The author of the New York Times bestseller The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club tackles her biggest challenge yet: grown-up life.In Autobiography of a Fat Bride, Laurie Notaro tries painfully to make the transition from all-night partyer and bar-stoo
It’s the most wonderful – and most dreadful – season of the year, when boxes of truffles attack your thighs, drunken holiday revelers stay long past their welcome, and your grandmother has conniptions at the department store over the price of hand l
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
Too many travel guides are dry lists of attractions or portentous histories of a place. This isn't the case with The Thong Also Rises. Hot on the (high) heels of Sand in My Bra and Whose Panties Are These? comes this collection of the best in women’s tr
Laurie Notaro thinks everyone’s nuts. Or maybe there’s just something wrong with her. Here, she examines the basic human condition of rudeness—other people’s rudeness, that is—in her latest uproariously funny collection. In her trademark irrever
I had been dreading this day for more than a year. Everyone’s favorite Idiot Girl, Laurie Notaro, is very close to wearing out her welcome in her hometown of Eugene, Oregon. Just a year ago, she was eighty-sixed from the local satellite post office for
Laurie Notaro has an uncanny ability to attract insanity–and leave readers doubled over with laughter. In The Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death, she experiences the popular phenomenon of laser hair removal (because at least one of her chins sh
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLEREveryone’s favorite Idiot Girl, Laurie Notaro, is just trying to find the right fit, whether it’s in the adorable blouse that looks charming on the mannequin but leaves her in a literal bind or in her neighborhood after she
Laurie Notaro isn’t exactly a domestic goddess—unless that means she fully embraces her genetic hoarding predisposition, sneaks peeks at her husband’s daily journal, or has made a list of the people she wants on her Apocalypse Survival team (her hus
