Quick back-story: When I was a senior in high school, someone attempted to assassinate then-Vice President Dick Cheney.
Throughout the course of human history, this has happened several times. Mostly because Dick Cheney has been alive for most of human history (ooo, obvious burn!).
However, as a high-school student in east Tennessee, and one of the only five members of our school's Young Democrats club, I couldn't resist being a little snarky about it. Also, at this point of our lives, I'd already been cautioned against snarking about "Freedom fries" in the cafeteria and why the debate team never got pep rallies (which is totally unrelated to politics. I just thought it was unfair).
Anyway, shortly after this assassination attempt, my English teacher launched into a diatribe about how terrorists' true goals are to destroy American morale. Naturally, I thought it would be remiss of me not to mention that, um, everybody hates Dick Cheney. I also suggested that if terrorists had wanted to kill someone truly important, maybe they should've targeted Fonzie.
Just to be clear: Happy Days and Scream are two of my favorite things on Earth. They both feature Henry Winkler. Also, dude wrote a children's book about a dyslexic mouse. I sincerely hope with all my heart that nothing bad ever, ever happens to Henry Winkler.
Apparently, exalting Henry Winkler as a key piece of Americana is, ironically, anti-American, which is punishable by detention. And it's probably not a coincidence that that was the only year the Young Democrats club existed.
Yeah... that wasn't really a quick backstory. That was a friggin' long backstory. Sorry.
The point is, Republicans and I frequently find ourselves at a cross-purpose. The only thing that can possibly bridge that gap is, as always, my slightly pathological need to tell lies and my fainter, but always obnoxious, sense of vigilante justice.
Recently, I found myself in a conversation with several aged hippies. Normally, aged hippies are my third favorite people on Earth, falling behind aged ballerinas and children who think they're Batman.
But for whatever reason, these aged hippies were really getting on my nerves. Maybe because hippies who live in log cabins in unincorporated parts of town, while carrying iPhones, strike me as an eensy bit hypocritical. Maybe I was just having a rough day.
Or maybe I just wanted to be a bitch. It's possible.
Anyway, the aged hippies started in on a Sarah Palin diatribe. Normally, I would be thrilled that someone in east Tennessee dared tarnish anyone in the Grand Old Party. But like I said, I was in a foul mood. And when the hippie lady said, "I hope you guys aren't offended, but..." something in me popped.
"Actually, I'm volunteering for her 2012 campaign."
Jaws literally dropped. The aged hippies edged away from me. THE HIPPIES DIDN'T WANT TO BE MY FRIEND ANYMORE. It was terrible.
But not terrible enough to stop lying. So I went more in-depth about my 2008 experiences going door-to-door, because my sorority supported a "strong, beautiful woman in charge, who doesn't have to be a total shrew like Hillary Clinton."
My inner feminist died that day. And my inner writer/ feminist/ real person died further when I said, "And ohmigod, I hate Tina Fey. She's made like, millions off wearing glasses like Sarah. Does no one notice that she's a total ripoff?"
Unfortunately, I didn't get a good look at the aged hippies' faces.
I was dying inside and had to stalk off.
I may still be a little dead inside from that one. So be prepared for a big, Tinkerbell "Ifyoubelieveinfairiesclapyourhands," soul-sustaining lie to come down the pike.
It's going to be AWESOME.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Back to Basics
Here's the deal: I think I'm a genius. I'm endlessly entertained by my own lies, and nothing thrills me quite as much as telling and retelling my brilliant tales.
However, in the interest of karmic cleansing, and all the ensuing awesomeness that I'm super super convinced it will bring, I really have been staunching my lie-flow lately. I just don't write about it, because frankly, it's boring.
No one wants to read about how I was late to work not because I had a magical encounter with a stranger at Starbucks, but because my hair wouldn't flat-iron itself into a ponytail. And no one wants to know that most emergency room patients present with colds and toothaches, instead of bazooka injuries and gloved hands (where all the hand skin gets peeled back, exposing its bloody interior. It never happens, which is why I've worked there a year and only learned about it yesterday).
The truth is dull. It kind of bums me out. Nevertheless, I adhered to it, strictly, for almost an entire week, until I was convinced that karma would deliver Ryan Gosling on my doorstep, and he would tell me that he digs chicks who almost had mental breakdowns when Hershey's stopped making Kissables.
Unfortunately, I flew a little too close to the honesty-sun, and in one careless moment, ruined my chances at Ryan Gosling forever. And it wasn't even a good lie. In an act of lie-desperation, I fell into my old, "I'm not from Kingsport" routine, which, as I've already pointed out, is pretty pointless.
Even more unfortunately, I'm a freakishly dedicated liar, and even after my lie targets tried to call me out, I insisted that no, I definitely didn't grow up in Appalachia, even though I live on a goat farm and talk with a twang when I'm tired.
Also, my avid readers (all three of you) probably noticed a lapse between my last two posts. If I wanted to lie, but still be boring, I'd say that my work week drained my desire to be funny. If I wanted to tell a me- lie, I'd say it was because my mom told me that taking a week off from the Internet makes your sense of smell stronger.
However, the truth is that this song got stuck in my head a few days ago, and like the Yeerk aliens, latched onto my brain and destroyed my ability to function.
(That was an Animorphs reference. If you don't know what I'm talking about, Google it if you ever want to be my friend, or understand any of the dozens of upcoming K.A. Applegate references. Be prepared).
See? Honesty kind of sucks.
However, in the interest of karmic cleansing, and all the ensuing awesomeness that I'm super super convinced it will bring, I really have been staunching my lie-flow lately. I just don't write about it, because frankly, it's boring.
No one wants to read about how I was late to work not because I had a magical encounter with a stranger at Starbucks, but because my hair wouldn't flat-iron itself into a ponytail. And no one wants to know that most emergency room patients present with colds and toothaches, instead of bazooka injuries and gloved hands (where all the hand skin gets peeled back, exposing its bloody interior. It never happens, which is why I've worked there a year and only learned about it yesterday).
The truth is dull. It kind of bums me out. Nevertheless, I adhered to it, strictly, for almost an entire week, until I was convinced that karma would deliver Ryan Gosling on my doorstep, and he would tell me that he digs chicks who almost had mental breakdowns when Hershey's stopped making Kissables.
Unfortunately, I flew a little too close to the honesty-sun, and in one careless moment, ruined my chances at Ryan Gosling forever. And it wasn't even a good lie. In an act of lie-desperation, I fell into my old, "I'm not from Kingsport" routine, which, as I've already pointed out, is pretty pointless.
Even more unfortunately, I'm a freakishly dedicated liar, and even after my lie targets tried to call me out, I insisted that no, I definitely didn't grow up in Appalachia, even though I live on a goat farm and talk with a twang when I'm tired.
Also, my avid readers (all three of you) probably noticed a lapse between my last two posts. If I wanted to lie, but still be boring, I'd say that my work week drained my desire to be funny. If I wanted to tell a me- lie, I'd say it was because my mom told me that taking a week off from the Internet makes your sense of smell stronger.
However, the truth is that this song got stuck in my head a few days ago, and like the Yeerk aliens, latched onto my brain and destroyed my ability to function.
(That was an Animorphs reference. If you don't know what I'm talking about, Google it if you ever want to be my friend, or understand any of the dozens of upcoming K.A. Applegate references. Be prepared).
See? Honesty kind of sucks.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Germaphobia!!
Things I Love: Penguins, Disney musicals, unicorns and ballet. All of which are also adored by small children.
Things I Hate: High-pitched noises, stickiness, germs and hunters. All of which tend to coincide with small children, except maybe the hunting-- I've never talked to one long enough to find out.
This makes my life hard. Any time I want to go to the zoo, or buy a Beauty and the Beast DVD, I have to navigate through herds of ankle-biters, who seem determined to cough or smear jam all over me.
Therefore, in order to have the best of both worlds, I have to resort to some pretty creative lying. I once told a group of parents at the Chattanooga Aquarium that the penguins carried bird flu, and I'll swear, until the end of time, that I started the Baptist Church's Disney boycott, just to cut down on the lines at Disneyland.
Truth: I've never been to Disneyland. But I imagine it's full of sticky little noise-makers.
I'm not afraid of the children, per se, but I do hate the thought of catching a cold just because they haven't learned to cover their mouths, or getting jelly stains on my clothes because hand-washing hasn't been covered in preschool yet. The anxiety worsens if my preemptive strike lie fails, and I'm in an enclosed space, like a staircase or cubicle. Then, I'm forced to use creative diversions (read: lies) to escape.
Until yesterday, I'd been amazingly subtle about it. When necessary, I'd feign sudden onsets of food poisoning, misplaced keys and a myriad of other excuses, all of which conveniently allowed me to slip away from the predator. I once escaped a jam-encrusted munchkin by shouting, "OMG, I think I see James Franco!!!" and seizing the elevator for myself while its mother turned to look.
That was a lie. If I was going to rely on the banal, "Hey! Is that..." lie, I'd probably reference Miley Cyrus or iCarly, to ensure that the child was more distracted than its parent, thus granting me a little more breathing room. Like I've said, I don't know any children, but I seriously doubt they spend their days watching Freaks and Geeks reruns.
I digress. My point is (was): until yesterday, no one caught my subtle maneuvers. However, upon leaving Ripley's Aquarium (outdoor penguin exhibit!!), my mother and I headed to the parking garage at the same time as a toddler and its family. We all drew toward the elevators at the same time, and initially, I thought it would be OK. The child was on a leash, which its mother was wielding like a drawing-rein. Unfortunately, I soon heard the sounds of doom.
"Cough... sniffle... sneeze... slurp... coughcoughcoughcoughcough."
An elevator's what, five feet by five feet? And I'm convinced that little kid-germs are approximately 739 times more potent than adult germs, so when combined with the tight space... I can't even do that math. I needed an escape lie, quick. With no time to prepare, and without making eye contact with my marks, I had only one option:
"Cough hack sneeze hack cough hack."
Fight fire with fire, I guess. Also, herein lies the hypocrisy of most exhausted parents. They don't realize that their child is already infested with a myriad of microbes; however, they automatically detect any impending illness. And sure enough, I saw the mother's shoulder's tense, as she tried to casually gauge the infection level of the girl behind her.
I could almost hear my mother's eyes roll. I waited for her to whisper the patented, "Ashlea Chase, that child will not hurt you. Leave it be." However, before she had the chance, she, too, heard the snuffles of impending doom, and burst out with,
"Aw, Ash, I thought you beat that cold! You're probably still running a fever, too!"
And... win. The mother-daughter lie is a blessed event, with a 95% success rate. It also proved that despite her occasional grumblings for grandchildren, she finds children just as sticky and scary as I do, though it does make me wonder how she raised two children.
However, that is probably a question best left for the therapists.
Things I Hate: High-pitched noises, stickiness, germs and hunters. All of which tend to coincide with small children, except maybe the hunting-- I've never talked to one long enough to find out.
This makes my life hard. Any time I want to go to the zoo, or buy a Beauty and the Beast DVD, I have to navigate through herds of ankle-biters, who seem determined to cough or smear jam all over me.
Therefore, in order to have the best of both worlds, I have to resort to some pretty creative lying. I once told a group of parents at the Chattanooga Aquarium that the penguins carried bird flu, and I'll swear, until the end of time, that I started the Baptist Church's Disney boycott, just to cut down on the lines at Disneyland.
Truth: I've never been to Disneyland. But I imagine it's full of sticky little noise-makers.
I'm not afraid of the children, per se, but I do hate the thought of catching a cold just because they haven't learned to cover their mouths, or getting jelly stains on my clothes because hand-washing hasn't been covered in preschool yet. The anxiety worsens if my preemptive strike lie fails, and I'm in an enclosed space, like a staircase or cubicle. Then, I'm forced to use creative diversions (read: lies) to escape.
Until yesterday, I'd been amazingly subtle about it. When necessary, I'd feign sudden onsets of food poisoning, misplaced keys and a myriad of other excuses, all of which conveniently allowed me to slip away from the predator. I once escaped a jam-encrusted munchkin by shouting, "OMG, I think I see James Franco!!!" and seizing the elevator for myself while its mother turned to look.
That was a lie. If I was going to rely on the banal, "Hey! Is that..." lie, I'd probably reference Miley Cyrus or iCarly, to ensure that the child was more distracted than its parent, thus granting me a little more breathing room. Like I've said, I don't know any children, but I seriously doubt they spend their days watching Freaks and Geeks reruns.
I digress. My point is (was): until yesterday, no one caught my subtle maneuvers. However, upon leaving Ripley's Aquarium (outdoor penguin exhibit!!), my mother and I headed to the parking garage at the same time as a toddler and its family. We all drew toward the elevators at the same time, and initially, I thought it would be OK. The child was on a leash, which its mother was wielding like a drawing-rein. Unfortunately, I soon heard the sounds of doom.
"Cough... sniffle... sneeze... slurp... coughcoughcoughcoughcough."
An elevator's what, five feet by five feet? And I'm convinced that little kid-germs are approximately 739 times more potent than adult germs, so when combined with the tight space... I can't even do that math. I needed an escape lie, quick. With no time to prepare, and without making eye contact with my marks, I had only one option:
"Cough hack sneeze hack cough hack."
Fight fire with fire, I guess. Also, herein lies the hypocrisy of most exhausted parents. They don't realize that their child is already infested with a myriad of microbes; however, they automatically detect any impending illness. And sure enough, I saw the mother's shoulder's tense, as she tried to casually gauge the infection level of the girl behind her.
I could almost hear my mother's eyes roll. I waited for her to whisper the patented, "Ashlea Chase, that child will not hurt you. Leave it be." However, before she had the chance, she, too, heard the snuffles of impending doom, and burst out with,
"Aw, Ash, I thought you beat that cold! You're probably still running a fever, too!"
And... win. The mother-daughter lie is a blessed event, with a 95% success rate. It also proved that despite her occasional grumblings for grandchildren, she finds children just as sticky and scary as I do, though it does make me wonder how she raised two children.
However, that is probably a question best left for the therapists.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Sparkle Motion and Me
The year: 2004. My junior prom had just ended, and in the wake of that Great Defining Life Moment, my date decided that he and I needed a movie night. I hadn't yet seen Donnie Darko, and since that made me "so lame!!!" we decided to kick off things with Richard Kelly's cult classic.
Twenty minutes later, I fell asleep. I didn't have a clue what the movie was about, and I honestly believed that I dreamed the creepy lurking bunny thing.
Nevertheless, as the credits rolled and my date turned the lights back on, he beamed at me and asked, "So... what'd you think?!?!?!"
That's right-- a 17-year-old boy was more enraptured with Donnie Darko than the 16-year-old girl sitting on the couch. I'm not sure whose self-esteem needs to take a hit from that.
Deep inside, I really am a sweet, sensitive girl (insert your snort of derision here, if you wish), and I didn't want to insult someone's favorite movie. This was clearly before Twilight came out, and I got a chance to hone my mocking skills. So, I gave a statement that went along these lines:
"Ohmigod, it was so good! You're right-- it balances nihilism and black humor so well. But hey, I'm pretty tired, and think I'll head home. Night!"
And that should've been that. Also, it bears mentioning that until this very moment, I didn't even realize that I'd lied. However, a brief, "I liked that movie," lie doesn't merit an entire blog post. Instead, we're going to explore the Donnie Darko rabbit hole (pun a little bit intended).
Like Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice, Jake Gyllenhaal's Donnie has followed me through the years. I didn't re-face it for the remainder of high school; thankfully, quirky indie movies aren't terribly popular amongst East Tennessee teenagers.
College, however, brought me to an Honors dorm in a Nashville suburb. And guess what? Nerds love Donnie Darko (I use the term "nerds" super-lovingly, by the way).
Four years and six viewings later, I finally gleaned the gist of the movie. A guy in a bunny suit follows Jake Gyllenhaal around, a plane crashes, the greatest songs in the history of the world play in the background
and a woman says that she "doubts [some other woman's] commitment to Sparkle Motion!"
Have you ever heard a sentence, and just known that it would change your life forever? For Sparkle Motion and me, it was love at first listen. We split up briefly in 2007, when Daniel Day-Lewis uttered the immortal "I drink your milkshake!" line, and that enjoyed a moment in the sun as my go-to response for... just about everything.
Most of the time, however, I tell people that I doubt their commitment to Sparkle Motion. It works in dozens of situations: at work, on dates, trying to organize sorority reunions. As such, most people assume that I'm a complete Darko fangirl. This, despite the fact that I've yet to make it through the entire film.
Someone called me out on it last month. A friend texted me, and said, "Um, Ash? You know how you throw around that 'Sparkle Motion' quote all the time? Have you actually seen Donnie Darko? I just did, and I gotta say, it doesn't seem like a 'you' movie."
Busted. However, that friend lives about 300 miles away, so I've still felt pretty safe keeping up the facade, and pulled it out a couple of days ago, when trying to convince a co-worker to help me revive the phrase "rollin' with the homies" (don't judge me!!!).
He refused, and when I promptly questioned his Sparkle Motion allegiances, he finally asked what in the hell I was talking about. I cited the movie, and he responded with,
"Oh. You must really love that movie, huh, since you say that all the time? I've never seen it."
An honest, decent person would reply, "I've never seen it, either, really!" However, I came back with:
"You can't have a Pretentious Kids movie marathon without Donnie Darko! It's like having a breakup without Ben & Jerry's and Meg Ryan. Or an emo phase without Death Cab for Cutie. Seriously, how have you made it through life without seeing it?! You must be the last person on earth. Jeez."
And that is why I pride myself on my lies. It's physically impossible for me to just say, "Oh, yeah, I saw Donnie Darko. It was OK." My lie not only keeps going, but it also becomes an integral part of my Ashlean lingo.
Donnie Darko also stands as one of the rare times when I lie to misrepresent myself; in this case, by pretending that I enjoy an indie movie that's weirdly popular among my ex-boyfriends. Lord knows why, since the normal reaction to an ex-boyfriend's favorite movie is, "Ohmigod, that movie sucked. I'm glad we broke up, so I can stop pretending to like it," even if the movie's something great, like Star Trek or Death to Smoochy.
Things I Learned in this Post: I can't spell the word "commitment." I ran spellcheck, and it was misspelled every single time. Way to go, Kingsport City Schools!
I was also incredibly sleepy while writing this, and had to check my own Facebook page to remember some of my actual favorite movies. Truth.
Twenty minutes later, I fell asleep. I didn't have a clue what the movie was about, and I honestly believed that I dreamed the creepy lurking bunny thing.
Nevertheless, as the credits rolled and my date turned the lights back on, he beamed at me and asked, "So... what'd you think?!?!?!"
That's right-- a 17-year-old boy was more enraptured with Donnie Darko than the 16-year-old girl sitting on the couch. I'm not sure whose self-esteem needs to take a hit from that.
Deep inside, I really am a sweet, sensitive girl (insert your snort of derision here, if you wish), and I didn't want to insult someone's favorite movie. This was clearly before Twilight came out, and I got a chance to hone my mocking skills. So, I gave a statement that went along these lines:
"Ohmigod, it was so good! You're right-- it balances nihilism and black humor so well. But hey, I'm pretty tired, and think I'll head home. Night!"
And that should've been that. Also, it bears mentioning that until this very moment, I didn't even realize that I'd lied. However, a brief, "I liked that movie," lie doesn't merit an entire blog post. Instead, we're going to explore the Donnie Darko rabbit hole (pun a little bit intended).
Like Mr. Darcy in Pride & Prejudice, Jake Gyllenhaal's Donnie has followed me through the years. I didn't re-face it for the remainder of high school; thankfully, quirky indie movies aren't terribly popular amongst East Tennessee teenagers.
College, however, brought me to an Honors dorm in a Nashville suburb. And guess what? Nerds love Donnie Darko (I use the term "nerds" super-lovingly, by the way).
Four years and six viewings later, I finally gleaned the gist of the movie. A guy in a bunny suit follows Jake Gyllenhaal around, a plane crashes, the greatest songs in the history of the world play in the background
and a woman says that she "doubts [some other woman's] commitment to Sparkle Motion!" Have you ever heard a sentence, and just known that it would change your life forever? For Sparkle Motion and me, it was love at first listen. We split up briefly in 2007, when Daniel Day-Lewis uttered the immortal "I drink your milkshake!" line, and that enjoyed a moment in the sun as my go-to response for... just about everything.
Most of the time, however, I tell people that I doubt their commitment to Sparkle Motion. It works in dozens of situations: at work, on dates, trying to organize sorority reunions. As such, most people assume that I'm a complete Darko fangirl. This, despite the fact that I've yet to make it through the entire film.
Someone called me out on it last month. A friend texted me, and said, "Um, Ash? You know how you throw around that 'Sparkle Motion' quote all the time? Have you actually seen Donnie Darko? I just did, and I gotta say, it doesn't seem like a 'you' movie."
Busted. However, that friend lives about 300 miles away, so I've still felt pretty safe keeping up the facade, and pulled it out a couple of days ago, when trying to convince a co-worker to help me revive the phrase "rollin' with the homies" (don't judge me!!!).
He refused, and when I promptly questioned his Sparkle Motion allegiances, he finally asked what in the hell I was talking about. I cited the movie, and he responded with,
"Oh. You must really love that movie, huh, since you say that all the time? I've never seen it."
An honest, decent person would reply, "I've never seen it, either, really!" However, I came back with:
"You can't have a Pretentious Kids movie marathon without Donnie Darko! It's like having a breakup without Ben & Jerry's and Meg Ryan. Or an emo phase without Death Cab for Cutie. Seriously, how have you made it through life without seeing it?! You must be the last person on earth. Jeez."
And that is why I pride myself on my lies. It's physically impossible for me to just say, "Oh, yeah, I saw Donnie Darko. It was OK." My lie not only keeps going, but it also becomes an integral part of my Ashlean lingo.
Donnie Darko also stands as one of the rare times when I lie to misrepresent myself; in this case, by pretending that I enjoy an indie movie that's weirdly popular among my ex-boyfriends. Lord knows why, since the normal reaction to an ex-boyfriend's favorite movie is, "Ohmigod, that movie sucked. I'm glad we broke up, so I can stop pretending to like it," even if the movie's something great, like Star Trek or Death to Smoochy.
Things I Learned in this Post: I can't spell the word "commitment." I ran spellcheck, and it was misspelled every single time. Way to go, Kingsport City Schools!
I was also incredibly sleepy while writing this, and had to check my own Facebook page to remember some of my actual favorite movies. Truth.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Through the Looking Glass
Myth: Being a great liar makes you immune to others' lies.
Fact: Liars are just as gullible as anyone else. In fact, they're even more susceptible to little, run-of-the-mill lies, because they're constantly on the lookout for grand retellings of mundane events. Actually, a true liar is usually busy comparing your dull, seemingly unembellished story to the amazing, perfectly detailed version he or she would have told, and probably isn't paying attention to what you're saying, at all.
I also like to think that liars are pure-hearted innocents, and they naturally love and accept everyone and every story. Like unicorns.
Anyway, I first became aware of my gullibility a couple of weeks ago, when talking with one of my cousins. We chatted about kids, jobs, music and airport security before turning the conversation to our siblings.
Quick background: my brother lives in Taiwan; as a result, my relatives always ask what he's doing over there, and answering, "Hanging out with Taiwanese people" never seems to be a sufficient response.
Anyway, I think my cousin forgot which Asian country currently hosts my brother, because he asked how it was going "over in Red China."
I told him that things were probably fine in Red China, but my brother was in Taiwan. The cousin's response?
"Oh, yeah. He's in Green China, then."
I was confused-- after all, I pride myself on knowing absolutely everything about everything, except maybe the rules to Deal or No Deal. My cousin (seemingly) didn't understand my confusion.
"Yeah, you've never heard Taiwan called Green China before?"
"Um, no. Is that a thing?"
"Yeah! OK, so you know how the whole 'Red China' thing refers to communism?" Yes. I'm gullible, but I know stuff. "Well, since Taiwan used to be a Chinese territory (insert long, well-informed discussion of history and international politics), and it's like the non-Communist version of China, it's called Green China. See?"
He kept going for awhile, even talking about how, as a country, Taiwan's making huge environmental efforts, and it's earning all kinds of international renown. I was totally on the hook, until my cousin's conscience took over, and he ruined the whole thing by telling me the truth.
He and I are very different people, obviously.
I was duped again yesterday, during a discussion about snack foods. A co-worker of mine was heating a hot dog in the break room, and I made a face at him (I like to pretend that I'm a vegan. No idea why). When he saw my judgy, meat-hating expression, he rolled his eyes and told me to "relax, it's a veggie dog."
"Really?"
He nodded. "Mmm-hhmm. It's made from carrots and soybeans-- so much better for you than the gross meat ones."
"Ohmigod, it even smells like the meat kind! Where'd you buy it?"
"Have you seen the Veggie King brand at Target? It's sooooo good! I don't eat meat anymore."
He had me until the last sentence. Let this be a lesson for all prospective liars: the lie lives or dies in the details. For instance, if you want someone to believe that you don't eat meat, you should probably remember that you ate ribs in front of them two days earlier.
Because generalizations are pretty much the worst things ever (except Nazis. Or Justin Bieber fans), please realize that this isn't a concrete rule of the universe. Happy, lie-for-no-reason liars may love hearing a ridiculous yarn; however, meaner-spirited liars probably won't enjoy even the occasional flight of fancy.
Therefore, my advice is this: Before lying, it's probably wise to gauge the level of sociopathic tendency in your lie target.
Confession: I may have "improved upon" the example lies a little. It's just... every story has room for improvement.
Fact: Liars are just as gullible as anyone else. In fact, they're even more susceptible to little, run-of-the-mill lies, because they're constantly on the lookout for grand retellings of mundane events. Actually, a true liar is usually busy comparing your dull, seemingly unembellished story to the amazing, perfectly detailed version he or she would have told, and probably isn't paying attention to what you're saying, at all.
I also like to think that liars are pure-hearted innocents, and they naturally love and accept everyone and every story. Like unicorns.
Anyway, I first became aware of my gullibility a couple of weeks ago, when talking with one of my cousins. We chatted about kids, jobs, music and airport security before turning the conversation to our siblings.
Quick background: my brother lives in Taiwan; as a result, my relatives always ask what he's doing over there, and answering, "Hanging out with Taiwanese people" never seems to be a sufficient response.
Anyway, I think my cousin forgot which Asian country currently hosts my brother, because he asked how it was going "over in Red China."
I told him that things were probably fine in Red China, but my brother was in Taiwan. The cousin's response?
"Oh, yeah. He's in Green China, then."
I was confused-- after all, I pride myself on knowing absolutely everything about everything, except maybe the rules to Deal or No Deal. My cousin (seemingly) didn't understand my confusion.
"Yeah, you've never heard Taiwan called Green China before?"
"Um, no. Is that a thing?"
"Yeah! OK, so you know how the whole 'Red China' thing refers to communism?" Yes. I'm gullible, but I know stuff. "Well, since Taiwan used to be a Chinese territory (insert long, well-informed discussion of history and international politics), and it's like the non-Communist version of China, it's called Green China. See?"
He kept going for awhile, even talking about how, as a country, Taiwan's making huge environmental efforts, and it's earning all kinds of international renown. I was totally on the hook, until my cousin's conscience took over, and he ruined the whole thing by telling me the truth.
He and I are very different people, obviously.
I was duped again yesterday, during a discussion about snack foods. A co-worker of mine was heating a hot dog in the break room, and I made a face at him (I like to pretend that I'm a vegan. No idea why). When he saw my judgy, meat-hating expression, he rolled his eyes and told me to "relax, it's a veggie dog."
"Really?"
He nodded. "Mmm-hhmm. It's made from carrots and soybeans-- so much better for you than the gross meat ones."
"Ohmigod, it even smells like the meat kind! Where'd you buy it?"
"Have you seen the Veggie King brand at Target? It's sooooo good! I don't eat meat anymore."
He had me until the last sentence. Let this be a lesson for all prospective liars: the lie lives or dies in the details. For instance, if you want someone to believe that you don't eat meat, you should probably remember that you ate ribs in front of them two days earlier.
Because generalizations are pretty much the worst things ever (except Nazis. Or Justin Bieber fans), please realize that this isn't a concrete rule of the universe. Happy, lie-for-no-reason liars may love hearing a ridiculous yarn; however, meaner-spirited liars probably won't enjoy even the occasional flight of fancy.
Therefore, my advice is this: Before lying, it's probably wise to gauge the level of sociopathic tendency in your lie target.
Confession: I may have "improved upon" the example lies a little. It's just... every story has room for improvement.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
The Only Exception
Since starting this blog, I've tried, Lord knows I've tried, to tell the truth in each post.
Earlier today, I realized that not only did I lie in one of my first posts, but until now, I didn't even catch it. It took reminiscing about college, about my fantastic, fateful freshman year, to remember my only malicious lie.
I had a roommate who was... simple-minded. And while I'm definitely not one to pick on the slower-witted, I will strike back if the dimwit's clothing is creeping into both sides of the closet, and her dishes are growing mold. The fact the she was dumb wasn't the reason I lied, but it definitely helped.
The first lie happened almost by accident. It was the fall of 2005, not long after Hurricane Katrina and the infamous Kanye West telethon moment. Since college kids love YouTube, everyone on campus watched that video several dozen times.
Everyone except one coed.
We realized how out-of-the-loop she was during a Presidential address, when a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, because I really don't think she wants to be associated with this story) and I decided to watch and heckle.
Side note: regardless of your political affiliations, heckling political speeches is not only a fun way to exercise your sarcasm skills, but also makes you feel so much smarter and well-informed than everyone else in the world.
Anyway, being the smart-assed 19-year-olds that we were, we couldn't watch the speech without quoting Kanye-- namely, the part where he said George Bush hated black people.
My roommate, who tended to tune out any kind of non-MTV media, perked up her ears at that.
"What do y'all mean? Is he like, one of them Neo-Nazis?"
I was actually stunned that she knew what a Neo-Nazi is. Or a regular Nazi, for that matter. Anyway, we asked her if she'd seen "the video."
"Is there like, a video where he talks about hating black people?"
Before I tell the lie, please know that I'm not trying to make any kind of a statement about politics, race, immigration, secession, expansion, Constitutional rights, free speech, language, religion... anything. I told a dumb lie, completely without agenda.
"Yeah, he wants to kick everyone who isn't white out of America. And everyone who doesn't speak English. There's a new bill in Congress that sends them all to Puerto Rico, and they're setting that up as like, a sub-America."
Her eyes widened. "Can he do that?"
We shrugged. "He's the President; they have carte blanche." There was a pause while we explained what that meant. "Some of my family members are in trouble because they're Italian and their English is like, super broken."
"But what about like, Australians? You know, how they talk, it's kind of English, but they have different words for stuff?"
At that, we gave in and switched the channel to My Super Sweet 16.
That lie served no purpose; however, some of the other lies did. When she dated a particularly disgusting guy, I did my best to discourage the relationship. For her own good. And also to get his skeezy face out of my room.
I didn't tell her anything elaborate-- if I tried another "sub-America" type of lie, and her brain exploded, I'd probably have to live in another dorm until the room got cleaned. Instead, I just threw out little asides, hoping she'd pick up on them.
"Didn't James go on a mission trip to China last year? Did you know that even if you order like, chicken over there, they serve tourists dog meat? Ugh, I don't think I'd ever be able to kiss someone who'd eaten poodle."
"The cleaning lady just told me that there's some kind of mold growing in the guys' bathrooms, so even when they shower, they're getting coated in mold. And it just keeps growing, all over them and anything they touch. Nasty, huh?"
"Hey, it says in the New York Times that being on the Pill makes you 56 times more likely to get an STD!"
I told her that one to make her afraid of sex, because I was terrified she'd get pregnant and her spawn would overrun the world. In retrospect, it was a dumb lie, because she probably just stopped taking the Pill entirely.
Anyway, this is the only time, at least that I can remember, where I lied with any kind of malice, and genuinely wanted to screw with someone's perception of the world, and not for the better. It's only one of the only times I've lied to a non-stranger. I actually feel a little bad about it, and looking back, a little, tiny part of me actually cringes.
At least, I think it is the only time. I hope it is.
Earlier today, I realized that not only did I lie in one of my first posts, but until now, I didn't even catch it. It took reminiscing about college, about my fantastic, fateful freshman year, to remember my only malicious lie.
I had a roommate who was... simple-minded. And while I'm definitely not one to pick on the slower-witted, I will strike back if the dimwit's clothing is creeping into both sides of the closet, and her dishes are growing mold. The fact the she was dumb wasn't the reason I lied, but it definitely helped.
The first lie happened almost by accident. It was the fall of 2005, not long after Hurricane Katrina and the infamous Kanye West telethon moment. Since college kids love YouTube, everyone on campus watched that video several dozen times.
Everyone except one coed.
We realized how out-of-the-loop she was during a Presidential address, when a friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, because I really don't think she wants to be associated with this story) and I decided to watch and heckle.
Side note: regardless of your political affiliations, heckling political speeches is not only a fun way to exercise your sarcasm skills, but also makes you feel so much smarter and well-informed than everyone else in the world.
Anyway, being the smart-assed 19-year-olds that we were, we couldn't watch the speech without quoting Kanye-- namely, the part where he said George Bush hated black people.
My roommate, who tended to tune out any kind of non-MTV media, perked up her ears at that.
"What do y'all mean? Is he like, one of them Neo-Nazis?"
I was actually stunned that she knew what a Neo-Nazi is. Or a regular Nazi, for that matter. Anyway, we asked her if she'd seen "the video."
"Is there like, a video where he talks about hating black people?"
Before I tell the lie, please know that I'm not trying to make any kind of a statement about politics, race, immigration, secession, expansion, Constitutional rights, free speech, language, religion... anything. I told a dumb lie, completely without agenda.
"Yeah, he wants to kick everyone who isn't white out of America. And everyone who doesn't speak English. There's a new bill in Congress that sends them all to Puerto Rico, and they're setting that up as like, a sub-America."
Her eyes widened. "Can he do that?"
We shrugged. "He's the President; they have carte blanche." There was a pause while we explained what that meant. "Some of my family members are in trouble because they're Italian and their English is like, super broken."
"But what about like, Australians? You know, how they talk, it's kind of English, but they have different words for stuff?"
At that, we gave in and switched the channel to My Super Sweet 16.
That lie served no purpose; however, some of the other lies did. When she dated a particularly disgusting guy, I did my best to discourage the relationship. For her own good. And also to get his skeezy face out of my room.
I didn't tell her anything elaborate-- if I tried another "sub-America" type of lie, and her brain exploded, I'd probably have to live in another dorm until the room got cleaned. Instead, I just threw out little asides, hoping she'd pick up on them.
"Didn't James go on a mission trip to China last year? Did you know that even if you order like, chicken over there, they serve tourists dog meat? Ugh, I don't think I'd ever be able to kiss someone who'd eaten poodle."
"The cleaning lady just told me that there's some kind of mold growing in the guys' bathrooms, so even when they shower, they're getting coated in mold. And it just keeps growing, all over them and anything they touch. Nasty, huh?"
"Hey, it says in the New York Times that being on the Pill makes you 56 times more likely to get an STD!"
I told her that one to make her afraid of sex, because I was terrified she'd get pregnant and her spawn would overrun the world. In retrospect, it was a dumb lie, because she probably just stopped taking the Pill entirely.
Anyway, this is the only time, at least that I can remember, where I lied with any kind of malice, and genuinely wanted to screw with someone's perception of the world, and not for the better. It's only one of the only times I've lied to a non-stranger. I actually feel a little bad about it, and looking back, a little, tiny part of me actually cringes.
At least, I think it is the only time. I hope it is.
Monday, February 21, 2011
An MD in BS
I've alluded to my hospital job like, a million times in these posts. However, I think I've neglected to mention one teeny, tiny, insignificant detail:
I am not a doctor. Nor am I a nurse, LPN, ortho tech, patient care tech... nothing that involves physically helping sick people.
If you get hurt, I'm one of the least useful people in the world, even though I can sew pretty well by hand, and I'm unwarrantably confident in my suturing ability.
My hospital job is kind of too dull to relay in detail, so just know that I deal with insurance, litigious tedium and patient name stickers. If I think someone's contagious, I try to keep my distance. If they have a gruesome injury, I try to get a good luck. When I'm tired, I sit in a cubicle.
None of these responsibilities qualifies me as a "medical professional." I haven't even learned how to tell if someone's blood pressure is good or bad, unless they're actually dead. Coincidentally, death is the one thing I can diagnose almost 100% of the time.
Maybe it's because the specifics of my job are so painstakingly dull, I've adapted a succinct, end-of-discussion summation of my job-- by saying that I'm a doctor.
This is the one lie I never, ever tell patients. I'm pretty sure that would be against the law, and girls like me don't do well in jail. However, I would love to be the basis for a Lifetime movie.
This lie is reserved for complete strangers, who are usually impressed by my Doogie Howser-esque rise in the medical field.
"Yeah, you can totally get an MD by the time you're 22, and you don't have to be a 10-year-old college freshman, either. Being a doctor's like anything else-- if you're naturally good at it, you kinda breeze through classes. I have a friend who's also like that, except instead of medicine, he can play guitar like, preternaturally well."
The lie also works when someone, such as one's mother, starts to fret about a cough/ sneeze/ low-grade fever.
"Mom, I'm a doctor. I have allergies, if I drink tea it'll go away."
Even though that response is usually met with rolled eyes and a "heaven help us," it ends the discussion.
And if you have hypochondriacs as friends, nothing makes then shut up about their imaginary ailments faster than saying, "I'm a doctor. That thing you're bitching about can't kill you."
It also works if, for a random example, you fall down a mountain while hiking. There's no nonsense about getting X-Rays or CT scans or stitches, if you can very calmly explain to your companions (usually the same ones as the aforementioned hypochondriacs) that, as a doctor, you're more than capable of diagnosing your own concussion, and suturing up your appendages.
In that scenario, instead of a "heaven help us," you're usually met with an "Ohmigod, I can't watch this."
Your friend may think that that's hard to watch, but the truly painful part comes later, when you're using the money you didn't spend on hospital bills to buy fab stilettos to wear to work.
Someone's definitely dying.... of jealousy.
Also, to confess another lie: a friend recently asked me who sings the "Pretty Baby" song that was so ubiquitous on 90's radio stations. I told her it was Billy Joel. I knew, perfectly well, that the Spin Doctors sing that song. In fact, I know more about the Spin Doctors than any normal person ever should, unless they're Chris Baron's mother.
I don't know why I lied, except I've been home sick with the plague (which I'm totally capable of curing, obvi), and haven't met any strangers worthy of a decent yarn.
Sorry (more for the pointlessness of the lie as opposed to the act of lying).
I am not a doctor. Nor am I a nurse, LPN, ortho tech, patient care tech... nothing that involves physically helping sick people.
If you get hurt, I'm one of the least useful people in the world, even though I can sew pretty well by hand, and I'm unwarrantably confident in my suturing ability.
My hospital job is kind of too dull to relay in detail, so just know that I deal with insurance, litigious tedium and patient name stickers. If I think someone's contagious, I try to keep my distance. If they have a gruesome injury, I try to get a good luck. When I'm tired, I sit in a cubicle.
None of these responsibilities qualifies me as a "medical professional." I haven't even learned how to tell if someone's blood pressure is good or bad, unless they're actually dead. Coincidentally, death is the one thing I can diagnose almost 100% of the time.
Maybe it's because the specifics of my job are so painstakingly dull, I've adapted a succinct, end-of-discussion summation of my job-- by saying that I'm a doctor.
This is the one lie I never, ever tell patients. I'm pretty sure that would be against the law, and girls like me don't do well in jail. However, I would love to be the basis for a Lifetime movie.
This lie is reserved for complete strangers, who are usually impressed by my Doogie Howser-esque rise in the medical field.
"Yeah, you can totally get an MD by the time you're 22, and you don't have to be a 10-year-old college freshman, either. Being a doctor's like anything else-- if you're naturally good at it, you kinda breeze through classes. I have a friend who's also like that, except instead of medicine, he can play guitar like, preternaturally well."
The lie also works when someone, such as one's mother, starts to fret about a cough/ sneeze/ low-grade fever.
"Mom, I'm a doctor. I have allergies, if I drink tea it'll go away."
Even though that response is usually met with rolled eyes and a "heaven help us," it ends the discussion.
And if you have hypochondriacs as friends, nothing makes then shut up about their imaginary ailments faster than saying, "I'm a doctor. That thing you're bitching about can't kill you."
It also works if, for a random example, you fall down a mountain while hiking. There's no nonsense about getting X-Rays or CT scans or stitches, if you can very calmly explain to your companions (usually the same ones as the aforementioned hypochondriacs) that, as a doctor, you're more than capable of diagnosing your own concussion, and suturing up your appendages.
In that scenario, instead of a "heaven help us," you're usually met with an "Ohmigod, I can't watch this."
Your friend may think that that's hard to watch, but the truly painful part comes later, when you're using the money you didn't spend on hospital bills to buy fab stilettos to wear to work.
Someone's definitely dying.... of jealousy.
Also, to confess another lie: a friend recently asked me who sings the "Pretty Baby" song that was so ubiquitous on 90's radio stations. I told her it was Billy Joel. I knew, perfectly well, that the Spin Doctors sing that song. In fact, I know more about the Spin Doctors than any normal person ever should, unless they're Chris Baron's mother.
I don't know why I lied, except I've been home sick with the plague (which I'm totally capable of curing, obvi), and haven't met any strangers worthy of a decent yarn.
Sorry (more for the pointlessness of the lie as opposed to the act of lying).
Friday, February 18, 2011
From Kingsport
Believe it or not, I really have been trying to break my lying habit. Almost a week's gone by, and I've barely lied to anyone.
Hello, emotional maturity! Or, thank you, plague that leaves me too exhausted to do anything at work but work.
Anyway, while only working at work, I found time to congratulate myself on my honesty streak. I was mulling over what kind of present I should buy myself, when I got distracted... and lied. It was a teeny, tiny lie, but I've told it approximately 525,600 times, so it's actually become a big lie, and it needs to be exposed.
The lie's setup's always the same. I'm talking to someone, and I pronounce "about" a little bit like "aboot," or I take great pains to avoid a dangling preposition.
Invariably, whoever I'm talking to replies with something like this:
"You ain't from the South, are you? What kinda accent you got, anyway?"
Also invariably, the response: "Oh, yeah, my mom's from Philadelphia. The accent kinda rubs off, huh?"
My mother is not from Philadelphia. She's lived in Kingsport for probably 90% of her life, and I've lived here for 80% of mine.
It's a dumb lie, doesn't make me look cool, and is mostly told to strangers. However, unlike most of my other lies, I actually tell this one for a reason:
Even though I've lived in Tennessee my whole life, I'm addicted to Canadian television and Jane Austen movie adaptations. Therefore, when I speak, instead of a regional accent, I've developed a weird blend of Canada, England, and, when I'm tired or inebriated, east Tennessee.
For most of my life, it wasn't an issue. I was super quiet from elementary to high school, and in college, none of my friends knew what an east Tennessee twang should sound like. No one noticed my ridiculously affected lilt until I re-entered my hometown and was forced to actually interact with people. That is, no one had noticed the accent since kindergarten.
The year was 1992. I was six years old, and spending time amongst non-family member children for the first time in my life. Initially, we all played together happily, and the other kids assumed I was basically fashioned in the same way they were. However, they soon discovered that they were very, very wrong.
Shortly after the school year began, it became obvious to my classmates that I was incapable of properly incorporating the word "ain't" into a conversation. I always said "is not," or "are not," because at the time, I thought contractions were just for lazy people. Anyway, after this became evident, I had to act quickly to avoid being ostracized. I tried to use ain't properly, but to no avail.
"She is ain't having lunch."
"I had ain't, and I do not want to again."
The other kindergartners were horrified. What kind of malady had struck me, and left me so out-of-touch with the English language? How did this happen?
Once again, I had to cover. And this time, I had to go bigger.
"Um, I'm not from America. We lived in Italy until I was four."
In case there are any six-year-olds currently reading this, they should know: lying and saying you're from a foreign country works every time. If you're lucky, your lie target's never even heard of the other country, so you're really free to make up whatever kind of ridiculousness you want, and absolutely no one will call you out on it.
I carried on with the Italy thing all year. I'd make up gibberish words, and tell kids that they were Italian gypsy spells (because obviously, that's a thing). I explained that in Italy, spelling your name Ashlea instead of Ashley was actually totally normal, and that if the three Ashleys in my class were to go back to my hometown, they'd be the ones with funny monikers. At one point, I even said that in Italy, we didn't have chairs, and just balanced on the edges of tables and railings if we needed to rest our legs. I conveniently forgot how to sit for an entire week, and bless my teachers, they never, ever called me out on it. Way to foster a young genius.
Lying like that is what I miss most about childhood, seriously. Once you get older, if you try something like that, you'd better be prepared. Read the Wikipedia entry, at least.
Hello, emotional maturity! Or, thank you, plague that leaves me too exhausted to do anything at work but work.
Anyway, while only working at work, I found time to congratulate myself on my honesty streak. I was mulling over what kind of present I should buy myself, when I got distracted... and lied. It was a teeny, tiny lie, but I've told it approximately 525,600 times, so it's actually become a big lie, and it needs to be exposed.
The lie's setup's always the same. I'm talking to someone, and I pronounce "about" a little bit like "aboot," or I take great pains to avoid a dangling preposition.
Invariably, whoever I'm talking to replies with something like this:
"You ain't from the South, are you? What kinda accent you got, anyway?"
Also invariably, the response: "Oh, yeah, my mom's from Philadelphia. The accent kinda rubs off, huh?"
My mother is not from Philadelphia. She's lived in Kingsport for probably 90% of her life, and I've lived here for 80% of mine.
It's a dumb lie, doesn't make me look cool, and is mostly told to strangers. However, unlike most of my other lies, I actually tell this one for a reason:
Even though I've lived in Tennessee my whole life, I'm addicted to Canadian television and Jane Austen movie adaptations. Therefore, when I speak, instead of a regional accent, I've developed a weird blend of Canada, England, and, when I'm tired or inebriated, east Tennessee.
For most of my life, it wasn't an issue. I was super quiet from elementary to high school, and in college, none of my friends knew what an east Tennessee twang should sound like. No one noticed my ridiculously affected lilt until I re-entered my hometown and was forced to actually interact with people. That is, no one had noticed the accent since kindergarten.
The year was 1992. I was six years old, and spending time amongst non-family member children for the first time in my life. Initially, we all played together happily, and the other kids assumed I was basically fashioned in the same way they were. However, they soon discovered that they were very, very wrong.
Shortly after the school year began, it became obvious to my classmates that I was incapable of properly incorporating the word "ain't" into a conversation. I always said "is not," or "are not," because at the time, I thought contractions were just for lazy people. Anyway, after this became evident, I had to act quickly to avoid being ostracized. I tried to use ain't properly, but to no avail.
"She is ain't having lunch."
"I had ain't, and I do not want to again."
The other kindergartners were horrified. What kind of malady had struck me, and left me so out-of-touch with the English language? How did this happen?
Once again, I had to cover. And this time, I had to go bigger.
"Um, I'm not from America. We lived in Italy until I was four."
In case there are any six-year-olds currently reading this, they should know: lying and saying you're from a foreign country works every time. If you're lucky, your lie target's never even heard of the other country, so you're really free to make up whatever kind of ridiculousness you want, and absolutely no one will call you out on it.
I carried on with the Italy thing all year. I'd make up gibberish words, and tell kids that they were Italian gypsy spells (because obviously, that's a thing). I explained that in Italy, spelling your name Ashlea instead of Ashley was actually totally normal, and that if the three Ashleys in my class were to go back to my hometown, they'd be the ones with funny monikers. At one point, I even said that in Italy, we didn't have chairs, and just balanced on the edges of tables and railings if we needed to rest our legs. I conveniently forgot how to sit for an entire week, and bless my teachers, they never, ever called me out on it. Way to foster a young genius.
Lying like that is what I miss most about childhood, seriously. Once you get older, if you try something like that, you'd better be prepared. Read the Wikipedia entry, at least.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Mythbusting
As evidenced through my stories, there are some lies that I like to recycle. Most of them really aren't very believable, especially when people know me. There's one, however, that I've never, ever, ever confessed.
I'm ready now. Family, friends, take a deep breath, because this will make you question whether or not you ever knew me at all. Here goes: I'm not afraid of babies.
There's nothing scary about a bundle of flesh in a plastic carrier. It can't punch you, or wield a knife to seek vengeance when you dress it up like a bunny/ tiger/ bear. It can't bite you, and even if it did, it doesn't get teeth until it's what, two?
I don't even remember how that lie came about. Probably at a family reunion; I would have been too busy texting to hold someone's baby for them. However, saying that aloud makes one sounds shallow and selfish, so feigning ignorance on what to do with an infant was much easier. Everyone misconstrued it as fear when they realized that I was always texting instead of interacting with children, and they needed a concrete reason.
The lie perpetuates when compounded with the fact that my experience around anyone under age 17 is decidedly minimal. This probably reads as "fear" when someone hands me an infant, and I hold it three feet from my body. For some reason, seeing their child dangle in midair prompts most parents to take it back, and they always say, "Oh, you're afraid of kids, aren't you? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made you hold it!" And even though I didn't start the lie, I've certainly never dispelled it. I like keeping my hands free, thanks.
It's an unintentional lie, which shouldn't even count. However, because I refuse to lose with even the smallest,dumbest lies, I've kept it going.
"You know the the scariest part of Poltergeist? When the little girl comes on screen. She doesn't do anything, she's just little with big eyes and it's terrifying."
"Ohmigod, work was horrifying today. Everybody kept bringing in babies with the sniffles, so not only did I have to look at babies, but they were sniffly and scary. If they infect me, I'm never going near one again."
I'm afraid of pregnancy. The thought of labor makes my ovaries want to curl up and die; however, the end result is no scarier than my dog. Probably less so, given that my dog has freakishly strong jaws and an almost unnatural bloodthirst. Kids aren't scary until they develop autonomy; then, they can end up like one of the kids on E!'s "Fifteen Scariest Serial Killers Under Age 15;" or, at the very least, they can bite you.
And being bitten hurts.
I'm ready now. Family, friends, take a deep breath, because this will make you question whether or not you ever knew me at all. Here goes: I'm not afraid of babies.
There's nothing scary about a bundle of flesh in a plastic carrier. It can't punch you, or wield a knife to seek vengeance when you dress it up like a bunny/ tiger/ bear. It can't bite you, and even if it did, it doesn't get teeth until it's what, two?
I don't even remember how that lie came about. Probably at a family reunion; I would have been too busy texting to hold someone's baby for them. However, saying that aloud makes one sounds shallow and selfish, so feigning ignorance on what to do with an infant was much easier. Everyone misconstrued it as fear when they realized that I was always texting instead of interacting with children, and they needed a concrete reason.
The lie perpetuates when compounded with the fact that my experience around anyone under age 17 is decidedly minimal. This probably reads as "fear" when someone hands me an infant, and I hold it three feet from my body. For some reason, seeing their child dangle in midair prompts most parents to take it back, and they always say, "Oh, you're afraid of kids, aren't you? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made you hold it!" And even though I didn't start the lie, I've certainly never dispelled it. I like keeping my hands free, thanks.
It's an unintentional lie, which shouldn't even count. However, because I refuse to lose with even the smallest,dumbest lies, I've kept it going.
"You know the the scariest part of Poltergeist? When the little girl comes on screen. She doesn't do anything, she's just little with big eyes and it's terrifying."
"Ohmigod, work was horrifying today. Everybody kept bringing in babies with the sniffles, so not only did I have to look at babies, but they were sniffly and scary. If they infect me, I'm never going near one again."
I'm afraid of pregnancy. The thought of labor makes my ovaries want to curl up and die; however, the end result is no scarier than my dog. Probably less so, given that my dog has freakishly strong jaws and an almost unnatural bloodthirst. Kids aren't scary until they develop autonomy; then, they can end up like one of the kids on E!'s "Fifteen Scariest Serial Killers Under Age 15;" or, at the very least, they can bite you.
And being bitten hurts.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Over the Moon....
Is it true that bank robbers save a memento from their first heist? Like, they frame one of the dollars in their living room?
I need that to be true, because like a bank robber, liars also keep souvenirs from their first major lie. I framed mine-- it's a crayon drawing of a cow gliding around on roller skates, and my mom dated it: November 23, 1989.
Do the math-- my first big, awesome lie happened when I was three years old. Barely.
I don't remember the exact address of my first house. I barely remember my first kiss, no offense to the guy, because I've mythologized that story beyond belief. However, I remember my first lie perfectly.
As the cow picture tells us, it as a lovely fall afternoon. My mother had just picked my brother and me up from St. Paul's preschool (specially designed for fake- Catholic children in east Tennessee).
Three years into life, and things were starting to get a little dull. Therefore, when Mom started badgering us about what we did that day, I knew she didn't want me to say, "I painted dinosaurs, ate peanut butter, tried and failed to realize that unicorns aren't real." I knew she didn't want to hear that story again, but she kept insisting that something must have happened at preschool.
I'm 89% sure that I rolled my eyes before speaking again. I didn't yet have a name for the phenomenon that was about to occur, but I now know it by its proper name: SARCASM.
"You're right, Mommy, something did happen today! A a cow came to school, and we all got to feed it hay, and then we learned how to milk it. Can I get a cow for Christmas?"
I guess three-year-olds don't convey flippancy well, because Mom replied with, "That's so exciting, honey! I wonder why they didn't tell the parents they were going to do that? Did you forget to give me a note or something?"
It was like discovering fire. I can say something that isn't true, and someone will believe me. I'm telling you, it's a magic moment.
"Uuuummm, I guess so? Sorry."
At that point, my brother started going on and on about Dalmation puppies or something, and the cow issue was dropped, only to be brought up at the dinner table, with my father present. I repeated the story, and included a demonstration of the correct way to milk cows.
Trust me, my father has no qualms about calling out a three-year-old if he thinks they're bullshitting him about milking technique. However, and this is the miraculous part of the story, I actually did a fairly respectable job. My mother's been trying, for 20 years, to figure out where I learned that-- I chalk it up to an unnamed patron saint of liars.
I went to bed that night aflush with my first lying win. Looking back, it was probably like a drug addict or serial killer-- after the first big rush, you fixate on how to do it again.
Unfortunately, three-year-olds aren't a terribly creative bunch, and the next afternoon, I'd barely been strapped into my car seat before I started telling my mother about the cow's return trip to St. Paul's.
Her head cocked. "Really, they brought the cow back? Even though it rained all morning?"
Uh-oh. I hadn't thought about that. "They brought it into the cafeteria, because the door opens up to the playground and everything."
This was the point where my mother knew something was rotten in the state of Denmark. "There are stairs going down to that door, Ashlea. Can cows climb down stairs?"
If I could go back and do it again, I would tell my mother that of course cows can walk down stairs; after all, dogs can. My mother's an intelligent woman, but I'm pretty sure her experience leading cows down staircases is limited.
Unfortunately, my inexperience let me say this: "They put a board over the stairs, and then put roller skates on the cow so they could just kind of push it in there."
Just like that, my beautiful, believable lie was destroyed. My mother was horrified, because her child was clearly sociopathic. Later, she changed her mind and decided I was probably a creative genius with questionable morals.
Also, it bears mentioning that for once, there's a moral to the story. My first experiment with sarcasm failed. However, it gave rise to something even better-- ridiculous lies. And I stuck with sarcasm, so I'm pretty well-versed in irony and disdain these days.
TruthBomb: There's no crayon cow picture. I just really, really wish I had physical evidence of the birth of something great. Maybe I'll draw one later-- my crayon skills definitely haven't improved since then.
I need that to be true, because like a bank robber, liars also keep souvenirs from their first major lie. I framed mine-- it's a crayon drawing of a cow gliding around on roller skates, and my mom dated it: November 23, 1989.
Do the math-- my first big, awesome lie happened when I was three years old. Barely.
I don't remember the exact address of my first house. I barely remember my first kiss, no offense to the guy, because I've mythologized that story beyond belief. However, I remember my first lie perfectly.
As the cow picture tells us, it as a lovely fall afternoon. My mother had just picked my brother and me up from St. Paul's preschool (specially designed for fake- Catholic children in east Tennessee).
Three years into life, and things were starting to get a little dull. Therefore, when Mom started badgering us about what we did that day, I knew she didn't want me to say, "I painted dinosaurs, ate peanut butter, tried and failed to realize that unicorns aren't real." I knew she didn't want to hear that story again, but she kept insisting that something must have happened at preschool.
I'm 89% sure that I rolled my eyes before speaking again. I didn't yet have a name for the phenomenon that was about to occur, but I now know it by its proper name: SARCASM.
"You're right, Mommy, something did happen today! A a cow came to school, and we all got to feed it hay, and then we learned how to milk it. Can I get a cow for Christmas?"
I guess three-year-olds don't convey flippancy well, because Mom replied with, "That's so exciting, honey! I wonder why they didn't tell the parents they were going to do that? Did you forget to give me a note or something?"
It was like discovering fire. I can say something that isn't true, and someone will believe me. I'm telling you, it's a magic moment.
"Uuuummm, I guess so? Sorry."
At that point, my brother started going on and on about Dalmation puppies or something, and the cow issue was dropped, only to be brought up at the dinner table, with my father present. I repeated the story, and included a demonstration of the correct way to milk cows.
Trust me, my father has no qualms about calling out a three-year-old if he thinks they're bullshitting him about milking technique. However, and this is the miraculous part of the story, I actually did a fairly respectable job. My mother's been trying, for 20 years, to figure out where I learned that-- I chalk it up to an unnamed patron saint of liars.
I went to bed that night aflush with my first lying win. Looking back, it was probably like a drug addict or serial killer-- after the first big rush, you fixate on how to do it again.
Unfortunately, three-year-olds aren't a terribly creative bunch, and the next afternoon, I'd barely been strapped into my car seat before I started telling my mother about the cow's return trip to St. Paul's.
Her head cocked. "Really, they brought the cow back? Even though it rained all morning?"
Uh-oh. I hadn't thought about that. "They brought it into the cafeteria, because the door opens up to the playground and everything."
This was the point where my mother knew something was rotten in the state of Denmark. "There are stairs going down to that door, Ashlea. Can cows climb down stairs?"
If I could go back and do it again, I would tell my mother that of course cows can walk down stairs; after all, dogs can. My mother's an intelligent woman, but I'm pretty sure her experience leading cows down staircases is limited.
Unfortunately, my inexperience let me say this: "They put a board over the stairs, and then put roller skates on the cow so they could just kind of push it in there."
Just like that, my beautiful, believable lie was destroyed. My mother was horrified, because her child was clearly sociopathic. Later, she changed her mind and decided I was probably a creative genius with questionable morals.
Also, it bears mentioning that for once, there's a moral to the story. My first experiment with sarcasm failed. However, it gave rise to something even better-- ridiculous lies. And I stuck with sarcasm, so I'm pretty well-versed in irony and disdain these days.
TruthBomb: There's no crayon cow picture. I just really, really wish I had physical evidence of the birth of something great. Maybe I'll draw one later-- my crayon skills definitely haven't improved since then.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Here Comes the Bride...
An Open Letter to My Former Roommate: I lied a few minutes ago, when I told you that I can't feel pain. In truth, my right big toe is ridiculously sensitive, and stubbing it on something makes me want to cry.
However, I would also like to thank you for not only watching the same Lifetime rerun of How I Met Your Mother that I was, but for reminding me of a lie to which I should probably confess, and a Mary Kay saleswoman to whom I should probably apologize.
It started three years ago, when we went shopping for fancy dresses. We were poor, and most of the dresses ended with us saying, "Yeah, I'm totally buying this one once I get a real job."
Turns out, that was a lie, as we're both still waiting for Real Jobs.
However, while fantasy shopping, I couldn't help but notice dozens of contest drawing-boxes scattered all over the mall. Those boxes are a great equalizer: rich people, poor people... no one can resist slipping in an entry.
I, like most people, entered without reading exactly what I was entering. Therefore, a week later, I received quite the shock when my phone rang, and I answered to hear a chipper woman babbling away.
"Hi, is this Ashlea? This is Khrystyn, letting you know that you're our lucky makeover girl! Break out your day planner, babe, because we need to do this before the big day! Are your ladies in town? You know you want them to be there!"
The only word that made it to my consciousness was "makeover." That, I could handle.
"A makeover? Did I sign up for that?"
High-pitched giggle. "Not exactly! Do you remember the Super Bride Sweepstakes you entered? You're our big winner! I'm your Mary Kay makeup consultant! So give me some days, girl, and let's do this thing!"
The phrase "Super Bride" should have sounded the alarm. It really, really should have. But instead, I told her my friends and I would meet her at three o'clock the next Tuesday.
"Ohmigod, Tuesday afternoons are seriously the best days for makeup. Something about sleep cycles and skin oxygenation, I think! (side note: seriously? Who says shit like that?) So you can get your bridesmaids together? What about your fiance-- do you want him to come along and watch?"
At this point, an honest person would say that they weren't getting married. That they were nowhere near getting married, not for another 10 years, at least.
I, however, am not that girl.
"Uuummm... I think I'll leave him at home, actually. But the bridesmaids and I are for def on, see you then!"
My roommate, bless her soul, actually helped me convince a half-dozen girls to play along, and really, for a free makeover... no one's righteousness really extends that far. Of course, they did all point out to me that I probably needed an entire engagement story, if the makeover ladies should ask.
So... thus began the ballad of Ashlea and Caleb. He was a 27-year-old Auburn graduate, dark-haired, an architect. There was some debate as to whether we had been in a long relationship, since we were children in the Appalachian backwoods, but before meeting with Khrystyn, I decided that no, ours was most likely a whirlwind. After all, Ashlea and Caleb regularly fought when her spontaneity clashed with his Type-A personality, so of course he would propose on a whim, in order to prove that he could do things without a plan.
During the makeover (after which, I purchased a Mary Kay lipstick, in order not to feel like the world's biggest freeloader), we talked about Caleb for exactly 12 seconds.
"So tell me about your fella!"
"His name's Caleb. He's an architect."
"Ooohhh, how fun! Now, have you tried these new mineral eye shadows? They'll really make your eyes pop!"
The fake wedding should have ended there. But, winners for the Super Bride sweepstakes are inundated with phone calls and fliers from every bridal show, dress company, caterer, cruise company under the sun.
For a two-week period, I was afraid to check the mail, afraid of the bright pink envelopes congratulating me on starting my "new life!" I was also offended by their anti-feminist, "you're not complete until you're married" mindset.
The turning point came, I thought, when I received a $20 gift card from Target. It didn't specifically tell me to use it on wedding stuff; however, the little cartoon bride and groom were probably a hint. However, I took the card as a sign that the Super Bride people were sorry for flooding my mailbox and using enough paper to destroy a small forest.
Also, like I said, I was super, super poor, and a girl's gotta eat. So that $20 bought Ramen, Little Debbie Cakes, and enough peanut butter to feed a third-grade class.
Maybe it was stealing, a little bit. Maybe Target should have thrown me in their special little Target prison, taken a Polaroid, and hung my picture on their Wall of Shame.
However, karma bitch-slapped me in a far worse way than Target could have. A month after the Target card, the wedding mail finally died down, and I got a phone call.
"Hi, Ashlea! It's Khrystyn Winter, calling from Mary Kay! I just realized-- after we had our little party, you didn't tell me the wedding date! We need to set that up so our girls can make you and your ladies beautiful for the big day!"
I was quicker on my feet this time. I told her that we hadn't set a date yet, to be honest, we weren't in a big rush. That reasoning, I thought, should handle it.
But, no. Three months later, she calls to see if I need more lipstick. I tell her I rarely wear makeup, and that lipstick should last a long time (lie. But too poor to afford nice lipstick). Three months later, she calls again to check about the wedding date.
It was time to end this thing. I took a deep breath, made my voice shaky, and informed Ms. Winter that the wedding was, sadly, totally canceled. If the situation were reversed, I would have felt so awkward, I'd have no choice but to hang up the phone and never, ever contact that person again.
I, however, am not a Mary Kay rep.
"Oh, honeybun, that's awful! You know what you need? A new, fresh look! Get out your planner, we're going to do you over! Are your bridesmaids still around? I'm sure they'd love to come, too..."
However, I would also like to thank you for not only watching the same Lifetime rerun of How I Met Your Mother that I was, but for reminding me of a lie to which I should probably confess, and a Mary Kay saleswoman to whom I should probably apologize.
It started three years ago, when we went shopping for fancy dresses. We were poor, and most of the dresses ended with us saying, "Yeah, I'm totally buying this one once I get a real job."
Turns out, that was a lie, as we're both still waiting for Real Jobs.
However, while fantasy shopping, I couldn't help but notice dozens of contest drawing-boxes scattered all over the mall. Those boxes are a great equalizer: rich people, poor people... no one can resist slipping in an entry.
I, like most people, entered without reading exactly what I was entering. Therefore, a week later, I received quite the shock when my phone rang, and I answered to hear a chipper woman babbling away.
"Hi, is this Ashlea? This is Khrystyn, letting you know that you're our lucky makeover girl! Break out your day planner, babe, because we need to do this before the big day! Are your ladies in town? You know you want them to be there!"
The only word that made it to my consciousness was "makeover." That, I could handle.
"A makeover? Did I sign up for that?"
High-pitched giggle. "Not exactly! Do you remember the Super Bride Sweepstakes you entered? You're our big winner! I'm your Mary Kay makeup consultant! So give me some days, girl, and let's do this thing!"
The phrase "Super Bride" should have sounded the alarm. It really, really should have. But instead, I told her my friends and I would meet her at three o'clock the next Tuesday.
"Ohmigod, Tuesday afternoons are seriously the best days for makeup. Something about sleep cycles and skin oxygenation, I think! (side note: seriously? Who says shit like that?) So you can get your bridesmaids together? What about your fiance-- do you want him to come along and watch?"
At this point, an honest person would say that they weren't getting married. That they were nowhere near getting married, not for another 10 years, at least.
I, however, am not that girl.
"Uuummm... I think I'll leave him at home, actually. But the bridesmaids and I are for def on, see you then!"
My roommate, bless her soul, actually helped me convince a half-dozen girls to play along, and really, for a free makeover... no one's righteousness really extends that far. Of course, they did all point out to me that I probably needed an entire engagement story, if the makeover ladies should ask.
So... thus began the ballad of Ashlea and Caleb. He was a 27-year-old Auburn graduate, dark-haired, an architect. There was some debate as to whether we had been in a long relationship, since we were children in the Appalachian backwoods, but before meeting with Khrystyn, I decided that no, ours was most likely a whirlwind. After all, Ashlea and Caleb regularly fought when her spontaneity clashed with his Type-A personality, so of course he would propose on a whim, in order to prove that he could do things without a plan.
During the makeover (after which, I purchased a Mary Kay lipstick, in order not to feel like the world's biggest freeloader), we talked about Caleb for exactly 12 seconds.
"So tell me about your fella!"
"His name's Caleb. He's an architect."
"Ooohhh, how fun! Now, have you tried these new mineral eye shadows? They'll really make your eyes pop!"
The fake wedding should have ended there. But, winners for the Super Bride sweepstakes are inundated with phone calls and fliers from every bridal show, dress company, caterer, cruise company under the sun.
For a two-week period, I was afraid to check the mail, afraid of the bright pink envelopes congratulating me on starting my "new life!" I was also offended by their anti-feminist, "you're not complete until you're married" mindset.
The turning point came, I thought, when I received a $20 gift card from Target. It didn't specifically tell me to use it on wedding stuff; however, the little cartoon bride and groom were probably a hint. However, I took the card as a sign that the Super Bride people were sorry for flooding my mailbox and using enough paper to destroy a small forest.
Also, like I said, I was super, super poor, and a girl's gotta eat. So that $20 bought Ramen, Little Debbie Cakes, and enough peanut butter to feed a third-grade class.
Maybe it was stealing, a little bit. Maybe Target should have thrown me in their special little Target prison, taken a Polaroid, and hung my picture on their Wall of Shame.
However, karma bitch-slapped me in a far worse way than Target could have. A month after the Target card, the wedding mail finally died down, and I got a phone call.
"Hi, Ashlea! It's Khrystyn Winter, calling from Mary Kay! I just realized-- after we had our little party, you didn't tell me the wedding date! We need to set that up so our girls can make you and your ladies beautiful for the big day!"
I was quicker on my feet this time. I told her that we hadn't set a date yet, to be honest, we weren't in a big rush. That reasoning, I thought, should handle it.
But, no. Three months later, she calls to see if I need more lipstick. I tell her I rarely wear makeup, and that lipstick should last a long time (lie. But too poor to afford nice lipstick). Three months later, she calls again to check about the wedding date.
It was time to end this thing. I took a deep breath, made my voice shaky, and informed Ms. Winter that the wedding was, sadly, totally canceled. If the situation were reversed, I would have felt so awkward, I'd have no choice but to hang up the phone and never, ever contact that person again.
I, however, am not a Mary Kay rep.
"Oh, honeybun, that's awful! You know what you need? A new, fresh look! Get out your planner, we're going to do you over! Are your bridesmaids still around? I'm sure they'd love to come, too..."
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Salvation Time is Half-Past Hammer Time
Growing up, I always told people that once I graduated from school and became an adult, the first thing I did would be to move out of the South, and head to New York, Ontario, London... any place where they'd never heard of chicken-fried steak, and ain't wasn't part of the collective vocabulary.
Two years ago, I graduated from college with a fancy communications degree. And I moved... back home to Kingsport. And everyone asked me Why.
At first, I gave the normal answer. "The economy sucks, man. No way is it a good idea to move anywhere right now."
Then, because I was so sure I'd someday be a Serious Writer with Deep Thoughts, I waxed philosophic about getting back to my roots, because after all, don't heroes have to return home to find salvation? And I am the hero of my own story, right?
But the real truth?
The previous reasons, sure, but to be honest, I just think the Bible Belt is a really, really funny place. I'm not kidding: it's hilarious. No where else in the world is Target deserted on Wednesday nights, and the difference between Freewill and Missionary Baptist is of earth-shattering importance.
And, because this is the Bible Belt, I'm blessed with a job that requires me to ask people about their religious affiliations. Try that in New York, and you're violating someone's First Amendment rights. But here, not only do you get a cheery answer, but at least a dozen times a day, the response goes something like this:
"Oh, honey, I'm a member of the First Freewill Baptist of Cedar Creek, and it's so important in my life! You are saved, aren't you? A nice girl like you?"
Let me be clear: IN NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM AM I BASHING RELIGION. You have the right to believe and practice whatever you want, and you can talk my ear off about it; I'm a naturally curious person and I like to learn about other faiths. However, once you ask a question like that, you are a lie target. Sorry. It's a compulsion.
Also, even though my grandmother's not actually Catholic, she instilled in us enough of their theology that the whole "being saved" thing was never part of our religious vocabulary. So when people start talking about how/ when/ where they were saved, I start feeling like I'm back in fourth grade, when the cool girls were comparing the party favors they got at Tera Swan's tenth birthday party, and I had to awkwardly smile and congratulate them on their bounty.
That's a lie. I was totally invited to that party. But it makes for a pretty apropos comparison, no?
But I digress. To get to the point of today's story, just know that when people ask that, at leave five times a day, I get to say this:
"Actually, I'm Jewish. We don't really do the 'saved' thing."
Nine times out of ten, I receive a polite smile and awkward silence, as that patient summarily dismisses me from his or her life. However, for the occasional Nosy Nellie, I have to invent a synagogue in Kingsport (according to Google, there are none around here), and ad-lib a few tidbits about Jewish culture.
My heartfelt apologies to Jewish people everywhere. But if anyone's offended, I think you're missing the point. I win at lying, with one exception.
Several years ago, during the Tennessee State Fair, what had begun as a lighthearted day amongst the fair-goers quickly turned tragic. A (quite possibly) well-meaning woman from the Southern Baptists' Convention asked my friends and I if we were saved, and reminded us that if not, we're forever barred from the Kingdom of God. One my cohorts was a preacher's daughter; she quickly said Yes. The other was actually a Southern Baptist, so she said Yes, too.
Of course, being me, I said I was Jewish, and, because the fair turns me into quite the little smart-ass, I asked if that was OK.
She smiled warmly, and told me that, "of course the Jews can be saved, if they want! Jesus was Jewish, you know."
"Yeah, I know that; I actually have a bumper sticker that says so!"
At this point, my friends edged away from me, so as not to be struck the the lightening inevitably headed my way.
I started to walk on; after all, I had clearly won my lie.
However, this is where the story goes all wrong.
She smiles the quick, triumphant grin of a tiger who's separated the fattest, slowest goat from the herd.
"I'm sure you do. But do you realize: since Jesus was Jewish, I'm actually more Jewish than you are?"
Seriously, and this is an open question: how does one answer that?! For the first time in my little lying life, I was rendered speechless. I walked away, my head hung in defeat.
Later that night, I came up with dozens of quick, quippy replies. In every retelling of that story, until now, I shoot one at her, I win, and for the rest of her life, she welcomes people of other faiths into her fair booth, where they share lemonade and sing "Imagine" in a great big sharing circle.
Also, because this blog is my own little confession booth, I need to let it be known: whenever my co-workers ask me about my church habits, I tell them that I'm Catholic. I can't use the Jewish excuse; they know I'm Italian, and seriously, I'm not sure if you can be both. Never mind that I don't even know all the words to a Hail Mary, and I have no idea what makes Mass so special from other church services.
If lightening strikes me for this, I pray to St. Francis of Assisi that it misses my dog.
Two years ago, I graduated from college with a fancy communications degree. And I moved... back home to Kingsport. And everyone asked me Why.
At first, I gave the normal answer. "The economy sucks, man. No way is it a good idea to move anywhere right now."
Then, because I was so sure I'd someday be a Serious Writer with Deep Thoughts, I waxed philosophic about getting back to my roots, because after all, don't heroes have to return home to find salvation? And I am the hero of my own story, right?
But the real truth?
The previous reasons, sure, but to be honest, I just think the Bible Belt is a really, really funny place. I'm not kidding: it's hilarious. No where else in the world is Target deserted on Wednesday nights, and the difference between Freewill and Missionary Baptist is of earth-shattering importance.
And, because this is the Bible Belt, I'm blessed with a job that requires me to ask people about their religious affiliations. Try that in New York, and you're violating someone's First Amendment rights. But here, not only do you get a cheery answer, but at least a dozen times a day, the response goes something like this:
"Oh, honey, I'm a member of the First Freewill Baptist of Cedar Creek, and it's so important in my life! You are saved, aren't you? A nice girl like you?"
Let me be clear: IN NO WAY, SHAPE OR FORM AM I BASHING RELIGION. You have the right to believe and practice whatever you want, and you can talk my ear off about it; I'm a naturally curious person and I like to learn about other faiths. However, once you ask a question like that, you are a lie target. Sorry. It's a compulsion.
Also, even though my grandmother's not actually Catholic, she instilled in us enough of their theology that the whole "being saved" thing was never part of our religious vocabulary. So when people start talking about how/ when/ where they were saved, I start feeling like I'm back in fourth grade, when the cool girls were comparing the party favors they got at Tera Swan's tenth birthday party, and I had to awkwardly smile and congratulate them on their bounty.
That's a lie. I was totally invited to that party. But it makes for a pretty apropos comparison, no?
But I digress. To get to the point of today's story, just know that when people ask that, at leave five times a day, I get to say this:
"Actually, I'm Jewish. We don't really do the 'saved' thing."
Nine times out of ten, I receive a polite smile and awkward silence, as that patient summarily dismisses me from his or her life. However, for the occasional Nosy Nellie, I have to invent a synagogue in Kingsport (according to Google, there are none around here), and ad-lib a few tidbits about Jewish culture.
My heartfelt apologies to Jewish people everywhere. But if anyone's offended, I think you're missing the point. I win at lying, with one exception.
Several years ago, during the Tennessee State Fair, what had begun as a lighthearted day amongst the fair-goers quickly turned tragic. A (quite possibly) well-meaning woman from the Southern Baptists' Convention asked my friends and I if we were saved, and reminded us that if not, we're forever barred from the Kingdom of God. One my cohorts was a preacher's daughter; she quickly said Yes. The other was actually a Southern Baptist, so she said Yes, too.
Of course, being me, I said I was Jewish, and, because the fair turns me into quite the little smart-ass, I asked if that was OK.
She smiled warmly, and told me that, "of course the Jews can be saved, if they want! Jesus was Jewish, you know."
"Yeah, I know that; I actually have a bumper sticker that says so!"
At this point, my friends edged away from me, so as not to be struck the the lightening inevitably headed my way.
I started to walk on; after all, I had clearly won my lie.
However, this is where the story goes all wrong.
She smiles the quick, triumphant grin of a tiger who's separated the fattest, slowest goat from the herd.
"I'm sure you do. But do you realize: since Jesus was Jewish, I'm actually more Jewish than you are?"
Seriously, and this is an open question: how does one answer that?! For the first time in my little lying life, I was rendered speechless. I walked away, my head hung in defeat.
Later that night, I came up with dozens of quick, quippy replies. In every retelling of that story, until now, I shoot one at her, I win, and for the rest of her life, she welcomes people of other faiths into her fair booth, where they share lemonade and sing "Imagine" in a great big sharing circle.
Also, because this blog is my own little confession booth, I need to let it be known: whenever my co-workers ask me about my church habits, I tell them that I'm Catholic. I can't use the Jewish excuse; they know I'm Italian, and seriously, I'm not sure if you can be both. Never mind that I don't even know all the words to a Hail Mary, and I have no idea what makes Mass so special from other church services.
If lightening strikes me for this, I pray to St. Francis of Assisi that it misses my dog.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Caitlyn: The Cousin, The Myth, The Legend
My extended family is kind of massive. Conservatively estimating, I think I have around 4534 cousins. Not all of them love this blog. Over the years, the abundance of family has proved to be very, very good for support, inspiration, presents and... material.
If I want to tell a ridiculous, but true, story, chances are, one of my cousins once did/said/saw something crazy, and even if it's not that great of an anecdote, I can pepper it up enough to make it fab.
"My cousin let me watch the Chucky movies when I was like, 4, and when Rugrats first came on TV, it absolutely terrified me. Do you think they made the Chuckie character on purpose?"
"Ugh, the first time my cousin French-kissed a guy, she bit his tongue. He bled, and no one asked her out for the rest of high school."
"My cousin was in the Army when I was little, and did a really terrible job of explaining the North Korea/ South Korea conflict. I still don't understand it, and watching Sun and Jin on Lost always reminds me of it."
"When my cousin crashed her car, she lied and told the police someone had stolen it, and that person crashed it. But she totally cracked under the pressure, and had to go to juvie for a week."
"My cousin was supposed to be a recurring character on on Degrassi, but she lost like, a ton of weight, and the main girls got all mad and got her fired, and Canada revoked her work visa. You can still see her in some scenes if you watch the reruns on MTV, though."
As it turns out, it's a mite careless to identify someone only as "my cousin," when you have several hundred. And unbeknownst to me, people actually paid attention to these stories, and eventually asked the inevitable question:
"Wait, so your cousin did that? Is that the same cousin who's trying to have five babies in five years/ is in an AC/DC cover band/ dropped out of school to follow Lynryd Skynrd on a world tour?"
To which, the natural reply:
"Yeah, my cousin Caitlyn. She's older than me, that's how she's had time to do all that."
I think, if we were to coin a phrase, Caitlyn's a lying scapegoat. Anytime I want to lie, but can't/ won't be the lie's star player, Caitlyn swoops in, and saves the story. She's been an inspiration, a cautionary tale, a laughingstock...
I owe her so much.
(Note: if you are my cousin, and you're reading this, and I've mentioned a story about you... I'm sorry you didn't get credit. Actually, depending on the story, you can send me a thank-you note at any time for protecting your identity).
If I want to tell a ridiculous, but true, story, chances are, one of my cousins once did/said/saw something crazy, and even if it's not that great of an anecdote, I can pepper it up enough to make it fab.
"My cousin let me watch the Chucky movies when I was like, 4, and when Rugrats first came on TV, it absolutely terrified me. Do you think they made the Chuckie character on purpose?"
"Ugh, the first time my cousin French-kissed a guy, she bit his tongue. He bled, and no one asked her out for the rest of high school."
"My cousin was in the Army when I was little, and did a really terrible job of explaining the North Korea/ South Korea conflict. I still don't understand it, and watching Sun and Jin on Lost always reminds me of it."
"When my cousin crashed her car, she lied and told the police someone had stolen it, and that person crashed it. But she totally cracked under the pressure, and had to go to juvie for a week."
"My cousin was supposed to be a recurring character on on Degrassi, but she lost like, a ton of weight, and the main girls got all mad and got her fired, and Canada revoked her work visa. You can still see her in some scenes if you watch the reruns on MTV, though."
As it turns out, it's a mite careless to identify someone only as "my cousin," when you have several hundred. And unbeknownst to me, people actually paid attention to these stories, and eventually asked the inevitable question:
"Wait, so your cousin did that? Is that the same cousin who's trying to have five babies in five years/ is in an AC/DC cover band/ dropped out of school to follow Lynryd Skynrd on a world tour?"
To which, the natural reply:
"Yeah, my cousin Caitlyn. She's older than me, that's how she's had time to do all that."
I think, if we were to coin a phrase, Caitlyn's a lying scapegoat. Anytime I want to lie, but can't/ won't be the lie's star player, Caitlyn swoops in, and saves the story. She's been an inspiration, a cautionary tale, a laughingstock...
I owe her so much.
(Note: if you are my cousin, and you're reading this, and I've mentioned a story about you... I'm sorry you didn't get credit. Actually, depending on the story, you can send me a thank-you note at any time for protecting your identity).
Friday, January 28, 2011
In The Clink
"You only lie to make yourself look like cool, like you're better and more successful than other people." If you say this to me, I will throw a shoe at you.
I mean, seriously?
I would never do that. I'm already convinced of my own awesomeness, thanks. My lies aren't pre-planned public relations strategies.
Lies are, as so eloquently described in Mean Girls, "word vomit." A funny idea or random claim flies out of my mouth, and then I build a story around it, so no one thinks I'm making stuff up.
I seriously can't clarify it any more than that. Sorry.
And to prove that I'm don't try to make myself look any more awesome, I hereby present to you.... today's lie:
At work, while trying to surreptitiously enjoy a bowlful of cheesecake, a policeman comes in to arrest a patient (not nearly as exciting as it sounds). A smart-assed co-worker, undoubtedly jealous of my cheesecake, asks when they're coming back to haul me off.
Haha, hilarious. I tell him that "I've never actually been arrested, thanks."
Naturally, he latches onto the "actually." "Wait, what?"
The opportunity presented itself, and as per usual, I was powerless before it. "Yeah. Like, five years ago, I almost got arrested. I talked my way out of it, though, thankfully. I don't think I'm built for jail."
Also as per usual, I was met with a sideways glance, as my lie target attempted to gauge my sincerity. This pause is a weak moment; I advise all prospective liars to learn to seize it immediately.
"Seriously. My sorority sisters and I were talking one night, and I told them about how much I want a nose job, but I probably have to break my nose first if I want insurance to cover the rhinoplasty. I even admitted that in high school, I played soccer because I'd hoped some steroid-enraged player would elbow me in the face, very squarely on my nose, of course. Naturally, in the name of sisterhood, they decide to take me to a playground, start a soccer game, and see if I can get a new nose."
Not to herald my own brilliance too much, but cuing in on my nasal insecurities totally sold this lie. Anyone who's known me longer than an hour knows I'm obsessed with it. Once the story sounded real, I wrapped it up before I got too carried away.
"Anyway, like, two goals in, a squad car pulls up, and they start shining flashlights into our faces and scaring the bejeesus out of us. Did you know playgrounds have a closing time? They actually did arrest one girl for trespassing, I think because she was crying hysterically and basically being a pain in the ass. Too bad they can't write that on the arrest record, though. But, because lying to cops is a generally bad idea, I told them the nose-and-soccer story, and they let me go."
"No way. That didn't happen."
"Of course it did!! Think about it: if a girl told you that story, would you really arrest her? Or would you send her on, to play soccer and get her new nose like she always wanted?'
And... SOLD. Though I suppose detractors could argue that I told that story to make myself sound like a badass.
However, I truly believe that whatever coolness I earned by talking my way out of an arrest, I immediately negated by the sheer dumb-assery of my fake crime. If I'm going to tell an impressive story of illegality, it would most likely go like this:
I was in New York on vacay, when my friends and I saw Billy Murray and James Franco in a bar in the East Village. They're working on some project together, maybe? I don't know; maybe they were lying to us. Maybe they just like drinking together. Anyway, we get brave and ask them to take a picture with us, because obvi, it's too amazing of a photo op not to. They thought we were funny, so they actually talked to us, and one thing led to another, and I said that I always wanted to go to the zoo at midnight. AND THEY SAID THAT SOUNDED AWESOME. Next thing I know, we're in the Central Park zoo, wondering if an owl or penguin would win in a fistfight. SERIOUSLY. We get busted, of course, which was terrifying, but before we actually get arrested, the cops ask us why we're there. And I guess, since we had nothing to lose, I burst forth with this impassioned speech about seizing the day, and photo ops, and blah blah blah... anyway, we get escorted out of the zoo, but not arrested. IT WAS AMAZING.
THAT, my friends, is a make-yourself-awesome lie. Which, by the way, can very easily turn into a make-yourself-sound-douchey lie.
Tread carefully.
I mean, seriously?
I would never do that. I'm already convinced of my own awesomeness, thanks. My lies aren't pre-planned public relations strategies.
Lies are, as so eloquently described in Mean Girls, "word vomit." A funny idea or random claim flies out of my mouth, and then I build a story around it, so no one thinks I'm making stuff up.
I seriously can't clarify it any more than that. Sorry.
And to prove that I'm don't try to make myself look any more awesome, I hereby present to you.... today's lie:
At work, while trying to surreptitiously enjoy a bowlful of cheesecake, a policeman comes in to arrest a patient (not nearly as exciting as it sounds). A smart-assed co-worker, undoubtedly jealous of my cheesecake, asks when they're coming back to haul me off.
Haha, hilarious. I tell him that "I've never actually been arrested, thanks."
Naturally, he latches onto the "actually." "Wait, what?"
The opportunity presented itself, and as per usual, I was powerless before it. "Yeah. Like, five years ago, I almost got arrested. I talked my way out of it, though, thankfully. I don't think I'm built for jail."
Also as per usual, I was met with a sideways glance, as my lie target attempted to gauge my sincerity. This pause is a weak moment; I advise all prospective liars to learn to seize it immediately.
"Seriously. My sorority sisters and I were talking one night, and I told them about how much I want a nose job, but I probably have to break my nose first if I want insurance to cover the rhinoplasty. I even admitted that in high school, I played soccer because I'd hoped some steroid-enraged player would elbow me in the face, very squarely on my nose, of course. Naturally, in the name of sisterhood, they decide to take me to a playground, start a soccer game, and see if I can get a new nose."
Not to herald my own brilliance too much, but cuing in on my nasal insecurities totally sold this lie. Anyone who's known me longer than an hour knows I'm obsessed with it. Once the story sounded real, I wrapped it up before I got too carried away.
"Anyway, like, two goals in, a squad car pulls up, and they start shining flashlights into our faces and scaring the bejeesus out of us. Did you know playgrounds have a closing time? They actually did arrest one girl for trespassing, I think because she was crying hysterically and basically being a pain in the ass. Too bad they can't write that on the arrest record, though. But, because lying to cops is a generally bad idea, I told them the nose-and-soccer story, and they let me go."
"No way. That didn't happen."
"Of course it did!! Think about it: if a girl told you that story, would you really arrest her? Or would you send her on, to play soccer and get her new nose like she always wanted?'
And... SOLD. Though I suppose detractors could argue that I told that story to make myself sound like a badass.
I was in New York on vacay, when my friends and I saw Billy Murray and James Franco in a bar in the East Village. They're working on some project together, maybe? I don't know; maybe they were lying to us. Maybe they just like drinking together. Anyway, we get brave and ask them to take a picture with us, because obvi, it's too amazing of a photo op not to. They thought we were funny, so they actually talked to us, and one thing led to another, and I said that I always wanted to go to the zoo at midnight. AND THEY SAID THAT SOUNDED AWESOME. Next thing I know, we're in the Central Park zoo, wondering if an owl or penguin would win in a fistfight. SERIOUSLY. We get busted, of course, which was terrifying, but before we actually get arrested, the cops ask us why we're there. And I guess, since we had nothing to lose, I burst forth with this impassioned speech about seizing the day, and photo ops, and blah blah blah... anyway, we get escorted out of the zoo, but not arrested. IT WAS AMAZING.
THAT, my friends, is a make-yourself-awesome lie. Which, by the way, can very easily turn into a make-yourself-sound-douchey lie.
Tread carefully.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Craigslist
I'm addicted to Craigslist Missed Connections. I troll them all the time, for people all over the country. I tell myself that it's for an as-yet-unstarted fiction project, but really, reading about people who meet and lose soul mates at Exxon stations kind of gives me my jollies.
To me, a missed lie is like a Missed Connection. The woulda-shoulda-coulda eats away at me, until I just have to tell someone my brilliant, fun story, so I wind up... lying about lying.
When I do that, the lie takes a frame form, like, "You won't believe the ridiculous lie I told my patient!!! I told her about how my mom always told us to take off our socks when we were indoors, so that our feet could grow naturally. And then, sorry, Mom, I told her that you would get all counter-intuitive, and make me wear pointe shoes every night, so that when I went to ballet class, being en pointe was more natural than being on flat feet. But don't worry, I shaped it so it sounded like the world's best parenting, like maybe I grew up to be in San Francisco ballet, but quit because I found my calling in hospital administration. She believed me; we talked about stage mothers and show choir for like an hour."
It's like once-removed lying. Or a double lie. It needs a name-- I'm open to suggestions. For now, I'm calling it a Missed Connection lie. A Craigslist lie, maybe?
Maybe I am a lying addict, if I have to tell Missed Connection lies. Or maybe it's just really, really fun and kills boredom better than online Scrabble.
No matter. The point: I sat down to blog tonight, with every intention of telling a Craigslist lie. Then I realized, Craigslist lying is probably still lying, even under my loose definition.
So... I'm going to abstain. I'm not going to tell the story of how I told a stranger in the park that my dog is playing Toto in an upcoming national tour of the Wizard of Oz. I'm not going to elaborate by describing the woman's awed facial expressions, or how I relayed, in painstaking detail, a stage dog's training schedule.
Apparently, stage mothering is the lying theme of the day.
And because I deprived the world of a new lie, I'm going exorcise one of my past Grand Retellings, that just so happens to keep with today's motif.
In second grade, my friend Brittany (name not changed, because in all honesty, I'm not sure if she's even alive anymore) and I decided to sing "I Enjoy Being a Girl" from Flower Drum Song for the spring talent show. We made costumes, wrote choreography, and rehearsed enough to put a Mouseketeer to shame. We'd convinced ourselves that whatever deity had brought us the Olsen twins was probably lurking in the audience, just waiting to grant us our own Nickelodeon show. We were ready.
Opening night finally arrived. We were slated to perform third, after the Swan sisters sang an Olsen Twins song (this was a dark period of the 1990's). We got onstage, the music started, we heard our cue, and... the CD started skipping. And then it died. Brittany ran offstage, but I, ever the consummate professional, gamely performed the song a Capella.
Unfortunately, without the musical cues and choreography, I wasn't sure how to exit gracefully. So, in order to cover while I came up with a way to exit stage left, I kept singing. I smoothly transitioned from Flower Drum Song to Les Miserables to Annie Get Your Gun (Broadway repertoire courtesy of my mother). Just as I was really gathering steam, I launched into an exuberant rendition of "Let Me Entertain You" from Gypsy, which, as it turns out, was deemed inappropriate for elementary audiences, and a PTA mom gave me the proverbial hook (it was actually a foam Noodle from the pool, which she used as a poker device).
Usually, when I close this story, I tell people that a talent agent was sitting in the audience, who felt that stripper musicals were entirely appropriate for eight-year-olds, and cast me in a Gypsy national tour. Or, if I'm feeling morose that day, I use the entire anecdote as a backdrop for my adult-onset tone deafness.
Today, I feel perky. Today, I was in the touring company. And maybe, after the tour closed, I booked a guest spot on My So-Called Life.
Maybe.
To me, a missed lie is like a Missed Connection. The woulda-shoulda-coulda eats away at me, until I just have to tell someone my brilliant, fun story, so I wind up... lying about lying.
When I do that, the lie takes a frame form, like, "You won't believe the ridiculous lie I told my patient!!! I told her about how my mom always told us to take off our socks when we were indoors, so that our feet could grow naturally. And then, sorry, Mom, I told her that you would get all counter-intuitive, and make me wear pointe shoes every night, so that when I went to ballet class, being en pointe was more natural than being on flat feet. But don't worry, I shaped it so it sounded like the world's best parenting, like maybe I grew up to be in San Francisco ballet, but quit because I found my calling in hospital administration. She believed me; we talked about stage mothers and show choir for like an hour."
It's like once-removed lying. Or a double lie. It needs a name-- I'm open to suggestions. For now, I'm calling it a Missed Connection lie. A Craigslist lie, maybe?
Maybe I am a lying addict, if I have to tell Missed Connection lies. Or maybe it's just really, really fun and kills boredom better than online Scrabble.
No matter. The point: I sat down to blog tonight, with every intention of telling a Craigslist lie. Then I realized, Craigslist lying is probably still lying, even under my loose definition.
So... I'm going to abstain. I'm not going to tell the story of how I told a stranger in the park that my dog is playing Toto in an upcoming national tour of the Wizard of Oz. I'm not going to elaborate by describing the woman's awed facial expressions, or how I relayed, in painstaking detail, a stage dog's training schedule.
Apparently, stage mothering is the lying theme of the day.
And because I deprived the world of a new lie, I'm going exorcise one of my past Grand Retellings, that just so happens to keep with today's motif.
In second grade, my friend Brittany (name not changed, because in all honesty, I'm not sure if she's even alive anymore) and I decided to sing "I Enjoy Being a Girl" from Flower Drum Song for the spring talent show. We made costumes, wrote choreography, and rehearsed enough to put a Mouseketeer to shame. We'd convinced ourselves that whatever deity had brought us the Olsen twins was probably lurking in the audience, just waiting to grant us our own Nickelodeon show. We were ready.
Opening night finally arrived. We were slated to perform third, after the Swan sisters sang an Olsen Twins song (this was a dark period of the 1990's). We got onstage, the music started, we heard our cue, and... the CD started skipping. And then it died. Brittany ran offstage, but I, ever the consummate professional, gamely performed the song a Capella.
Unfortunately, without the musical cues and choreography, I wasn't sure how to exit gracefully. So, in order to cover while I came up with a way to exit stage left, I kept singing. I smoothly transitioned from Flower Drum Song to Les Miserables to Annie Get Your Gun (Broadway repertoire courtesy of my mother). Just as I was really gathering steam, I launched into an exuberant rendition of "Let Me Entertain You" from Gypsy, which, as it turns out, was deemed inappropriate for elementary audiences, and a PTA mom gave me the proverbial hook (it was actually a foam Noodle from the pool, which she used as a poker device).
Usually, when I close this story, I tell people that a talent agent was sitting in the audience, who felt that stripper musicals were entirely appropriate for eight-year-olds, and cast me in a Gypsy national tour. Or, if I'm feeling morose that day, I use the entire anecdote as a backdrop for my adult-onset tone deafness.
Today, I feel perky. Today, I was in the touring company. And maybe, after the tour closed, I booked a guest spot on My So-Called Life.
Maybe.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Modern Dentistry and You
I have a theory that dentists are 97% of the population's biggest lie targets. Doctors, too.
Think about it:
"You're right, flossing is so important! I floss at least three times a day!"
"Ugh, I know what you mean. I can't stand the thought that coffee and Coke are eroding my enamel. It's why I only drink water these days."
"I've replaced red meat with cod, and all of my bread is made from spinach now. It totally gives me the energy boost to run 8237493 miles a day."
These aren't over-the-top Ashlea lies. These are everybody lies.
On a side note, talking about health is super obnoxious. Don't do it. Even if you're telling the truth, even if you're magical and actually enjoy running, and can survive without sugar or caffeine, keep it to yourself. In fact, if you're magical enough to do that, you're magical enough to do everyone a favor and lie about eating an entire box of Pop Tarts in one sitting. I know people who've done that, and I like them better for it.
Today, at the dentist, I set an impossible challenge for myself. No matter what, I was going to tell the truth. If asked, I would tell her that I drink at least two cups of coffee everyday, followed by soda, cranberry juice... everything except water, tooth enamel be damned. I only floss if I can actually feel something gross in my teeth, and kind of rely on Listerine to do the rest. However, I do brush my teeth a million times a day, because I'm always convinced I smell bad.
I repeated this rundown to the dentist, almost verbatim. Except I didn't say "damned," because, dammit, I'm a lady.
My reward for honesty? A blank stare and uneasy laugh. She promptly pried my mouth open so that I'd be silenced for the rest of the visit. No reward for honesty-- they didn't have a pink toothbrush to give me at the end (they gave me a blue one and I HATE blue).
Because this is a year of discovery and adventure, I was determined to find a lesson in this, and not just that you actually CAN exchange a blue toothbrush for a pink one at Target without a receipt.
As it turns out, doctors and dentists WANT to be lied to. They spend their days lecturing patients about the importance of flossing and the evils of soft drinks, and they don't want to believe their words fall on deaf ears. In effect, they killed any possibility that I'll tell the truth to my regular doctor during my physical next month. I have to preserve his feelings.
"What? There must be some genetic reason for my blood tests to look like that-- I'm vegan! I definitely don't have addictions to ice cream or fancy cheeses. And I've been working out, not just spinning pirouettes in the kitchen while I wait for the microwave to beep. I definitely don't consider that real exercise."
Lies told in this post:
Think about it:
"You're right, flossing is so important! I floss at least three times a day!"
"Ugh, I know what you mean. I can't stand the thought that coffee and Coke are eroding my enamel. It's why I only drink water these days."
"I've replaced red meat with cod, and all of my bread is made from spinach now. It totally gives me the energy boost to run 8237493 miles a day."
These aren't over-the-top Ashlea lies. These are everybody lies.
On a side note, talking about health is super obnoxious. Don't do it. Even if you're telling the truth, even if you're magical and actually enjoy running, and can survive without sugar or caffeine, keep it to yourself. In fact, if you're magical enough to do that, you're magical enough to do everyone a favor and lie about eating an entire box of Pop Tarts in one sitting. I know people who've done that, and I like them better for it.
Today, at the dentist, I set an impossible challenge for myself. No matter what, I was going to tell the truth. If asked, I would tell her that I drink at least two cups of coffee everyday, followed by soda, cranberry juice... everything except water, tooth enamel be damned. I only floss if I can actually feel something gross in my teeth, and kind of rely on Listerine to do the rest. However, I do brush my teeth a million times a day, because I'm always convinced I smell bad.
I repeated this rundown to the dentist, almost verbatim. Except I didn't say "damned," because, dammit, I'm a lady.
My reward for honesty? A blank stare and uneasy laugh. She promptly pried my mouth open so that I'd be silenced for the rest of the visit. No reward for honesty-- they didn't have a pink toothbrush to give me at the end (they gave me a blue one and I HATE blue).
Because this is a year of discovery and adventure, I was determined to find a lesson in this, and not just that you actually CAN exchange a blue toothbrush for a pink one at Target without a receipt.
As it turns out, doctors and dentists WANT to be lied to. They spend their days lecturing patients about the importance of flossing and the evils of soft drinks, and they don't want to believe their words fall on deaf ears. In effect, they killed any possibility that I'll tell the truth to my regular doctor during my physical next month. I have to preserve his feelings.
"What? There must be some genetic reason for my blood tests to look like that-- I'm vegan! I definitely don't have addictions to ice cream or fancy cheeses. And I've been working out, not just spinning pirouettes in the kitchen while I wait for the microwave to beep. I definitely don't consider that real exercise."
Lies told in this post:
- The dentist visit was like two days ago. I didn't update because after the ordeal, I felt like going out to lunch and to the movies.
- I have no plans to have a physical next month. I only go to the doctor if I think I'm contagious, so that I'll know to infect people I hate.
- I didn't actually exchange the blue toothbrush. I thought about it, hard, but couldn't bring myself to shoplift.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Tigers and Goats and Penguins, Oh My!!!!
Before reading this, please be aware that even though I slipped up and told a completely ridiculous, useless lie today, I still think I'm awesome, and I love myself anyway. I lied today, and I'm not sorry. It was kind of hilarious, and super fun.
I told a woman that a few years ago, when I lived in Knoxville (I've never lived in Knoxville), I had the worst job ever where I was responsible for feeding the tigers at the zoo.
The lie crept up on me so naturally-- I was having a rough day, and I really didn't feel like listening to this patient kvetch about her horrible, horrible job. Like, really, lady? You whine about answering phones at a dentist's office; I sit in a cubicle while smelly people with pustules whine at me. I win.
(Side note: I hate whining, but I don't actually hate my job. It's kind of fascinating sometimes, and I doubt I could mine as much material if I worked at Books-A-Million or something)
Anyway, to hush her up, I came out with my tiger story. And just like that, I felt better-- better than coming home to a glass of wine.
"It was nasty. You had hang around the enclosure to make sure they actually had appetites and weren't sick or anything, and every now and then, you'd see a random goat leg go flying past. It was sick; I've never been able to look at cats the same way."
Anyone who was alive in the 1990's should realize that I ripped off that scene from Jurassic Park, and just substituted a tiger for a T-Rex. If I'd been a little more quick-witted, I would've worked in a way to be sitting in a Jeep during a monsoon. Hell, if she'd let me talk long enough, I would've been chased by Velociraptors in the zoo kitchen.
The woman was, (understandably?) stunned. She stammered out something about the majesty of the hunt, but because I am undeniably at my most bad-ass when telling egregious lies, I cut her off.
"It's hunting a goat! Have you ever met a goat? They're not particularly quick-- it's not a Most Dangerous Game scenario. I'm pretty sure my terrier puppy could take one down if she had a chance."
Lie: won. Day: salvaged.
Like I said, I don't regret the lie. However, in the spirit of self-improvement and karmic cleansing, I did break down the lie, and attempted to analyze exactly why the events unfolded as they did.
I'm not going to analyze why I hate whining, though. I should hope that that's self-explanatory.
I also hope drawing on Jurassic Park in everyday conversation is as obvious to everyone else as it is to me.
Anyway, the notion of feeding zoo animals came from earlier in the afternoon, when I told some co-workers about the time I spent the day feeding penguins at the Aquarium (a very true and very awesome story). Because there's nothing un-awesome about feeding penguins, I needed a more gruesome angle.
And as it so often happens, the T-Rex scene was lurking in the back of my mind. The two recesses of my imagination came together... and it was glorious.
However, I was totally telling the truth when I said this dog can take down her own game.
I told a woman that a few years ago, when I lived in Knoxville (I've never lived in Knoxville), I had the worst job ever where I was responsible for feeding the tigers at the zoo.
The lie crept up on me so naturally-- I was having a rough day, and I really didn't feel like listening to this patient kvetch about her horrible, horrible job. Like, really, lady? You whine about answering phones at a dentist's office; I sit in a cubicle while smelly people with pustules whine at me. I win.
(Side note: I hate whining, but I don't actually hate my job. It's kind of fascinating sometimes, and I doubt I could mine as much material if I worked at Books-A-Million or something)
Anyway, to hush her up, I came out with my tiger story. And just like that, I felt better-- better than coming home to a glass of wine.
"It was nasty. You had hang around the enclosure to make sure they actually had appetites and weren't sick or anything, and every now and then, you'd see a random goat leg go flying past. It was sick; I've never been able to look at cats the same way."
Anyone who was alive in the 1990's should realize that I ripped off that scene from Jurassic Park, and just substituted a tiger for a T-Rex. If I'd been a little more quick-witted, I would've worked in a way to be sitting in a Jeep during a monsoon. Hell, if she'd let me talk long enough, I would've been chased by Velociraptors in the zoo kitchen.
The woman was, (understandably?) stunned. She stammered out something about the majesty of the hunt, but because I am undeniably at my most bad-ass when telling egregious lies, I cut her off.
"It's hunting a goat! Have you ever met a goat? They're not particularly quick-- it's not a Most Dangerous Game scenario. I'm pretty sure my terrier puppy could take one down if she had a chance."
Lie: won. Day: salvaged.
Anatomy of a Lie
Like I said, I don't regret the lie. However, in the spirit of self-improvement and karmic cleansing, I did break down the lie, and attempted to analyze exactly why the events unfolded as they did.
I'm not going to analyze why I hate whining, though. I should hope that that's self-explanatory.
I also hope drawing on Jurassic Park in everyday conversation is as obvious to everyone else as it is to me.
Anyway, the notion of feeding zoo animals came from earlier in the afternoon, when I told some co-workers about the time I spent the day feeding penguins at the Aquarium (a very true and very awesome story). Because there's nothing un-awesome about feeding penguins, I needed a more gruesome angle.
And as it so often happens, the T-Rex scene was lurking in the back of my mind. The two recesses of my imagination came together... and it was glorious.
Monday, January 17, 2011
De-Pledging
A discussion erupted at work tonight as to whether or not animals go to heaven (only in the Bible Belt is this an appropriate workplace conversation). For the record, I love animals and can't imagine that heaven is anything but a place where dogs, ponies and penguins gambol about in a field of rainbow and marshmallow awesomeness.
However, because this is the Bible Belt, and the Bible contains no references to penguins or rainbow/ marshmallow awesomeness, my theology was met with some resistance. The entire debate eventually devolved to the point where I said, "Everything with eyelashes gets to go to heaven. If you buy a snail Latisse, St. Peter has to give it a pass."
In my defense, I work graveyard shifts and it's easy to get punch-drunk. And to recover from my weird-ass, punch-drunk wisdom, I reverted to one of my major, recurring real-life lies.
That was a totally acceptable statement back in the sorority house.
The myth of my sorority house started innocently enough-- it was a little, teeny lie that popped out before I could stop it, right after I started working in the ER.
*Cue the flashback*
I made the mistake of telling a patient that her shoes were "totally presh," and responding to the bemused stares by saying, "What? Abbreving things is super fun."
An eavesdropping doctor heard that display of genius-ness, and quipped, "Miss the sorority, kid?"
To which I immediately replied, "ADPi 'til I die!!!"
(Side note: not sure why I decided to lie about being an ADPi, except theirs was the easiest slogan to remember, and I know for certain that they're a real sorority).
The doctor looked at me, shook his head, and said, "You know, a lot more about you makes sense now."
What, exactly, about me needed to "make sense?" Can't a girl enjoy working 11-hour shifts in five-inch stilettos? Is it so wrong to wear argyle tights and feathered headbands in the workplace?
Evidently, no, those things are not OK, unless at some point in your life, you passed a candle around and pledged undying devotion to the Sisterhood. And if you have, then, hooray! You get a pass to be as ridiculous as you want! Run around the ER like you're Natalie Portman in Black Swan, so long as you're wearing sorority letters while you do it!
My truth-bending brain latched onto this concept immediately. Here, here is a lie that can excuse your weird behavioral traits. It's better than blaming things on your mother!!
I can't always write off my inane ramblings as a side effect of my upbringing, nor can I credit my mother with my affinity for ballerina skirts and things made from ribbon. It's almost magical, to realize there's a lie that automatically saves you the trouble of rationalizing your quirks, that even at your shrillest and most demanding, you're excused.
Upon further introspection, I realized that even before I consciously settled on a carte blanche excuse-lie, I'd actually been exercising the theory for the better part of my life. In elementary school, I told everybody I was new to this country (so, so much more on that later). By Junior High, I brushed off my oddities by reminding everyone that my mysterious, older boyfriend in Virginia loved my quirks. College: "I used to be a dancer" was the prevailing logic.
I didn't have an excuse in high school. Teenagers can be as weird as they want without logic or reason. Ah, to be young again...
Also: I'm not trying to diss the Greek system in any way, shape or form-- I really have no problem with it. I've had a great time at fraternity parties, and I'm a big fan of the show Greek on ABC Family (though that could stem from my unnatural addiction to that channel).
However, because this is the Bible Belt, and the Bible contains no references to penguins or rainbow/ marshmallow awesomeness, my theology was met with some resistance. The entire debate eventually devolved to the point where I said, "Everything with eyelashes gets to go to heaven. If you buy a snail Latisse, St. Peter has to give it a pass."
In my defense, I work graveyard shifts and it's easy to get punch-drunk. And to recover from my weird-ass, punch-drunk wisdom, I reverted to one of my major, recurring real-life lies.
That was a totally acceptable statement back in the sorority house.
The myth of my sorority house started innocently enough-- it was a little, teeny lie that popped out before I could stop it, right after I started working in the ER.
*Cue the flashback*
I made the mistake of telling a patient that her shoes were "totally presh," and responding to the bemused stares by saying, "What? Abbreving things is super fun."
An eavesdropping doctor heard that display of genius-ness, and quipped, "Miss the sorority, kid?"
To which I immediately replied, "ADPi 'til I die!!!"
(Side note: not sure why I decided to lie about being an ADPi, except theirs was the easiest slogan to remember, and I know for certain that they're a real sorority).
The doctor looked at me, shook his head, and said, "You know, a lot more about you makes sense now."
What, exactly, about me needed to "make sense?" Can't a girl enjoy working 11-hour shifts in five-inch stilettos? Is it so wrong to wear argyle tights and feathered headbands in the workplace?
Evidently, no, those things are not OK, unless at some point in your life, you passed a candle around and pledged undying devotion to the Sisterhood. And if you have, then, hooray! You get a pass to be as ridiculous as you want! Run around the ER like you're Natalie Portman in Black Swan, so long as you're wearing sorority letters while you do it!
My truth-bending brain latched onto this concept immediately. Here, here is a lie that can excuse your weird behavioral traits. It's better than blaming things on your mother!!
I can't always write off my inane ramblings as a side effect of my upbringing, nor can I credit my mother with my affinity for ballerina skirts and things made from ribbon. It's almost magical, to realize there's a lie that automatically saves you the trouble of rationalizing your quirks, that even at your shrillest and most demanding, you're excused.
Upon further introspection, I realized that even before I consciously settled on a carte blanche excuse-lie, I'd actually been exercising the theory for the better part of my life. In elementary school, I told everybody I was new to this country (so, so much more on that later). By Junior High, I brushed off my oddities by reminding everyone that my mysterious, older boyfriend in Virginia loved my quirks. College: "I used to be a dancer" was the prevailing logic.
I didn't have an excuse in high school. Teenagers can be as weird as they want without logic or reason. Ah, to be young again...
Also: I'm not trying to diss the Greek system in any way, shape or form-- I really have no problem with it. I've had a great time at fraternity parties, and I'm a big fan of the show Greek on ABC Family (though that could stem from my unnatural addiction to that channel).
Friday, January 14, 2011
A Lovely Shade of Grey
In my mind, a lie isn't really a lie unless it's a completely fabricated story, with little to no basis in reality. Lies are different, then, from dramatic retellings of true stories, whose nature is entirely self-explanatory. I refuse to tell boring stories, so if I'm talking about something and it starts to sound a little dull, I make it better.
It's like... anecdote pepper. Or anecdote cumin, if I'm really aiming to weird people out.
Nevertheless, I don't consider it lying. Imagine my shock, then, when I learned that I'm actually different from the masses, who think that a lie is anything that doesn't strictly adhere to the facts.
I was floored. Not only have I possibly been WRONG about something (which I loathe,and try to convince people never, ever, ever, ever happens), but I suddenly have a LOT more lies to atone for. Like, a LOT LOT LOT. I can't even remember the last time I told a story without a little saffron or basil.
For instance: my knuckles were bandaged while I worked today. The bandages' true story goes something like this:
A couple of days ago,while making cupcakes in the cute pink cupcake maker Santa brought, I grazed my hand against the hot cupcake surface. I put a Hello Kitty icepack over it that night, and it's mostly healed up. It's just bandaged now because I don't want it exposed to ER disgustingness.
That story is super boring. The only thing it provides is further evidence that I have the same taste in accouterments as a five-year-old ballerina. Therefore, at work today, I paprika'd it up:
"Oh, yeah! It was so dumb, I was using my cupcake maker a couple nights ago, when my dog started barking at a raccoon on the back porch. I jumped, and the lid shut down on my hand! It started blistering, so I ran out back and shoved my entire arm in the snow. I stayed out there until I stared to go numb, and the whole time, that damn raccoon was just like, staring at me. I think he was making fun of me, the little bastard. Anyway, my hand's OK, but I'm keeping it covered up because I don't want it exposed to ER disgustingness."
See? No one gets bored during stories about cupcakes and evil raccoons. And that is the truest thing I could ever say.
It's like... anecdote pepper. Or anecdote cumin, if I'm really aiming to weird people out.
Nevertheless, I don't consider it lying. Imagine my shock, then, when I learned that I'm actually different from the masses, who think that a lie is anything that doesn't strictly adhere to the facts.
I was floored. Not only have I possibly been WRONG about something (which I loathe,and try to convince people never, ever, ever, ever happens), but I suddenly have a LOT more lies to atone for. Like, a LOT LOT LOT. I can't even remember the last time I told a story without a little saffron or basil.
For instance: my knuckles were bandaged while I worked today. The bandages' true story goes something like this:
A couple of days ago,while making cupcakes in the cute pink cupcake maker Santa brought, I grazed my hand against the hot cupcake surface. I put a Hello Kitty icepack over it that night, and it's mostly healed up. It's just bandaged now because I don't want it exposed to ER disgustingness.
That story is super boring. The only thing it provides is further evidence that I have the same taste in accouterments as a five-year-old ballerina. Therefore, at work today, I paprika'd it up:
"Oh, yeah! It was so dumb, I was using my cupcake maker a couple nights ago, when my dog started barking at a raccoon on the back porch. I jumped, and the lid shut down on my hand! It started blistering, so I ran out back and shoved my entire arm in the snow. I stayed out there until I stared to go numb, and the whole time, that damn raccoon was just like, staring at me. I think he was making fun of me, the little bastard. Anyway, my hand's OK, but I'm keeping it covered up because I don't want it exposed to ER disgustingness."
See? No one gets bored during stories about cupcakes and evil raccoons. And that is the truest thing I could ever say.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Shit My Mother Never Said
Freshman year of college, I found myself confronted with Pride & Prejudice for the second time. Once again, I didn't actually read it, but figured it wouldn't be too difficult to BS my way through the class discussions. And term paper.
I was wrong. As it turns out, one of the many differences between college and junior high is that in college, you're actually expected to expound on themes and deeper symbolism, neither of which were covered by the BBC. I spent most of the class time nodding along and making assentive noises.
Also: assentive isn't a word, but it really needs to be. Someone call Webster's, kplzthnx.
But back to the story (and the ensuing lie): one day, for no discernible reason, I informed the class that around page 85, Jane Austen "totally paragalizes the point."
That's right: PARAGALIZE. I was met with blank stares and arched eyebrows. My teacher, bless him, tried to guess what I meant. Unfortunately, we all soon realized that I meant absolutely nothing. That's when the professor shut me up for awhile:
"Ashlea, you were just talking to make noise. Let's move on."
Just Talking To Make Noise is an excellent reason to lie. More often than not, my noise-lies take the form of ridiculous platitudes and superstitions, i.e.:
-Windy February means that the spring flowers will be brighter.
-Babies born near holidays learn to talk before other babies.
-Small teeth mean emotional immaturity.
-People who bite their lips are good kissers.
-Flexing your toes before you get up in the morning keeps you from making too many mistakes that day.
Understandably, people don't usually know how to respond to my "sayings." Once again, I find myself met with blanks stares and arched eyebrows. To cover, I revert to what is, in my awesome opinion, the best excuse I know:
My mom says that like, ALL THE TIME.
Just like that, the blanks stares turn into nods and "Aahhhhs" of approval and acceptance. Then, people have little kernels to pass on to their children and grandchildren, and my weird-ass sayings actually become Things.
The only time one of my Things ever went past the "My mom says" stage was a few months ago, when I was talking to a guy in front of some of my friends. I'm still not sure what the guy's deal was, but I didn't like the vibe he gave off. And my friends were oblivious to the vibe, couldn't understand why I blew him off, and wouldn't accept the "he's too short" excuse (apparently, 5'2" girls aren't allowed to use that one).
So, I explained that he had wrinkles on the back of his neck, and, according to my mother, "neck wrinkles mean a guy is like, way aggressive, and has a lot of anger management issues."
For once, the response was an enlightened "Aahhhh!" and an "Oh yeah, I think I've heard that one before! It's like, basic phrenology." Yes, my friends talk about phrenology. This is why they're my friends.
There are two morals to this story. Firstly, talking just to make noise, like lying, can be embarrassing occasionally. It's rare, but it happens. Secondly, if you're running out of excuses to not go out with a guy, the neck wrinkles thing works every single time.
And in the name of full disclosure, I can't remember most of the noise-lies I've told. I made up most of them, except the neck wrinkles one, as I typed. And I think I've only had one conversation, ever, about phrenology. SORRY FOR LYING.
I was wrong. As it turns out, one of the many differences between college and junior high is that in college, you're actually expected to expound on themes and deeper symbolism, neither of which were covered by the BBC. I spent most of the class time nodding along and making assentive noises.
Also: assentive isn't a word, but it really needs to be. Someone call Webster's, kplzthnx.
But back to the story (and the ensuing lie): one day, for no discernible reason, I informed the class that around page 85, Jane Austen "totally paragalizes the point."
That's right: PARAGALIZE. I was met with blank stares and arched eyebrows. My teacher, bless him, tried to guess what I meant. Unfortunately, we all soon realized that I meant absolutely nothing. That's when the professor shut me up for awhile:
"Ashlea, you were just talking to make noise. Let's move on."
Just Talking To Make Noise is an excellent reason to lie. More often than not, my noise-lies take the form of ridiculous platitudes and superstitions, i.e.:
-Windy February means that the spring flowers will be brighter.
-Babies born near holidays learn to talk before other babies.
-Small teeth mean emotional immaturity.
-People who bite their lips are good kissers.
-Flexing your toes before you get up in the morning keeps you from making too many mistakes that day.
Understandably, people don't usually know how to respond to my "sayings." Once again, I find myself met with blanks stares and arched eyebrows. To cover, I revert to what is, in my awesome opinion, the best excuse I know:
My mom says that like, ALL THE TIME.
Just like that, the blanks stares turn into nods and "Aahhhhs" of approval and acceptance. Then, people have little kernels to pass on to their children and grandchildren, and my weird-ass sayings actually become Things.
The only time one of my Things ever went past the "My mom says" stage was a few months ago, when I was talking to a guy in front of some of my friends. I'm still not sure what the guy's deal was, but I didn't like the vibe he gave off. And my friends were oblivious to the vibe, couldn't understand why I blew him off, and wouldn't accept the "he's too short" excuse (apparently, 5'2" girls aren't allowed to use that one).
So, I explained that he had wrinkles on the back of his neck, and, according to my mother, "neck wrinkles mean a guy is like, way aggressive, and has a lot of anger management issues."
For once, the response was an enlightened "Aahhhh!" and an "Oh yeah, I think I've heard that one before! It's like, basic phrenology." Yes, my friends talk about phrenology. This is why they're my friends.
There are two morals to this story. Firstly, talking just to make noise, like lying, can be embarrassing occasionally. It's rare, but it happens. Secondly, if you're running out of excuses to not go out with a guy, the neck wrinkles thing works every single time.
And in the name of full disclosure, I can't remember most of the noise-lies I've told. I made up most of them, except the neck wrinkles one, as I typed. And I think I've only had one conversation, ever, about phrenology. SORRY FOR LYING.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Football, Michael Jordan and Crying Wolf
If I had to make an honest Top 10 list of things I really, really hate, football probably ranks at #5, comfortably ensconced between SUVs and deer hunters.
Its only redeeming quality? Football movies. I'm a sap for Any Given Sunday
, Remember the Titans
and my new favorite: Friday Night Lights.
(Yes, smart asses, I know it's a football TV show derived from a football movie
based on a football book
. The TV show is the best incarnation, 'kay?)
Anyway, I've been marathoning that show like crazy for the last few months, and earlier tonight, kicked off the fourth season DVDs with my mom.
Approximately three minutes in, she realizes that one of the players used to be on All My Children. And even though I love telling stories and injecting them with my cynical, smart-assed commentary, this time, I'm going to convey the discussion exactly as it happened:
Mom: Oh, that kid! Remember, he was on All My Children? Oooohhhh, what was his character's name? Can you Google it? What's the actor's name?
Me: You can Google. The actor's name is Michael Jordan; I know that much.
Mom: Ha, yeah, right. Seriously, what's his name?
Me: It's Michael Jordan. I promise you, his name is Michael Jordan.
Mom: Ashlea. You know I don't do sports, but even I know that Michael Jordan is a basketball player. You're not going to tell a dumb lie just so you can blog something tonight.
Me: Mom. Look. At. Google. (waves phone in front of mother).
At this point, I should probably wax philosophic about how I should be alarmed that my own mother doesn't trust me to answer a simple question honestly.
But, to be honest, I'm mostly offended that she thought I would tell such a stupid lie. I mean, really?! I know that my mother knows who Michael Jordan, the basketball player, is. In fourth grade, she had to take my brother and me to see Space Jam. Twice.
And on the off chance she didn't know, she would've Googled in two seconds, seen the incorrect response, and told me I was wrong. There would have been no narrative to that lie, no fun story to tell, no incorrect assumption to perpetuate.
In short, it's not my style of lie at all. Frankly, it's beneath me.
And for the record, in case anyone else is too lazy to Google, Michael B. Jordan played Reggie Montgomery on All My Children, from 2003 to 2006. So we can all say we learned something today.
Its only redeeming quality? Football movies. I'm a sap for Any Given Sunday
, Remember the Titans and my new favorite: Friday Night Lights. (Yes, smart asses, I know it's a football TV show derived from a football movie
based on a football book. The TV show is the best incarnation, 'kay?) Anyway, I've been marathoning that show like crazy for the last few months, and earlier tonight, kicked off the fourth season DVDs with my mom.
Approximately three minutes in, she realizes that one of the players used to be on All My Children. And even though I love telling stories and injecting them with my cynical, smart-assed commentary, this time, I'm going to convey the discussion exactly as it happened:
Mom: Oh, that kid! Remember, he was on All My Children? Oooohhhh, what was his character's name? Can you Google it? What's the actor's name?
Me: You can Google. The actor's name is Michael Jordan; I know that much.
Mom: Ha, yeah, right. Seriously, what's his name?
Me: It's Michael Jordan. I promise you, his name is Michael Jordan.
Mom: Ashlea. You know I don't do sports, but even I know that Michael Jordan is a basketball player. You're not going to tell a dumb lie just so you can blog something tonight.
Me: Mom. Look. At. Google. (waves phone in front of mother).
At this point, I should probably wax philosophic about how I should be alarmed that my own mother doesn't trust me to answer a simple question honestly.
But, to be honest, I'm mostly offended that she thought I would tell such a stupid lie. I mean, really?! I know that my mother knows who Michael Jordan, the basketball player, is. In fourth grade, she had to take my brother and me to see Space Jam. Twice.
And on the off chance she didn't know, she would've Googled in two seconds, seen the incorrect response, and told me I was wrong. There would have been no narrative to that lie, no fun story to tell, no incorrect assumption to perpetuate.
In short, it's not my style of lie at all. Frankly, it's beneath me.
And for the record, in case anyone else is too lazy to Google, Michael B. Jordan played Reggie Montgomery on All My Children, from 2003 to 2006. So we can all say we learned something today.
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