demanded. “Malefactors!”

  “You’re pronouncing that wrong,” he informed me, then disappeared back into the living room.

  “I am archenemies with them!” I shouted after him. “It’s part of our nemesis-ial relationship!”

  I didn’t always hate Antiques Roadshow. I used to like it. In fact, when it was announced that the show was coming to Eugene, I could hardly contain my excitement. I had waited for this opportunity for years, years, and I felt a little thrill in my chest every single time I thought about it. Because I had something good. Really good. So good that I knew: I would get not only on the show with a treasure like this, but on previews as well. So good that it might just make Antiques Roadshow history and end up in a museum with its own security guard.

  Yes, it was that good.

  Let me first say that I am cheap. It’s true. If I can’t buy something wholesale or at least at a significant discount, I will track down that deal like it’s the last piece of cake at a Weight Watchers meeting. I’ve spent inordinate amounts of time doing this. My bargain-hunting record? Three years of searching eBay until I got the Marc Jacobs lace-up suede boots for twenty-three percent of what they cost retail. In my size. That was until 2009, when my ten-year search for W. S. George antique coffee mugs was completed when I paid twelve dollars for a dozen of new old stock.

  In that same lucky antiques store where I found the mugs, I spied a big art nouveau poster propped up in the corner and half-hidden by shadows. It was a beaut. Six feet tall, printed on copper foil, and mounted on a giant sheet of plywood—a poster for Lorenzaccio, a play starring Sarah Bernhardt, that was signed “Mucha.” Immediately, I hooked both of my chubby arms around it and dragged it to the front counter, knocking over a dress form and nearly shattering a mirror.

  The shop owner informed me that Mucha was an important artist, the father of Art Nouveau, and that this poster came from a turn-of-the-century theater in central California that had been torn down half a century ago. The poster, one of several, had hung in the lobby behind glass, according to the person who had kept them in storage until the antiques dealer happened upon this one and brought it to her store.

  And now it had my fingerprints all over it, slightly damp ones (there was mayonnaise on my sandwich at lunch). I knew that if I played my cards right, and this poster was original, it could make up for the fact that I had contributed more to my shoe collection than to my 401(k) account, the consequence of hastily scribbled odds of my rate of butter consumption vs. reaching retirement age. And for the record, I paid less for the poster than for my car payment.

  I got the poster home and propped it up in my living room, and over the next couple of months, I went to work and did some research, e-mailed numerous galleries and art appraisers for any hints on whom I should contact or talk to next about my Mucha. I explained what I knew about its origins, included photos, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. I’m still waiting. I took that as a sign that something of this caliber was so rare that it automatically threw a shadow of doubt on its own pedigree, and that something like it simply had never been seen before.

  Every year or two since I brought the piece home, I did additional research on my Mucha, e-mailed a new art gallery or poster dealer, but the result was always the same: nothing. I even e-mailed History Detectives, one of my favorite shows, which investigates the history and authenticity of certain objects, and to my surprise, a producer called me back. I was elated and couldn’t wait for the investigation to begin but was subsequently informed that the research team ran into a dead end. After speaking to the antiques dealer I bought the piece from, they couldn’t find any further information about the origins of the piece, either. I was disappointed to hear the news and flopped on the couch to sulk.

  “Maybe this is a sign that the poster should remain a mystery,” my husband suggested. “Maybe if you did find out anything about it, you could be opening a can of worms. Before you know it, Prague could be on our answering machine claiming that they want their poster back and that the mustardy fingerprints under your mayonnaise ones belonged to the Nazis. Especially if the show assigned you to Elyse Luray; it would be better to get Gwen Wright. She could keep a secret, I think.”

  “I love Gwen,” I interjected with a smile. “But yes, Elyse would be on the phone to Prague in a second.”

  Don’t get me wrong, I never want to benefit from Nazi plunder, but if I didn’t know that my poster had been stolen by greedy fascists, then it couldn’t be my fault if it was still hanging on my wall, where I got to gaze at it every day and love democracy.

  So I let it go. I stopped searching and accepted the poster for what it was: an unknown . . . until years later. I was reading the newspape
r one day and saw that Antiques Roadshow was coming to my town. Suddenly, I felt a flutter in my chest, almost certain that it was a butter-clogged artery. And a sign.

  I needed to go, I decided. I had to go. I was going to go.

  But deciding to go to Antiques Roadshow and actually being able to go are two completely different things, like the difference between what’s on Mickey Rourke’s face and the skin on the rest of humanity. Apparently, many, many people believe they have historical treasures of utmost significance hanging above their plaid La-Z-Boys in their rec rooms or growing rust in their gardens, so many that you don’t just “get” tickets to the show.

  Instead, you get a lottery number. I was initially fine with that. I mean, really, I don’t live in a very big town, so I felt my chances were good to excellent. So I submitted my name and address on the Antiques Roadshow website.

  Of course I was going to get tickets.

  I was going to get tickets.

  And when I told my friend Ariane about it, she replied with delight that she had something she’d like to have appraised, too, and that we should make a pact: if I got tickets, I would take her, and if she got tickets, she would take me. We both doubled our chances in a second and I already had the tape measure out to figure how to get the poster in my car.

  And then we waited for the date that they would send us our “Congratulations, Laurie, Your Mucha Poster, the Greatest Find in Antiques Roadshow History, Is About to Be Authenticated!” e-mail.

  And waited. And waited.

  “Did you hear anything?” I’d call Ariane and ask.

  “No, did you?” she’d reply.

  “No,” I’d answer sadly.

  “We will,” she’d assure me.

  “Oh, I know,” I’d confirm. “We’re going.”

  And just to make sure, I checked every week to see that I had the date right and how much closer we were getting. I couldn’t stand it. I thought about buying a new dress to wear, because certainly this would be highlighted not only on the show itself but also in commercials and trailers and most likely on the website, too. I practiced my expression of utter joy and couldn’t decide whether I should cry softly or be graciously stunned by the wonderment of it all. Both looks were good, so I decided that I’d go with whatever felt more genuine in the moment.

  Oh, I thought, I hope I get a twin! I don’t care which one. They’re both equally creepy. Even though they look the same, I have a feeling they each might elicit a different prepared reaction from me.

  I looked at the Mucha, knowing that soon it was going to be legitimized, verified, respected for what it was. It was essential that its pedigree was finally recognized, especially after escaping the wrecking ball and being kept in storage for half a century.

  The day that the ticket winners were notified, I woke up early and checked my e-mail.

  Nothing.

  I went to the Antiques Roadshow website and put in my confirmation number. The screen came up blank. I had not been chosen.

  I texted Ariane as soon as I saw the sun crest over my neighbor’s roof.

  Laurie Notaro 7:46 a.m.

  I didn’t get tickets. :( Did you? Did you e-mail me? I’ll check again. Nope. Nothing? What about you? No. Still nothing!

  Laurie Notaro 7:48 a.m.

  Hello? Hello? I thought you got up at 7. Check your e-mail! Anxious! Like a little hard to breathe.

  Laurie Notaro 7:51 a.m.

  What time do you get up? Don’t you have to be at work? Is your connection down? Because I know you are good with paying bills. Ha-ha! Seriously, I’m getting dizzy.

  Laurie Notaro 7:55 a.m.

  Wake up! Please! THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!

  Laurie Notaro 7:59 a.m.

  If you take someone else, I will need my shoes back. I know I said my feet are too wide for them, but I am sure I can get them to fit with a layer of baby oil. We had a deal.

  Laurie Notaro 8:21 a.m.

  Fine. Leave them on my porch.

  And then, like magic, I got an e-mail from Antiques Roadshow. My eyes got watery. My heart fluttered as if I had eaten a cookie too fast. Oh, thank God, I sighed. They made a mistake. Thank God. I knew I couldn’t get those shoes on unless I had a saw.

  I clicked on the e-mail quickly, sitting up in my chair in front of the computer, and as the e-mail loaded, my eyes darted over the message and I bit my lip.

  Deeeeep breath.

  “What’s on?” the e-mail asked me.

  “Us??” I hoped in a tiny voice. “Us! Us! Us!”

  “Biloxi, Hr 1—TONIGHT at 8/7C PM,” the e-mail continued. “In Biloxi, Mark L. Walberg and appraiser David Rago check out the wild pottery of George Ohr. . . .”

  It was a newsletter. Antiques Roadshow, those scoundrels, those filthy, terrible knaves, had sent me a newsletter on the day they had decided to deny me tickets.

  It was savage.

  I didn’t hear from Ariane until later that night, after I had calmed down and drank some wine; she had left her phone at home and called right after she saw that I was stalking her, and by now she probably thought I was standing outside her bedroom window with my iPhone in hand, waiting for her to hand over some strappy wedges.

  “I have bad news. I checked my number, too,” she said sadly. “I didn’t get tickets, either. And, um, I’m wearing the shoes, so . . . ?”

  “It’s all right,” I slurred, trying to be a good sport through my increasing drunkenness. “I’d really have to sever half of my toes to get those things buckled. I’m bummed about the tickets, but at least we tried. I still can’t believe we didn’t get them. I wonder how many tickets those Antiques Roadshow varlets gave out?”

  “Well, I have more bad news,” Ariane added. “We didn’t get tickets, but my neighbor, who didn’t even know about Antiques Roadshow coming here until I told her, got tickets, and has no idea what to bring, except a carved frog she got in Mexico.”

  “Ohmygodihateeugene,” I said in one syllable. “Would she—”

  “I already asked her if she would give you the second ticket, and she said no. Her new boyfriend has a bong that Ken Kesey once touched and he’s bringing that.”

  “A what?” I clarified.

  “Just touched it. Didn’t even put his mouth on it, just a hand. He passed it to someone,” she told me.

  After a long pause, I could only think of one thing to say.

  “I’m going to take an Ambien, eat a box of sugar-free Oreos, and gas myself to death internally,” I said before hanging up.

  Ariane, in an effort to be a good friend and cheer me up, tried to get some tickets on craigslist, but the current asking price was two hundred dollars. Apiece. I hadn’t even paid that much for the poster.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  I waited for a second to let an Oreo gas bubble pass and then I let it all out.

  “You know what? It’s a scam. It is such a con! She’s bringing a frog and people are selling their tickets for profit when I have Nazi plunder sitting in my living room just waiting to be uncovered? Where is quality control on Antiques Roadshow? They get what they deserve, a bunch of wooden frogs and bongs. Scoundrels! Thugs! Crooks! What a bunch of sharks, getting our hopes all riled up and then turning around and giving tickets to people who couldn’t even sell this stuff on eBay! I even do a really good impression of the old lady on the Antiques Roadshow commercial guessing the value of the Indian blanket. ‘Six-fif-tay! Six-fif-tay!’ ”

  “I’m really sorry,” my friend said, trying to console me. “I know how much this meant to you.”

  “I don’t even want to go on that stupid show now,” I replied. “Even if they gave me tickets today. I hope they get nothing but frogs and bongs. I hope it’s one giant day of frogs and bongs on Antiques Shit Show! My poster is a star! I’m telling you that my Mucha is the one chance they had at a headliner and a new commercial! My Mucha is the new Indian blanket!”

  “What?” Ariane asked.

  “Six-fif-tay!” I yelled i
nto the phone. “Six-fif-tay!”

  The days and weeks passed. I tried not to give it any more thought. I really did. But on the day I knew everyone who had tickets was descending on the fairgrounds, my hate was a cinder just waiting to combust and blow up that allegedly celebrity-fondled bong right along with it.

  “I hope they get nothing but geodes,” I said to my husband as I walked through the living room. “I hope those Antiques Roadshow people get nothing but rocks and Cabbage Patch dolls and a bunch of spoons with the names of states on them. Oregon spoons. I hope they get eight hours’ worth of Oregon spoons! Imposters! Grifters! Crooks!”

  My husband said nothing.

  “Old thermoses,” I said on my way back through the living room. “Fill your time slot with old thermoses formerly filled with milk, Antiques Roadshow! And war medals! Pottery from seventh-grade art classes! Snow globes! You falsifiers! Cheaters! Varmints!”

  For the record, I’m not really sure who I was calling varmints—the ticket people on Antiques Roadshow or the people with the bongs and the frogs. All I know is that I wanted them all to suffer for the fact that I didn’t get tickets and I had the best thing. “Maligners! Sophists! Purloiners!”

  “Give thesaurus.com a rest,” my husband said, not looking up from his book.

  “Filchers,” I whispered.

  “I’d look up alternative meanings on that one if I were you,” he advised.

  “Miscreants,” I hissed.

  “You know, if that thing is real,” he said, nodding toward the Mucha on the wall, “then Antiques Roadshow just did you a big favor. If it’s an honest-to-God original poster, you couldn’t have it hanging right there! You’d have to sell it or give it to a museum; it wouldn’t be hanging right there in our living room. If you love it as much as you say you do, love it enough to let it be fake. Love it enough to let it stay right where it is so you can look at it every day.”

  He was right, I realized. That was the curse of Antiques Roadshow; there was no winning either way. If your stuff was worthless, even if you loved it, you now knew it was crap. If it was valuable, chances were it was going to become someone else’s valuable. How many people do you know who would keep an Indian blanket hanging over their couch if it was worth half a million dollars (not six-fif-tay)?