From what I can piece together, the de-evolution of myself to Ambien Laurie is fairly swift, and the entire transformation takes place within a single second. According to my husband, who has in fact seen her materialize, when Ambien Laurie takes charge, I become a very calm yet highly aggressive person, like a gunfighter, who looks at him with an expression that relays calmly, “Sure, go ahead and eff with me. I’ll eat your face off. I’m cool, either way. You make the call.”
To me, however, it goes almost unnoticed until the next day, when I might see what I believe is a shard of wood on the bathroom floor and panic, thinking we might have termites, until I pick it up, realize it is a pretzel, and my mind quickly flashes to Ambien Laurie sitting on the potty and shoving pretzels into her gullet like popcorn at 3:00 A.M. Or when walk into my office and see a cheese cracker sandwich delicately balanced on the corner of the hall table, and I have an immediate flashback of walking into the living room in the middle of the night, rooting through my purse like a truffle pig. I’m eating the twin of the cracker, instead of throwing them away because they were in my purse for the better part of a solstice, although Ambien Laurie filed that nugget of information away for later retrieval, when it was her feeding time. Or when I’m getting my morning coffee and the box of Triscuits is open and sitting on the counter, and I remember that I was standing there at three in the morning, looking at the Triscuit and then at an Oreo and thinking: I’ll eat this now while I’m waiting to eat that cookie.
Ambien Laurie is also scientifically inclined, as evidenced by the memory of her responding to a dream in which my living-room wall was entirely covered, floor to ceiling, by a chart, much like the periodic table of elements. In each little box, however, was not a letter abbreviation but a number and a delightful drawing of what appeared to be distinct and different mushroom clouds, swirlies, and scrolls. In the dream, I was in awe of the complexity of the chart and all of the elaborate illustrations when my eyes finally reached the top and it all became clear: It was The Fart Chart (see this page), and every type of fart, categorized by its ferocity, attributes, bubbles, and bursts, was depicted in a very artistic rendering with a corresponding identification number.
Still swimming in the dream as she stumbled to the bathroom through the dark hallway, Ambien Laurie sat on her throne and thought to herself, Ahhh, number 248 is a good one. I should really do that one more often.
The evidence of Ambien Laurie is present not only in random crumbs around my house and bursts of nighttime brilliance but also in snippets of emails the next morning. I have woken up numerous mornings to find responses in my inbox to emails I was unaware I had sent from deep within the shadows of the previous evening, and I have to start piecing events together like it’s a crime-scene investigation. Imagine my surprise when Ambien Laurie wove a tale about Mr. Grunt, a sixty-five-year-old phys ed teacher who was covered in graying marsupial fur and kept his hamburgers warm underneath his floppy man boobs. Yeah. I already know. If you think it was horrible reading that, imagine the horror of discovering you not only wrote it but sent it to people, and I mean people as in plural. Picture that the thought of Mr. Grunt actually emerged from your unconscious and that your self-edit button was not only deactivated but completely disconnected by a ravenous eater of purse trash, who then realized there was no one in the air-traffic-controller tower, thus allowing random and crazy-ass thoughts to fly out of the brain airport unattended, Mohamed Atta–style. You could write a story about lost Germanic children, a witch, and an oven, and you would get a softer response than from a story about Mr. Grunt, who really is a bastard. I had revealed a part of myself that I never wanted others to see, kind of like when Michael Kors took his shirt off on the beach and exposed his unholy, Pluto-sized flesh-covered belly button to millions of tabloid readers. If I could insert a link right here to that mind-burning image, I would, because it is perhaps the only thing revolting enough to divert your attention away from the shame that I conjured up a PE teacher who uses body flaps as a food warmer.
Perhaps the worst thing about this tale of caution is that most nights at around 10:00, 10:15 P.M., certain friends will knock on my email door and ask if Ambien Laurie can come out to play, and if I mention, no, she’s not home, they’ll reply very simply that they’ll check back in forty-five minutes. They think she’s hilarious, and, honestly, if you think a monkey eating your food, spending your money, and poaching your friends is the bottom rung, wait till those friends start clapping for her when she flings around the Mr. Grunt talk. Watch what happens then (Ambien Laurie said of the Kors belly button: “Someone’s mother was a lazy piece of shit. She couldn’t tie a string around that?”). Perhaps it could be worse; my friend Rick, after a night of restful, peaceful Ambien sleep, woke up and climbed out of bed, only to notice that his underwear, which had been on him when he climbed into bed half an hour after taking his pill, was gone. It remained a mystery until he left for work an hour later, when he found his briefs on the sidewalk that led to the garage.
So I suppose that she could be worse and get behind the wheel of a car, go on an all-you-can-eat binge at IHOP, or take a stroll around the neighborhood while leaving her panties behind in the driveway. Right? Things could be worse, right? I mean, essentially, Ambien is you in an altered state, kind of like the twilight sleep that women of my mother’s generation were given when they went into labor. And, for that matter, I am thrilled that when I wake up all I find is pretzel shards on my bathroom mat or cookie crumbs on my face and not a bassinet next to my bed with an offspring in it who expects me to pay for college.
I just hope I don’t have another nighttime family somewhere.
Whatever. Ambien Laurie is not so bad. She’s really not. She’s just active. Would it be better if she sat around, calling people to tell them that she loved them, like every average alcoholic? Bo-ring. Big deal. Who can’t do that? Ambien Laurie is an innovator; she has taken the nighttime to a new level. So sometimes she eats on the potty. Who cares? It’s basically like any other chair in the house, it just has more options.
I’m getting a little hungry. Feels like snack time. If I’m not mistaken, that remaining cheese cracker sandwich is still on the table in the hall. She talks big about throwing shit away; she never does, and of course I’m going to eat it. Of course I’m going to eat it!! But not all of it. I’ll only eat half of it and leave the other half under her pillow. That’ll get her all worked up.
Hey, Mr. Grunt. How’s it goin’? Wanna watch Precious?
No, I don’t wanna bite. Gotta cracker in the hall. Keep the burrito in your shirt, please.
Listen, we’re not watching Gran Torino again. I hope that’s not going to be a problem. ’Cause I’ll eat your face off. I’m cool, either way.
You make the call.
The Fart Chart
Fig. 214
This Is MY Town
Origin: Grilled meat
Culprit: Cowboys, the bald, people who wear leather jackets
Habitat: Poker tables, Lincoln Continentals, deserted lots in New Jersey
Fig. 381
The Gambler
Origin: Fast food
Culprit: Kenny Rogers, wrestling fans
Habitat: Trucks that weigh more than houses
Outstanding qualities: You gotta know when to hold ’em, fold ’em, know when to walk away and when to run
Fig. 307
The Nail Gun
Origin: Doritos, mixture of domestic and imported beers, items of deep-fried nature
Culprit: Musicians, construction workers, Mormons
Habitat: Futons, under Mexican blankets, old carpeting
Fig. 195
The Scream
Origin: Exotic cuisine, mostly unidentified, hooves, snouts
Culprit: MBAs, Olympic athletes, missionaries
Habitat: Hostels, brothels, China
Fig. 335
Brown Egg
Origin: Sugar-free chocolates with maltitol
Culprit: Secret
aries, insurance adjustors, teens
Habitat: Pampered chef parties, cubicles
Outstanding qualities: Danger is enormous in high-profile situations
Fig. 333
Fiber One
Origin: Any product compressing 20% of daily fiber into a geometric shape
Culprit: Women in their 40s
Habitat: Crosswalks, TJ Maxx, elevators
Outstanding qualities: Is never alone; has many cousins trailing in packs
Fig. 171
Coward
Origin: Juicy Juice, Ritz Bits, Fruit Roll-Ups
Culprit: Babies, John Boehner, the comatose
Habitat: Car seats, hospice, tanning booths
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
The Post Office Lady with the Dragon Tattoo
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.”
But I loved the fact that it had a post office, because it was so close by. At the time, I was sending out a lot of mail—stickers and magnets that I shipped off to Idiot Girls around the country—and had a backlog I needed to conquer from the months my stuff was in storage.
Unfortunately, during that lapse, the post office had a two-cent rate hike, which meant that I needed to invest in additional postage. I headed off to my new satellite post office inside the drugstore and waited at the end of a long, long line.
When it was my turn at the counter, I stepped up and smiled at the lady behind it.
She smiled back.
I needed four hundred two-cent stamps. So I asked for four hundred two-cent stamps.
The post office lady looked at me like I had just asked her if she wanted to buy my sex tape. In fact, she actually gasped.
“Oh, no,” she told me, shaking her head vigorously. “I can’t give you that. Absolutely not.”
To be honest, I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t have anything to say. I did this all the time in Phoenix. One time I bought six hundred stamps, and the post office guy didn’t even look at me, let alone challenge me to a standoff and act as if I had pantomimed a lewd gesture.
“So, wait,” I replied, trying to process it, then a moment later arriving at the most obvious conclusion. “Oh, you don’t have four hundred?”
“Sure I have four hundred,” she replied. “But if I give you four hundred, then there won’t be as many left for the next person who wants two-cent stamps.”
Again, I stood there for a moment, attempting to act like a Bounty paper towel and absorb. But it wasn’t working. Asininity was puddling all around me in quantities too vast to soak up.
I tried to appeal to her work ethic as a government employee and replied, “Well, I have to
mail out four hundred envelopes and I need four hundred stamps.”
Without missing a beat, she churlishly snapped, “Well, you can’t take them all for yourself! Someone else might need some, and if I give them all to you, then I have to order more from the post office.”
“But you are the post office,” I tried to reason, getting frustrated. “What does it matter if I take all four hundred or if I take two hundred and the guy behind me then asks for two hundred? You’ll still have to order them.”
Then the surly came out. “No,” she informed me firmly. “I won’t do it. I’ll give you two hundred and that’s all. You can’t have them all. No.”
Quickly I weighed my options, which I quickly discovered were none. Our negotiations had hit a wall, and I was well aware that I possessed less than no power in this situation. Suddenly, however, the dastardly department of my personality presented two plans, one of which involved dynamite, mustache wax, some rope, and train tracks (all found in aisle seven), which I rejected due to financial investment, and another, much more sinister option, which I accepted.
“Okay,” I said with a wide smile. “I’ll take two hundred. Thank you very much.”
The post office lady got a very satisfied look on her face, cooled her demeanor a bit, and slid the two hundred stamps across the counter as I, in turn, slid her my four dollars. I put my cache in my purse, smiled politely, and walked away. The wheels of the sinister plan moved forward. There was no turning back.