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).
Sunday, January 30, 2011
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.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Reading the Classics
Some people were born to be lie targets. I'm not saying that to be mean, but just as there are some people you feel an irresistible urge to hug, commiserate with or tell jokes to, there are some to whom I can't resist lying.
My eighth-grade English teacher, Mr. Rogers (name changed in order to semi-protect his identity. NOT TECHNICALLY A LIE. Also probably unnecessary since anyone who went to Jr. High with me knows exactly who I'm talking about.), was one of those. This was compounded by his first-year teaching naivete, as well as his earnest desire to be Robin Williams in The Dead Poet Society.
And in that equation, I think I was supposed to be Ethan Hawke, and in a climactic transition scene, he would coax me into bursting free with heretofore unknown poetic prowess, thus curing me of my crippling shyness and prompting me to cry out, "Oh, Captain!"
I forgot to mention that I also lied to him because he was kind of creepy.
Even though I was a terribly shy and awkward 13-year-old, I wasn't completely friendless or as discomfited as he thought. I definitely didn't warrant him crouching down next to my desk during "homework time," asking me how I was doing, what I was reading in my free time, and if I had any feelings I'd like to share.
You should know that I never have, and never will, have feelings.
It took about two days before I gave into temptation. I invented an entire sub-life, which, instead of consisting of Pony Club rallies and ballet class, had Junior Olympics, off-off-off Broadway performances, and some kind of grassroots Save the Pandas nonprofit.
Was I projecting my actual dreams and goals? Probably-- who doesn't want to save pandas? But the larger issue remains: why did this guy believe me? Was it my amazing commitment to detail-- I actually gave him a contact number and website for the panda organization. And my essays always detailed the European warmbloods I was training, down to their sire's bloodlines. I even wrote a short story about one of my dance performances, even though I can hardly count it as a lie since I ripped off the storyline to Centre Stage.
Maybe it still seems a little mean, but in addition to being an overly earnest creeper, he was also a terrible, terrible English teacher. Before Christmas break, when we "read" A Christmas Carol
, he showed us the Muppets
' version, encouraging us to "follow along" with the text.
The kicker came during Brit Lit week (week!) when we studied Pride and Prejudice by watching the 1990's BBC miniseries. No offense to Jane Austen, but from the first commercial break (that's right. He didn't pay for the movie-- he taped it off A & E one night), the plotline's super easy to figure out. So, when he had us go around the room and make our predictions, I guessed that Elizabeth and Darcy, and Bingley and Jane, all wound up together.
I think he felt like Michael Phelps' Tadpole swimming coach. He spent about twenty seconds in shock and awe, before getting suspicious, for the first time, and assuming I must've read the book before.
I've never read the entire Pride & Prejudice text
. Not even when I did a project on it senior year of high school. But because lying to Mr. Rogers was practically compulsory at this point, I had to say,
"Yeah, is that OK? I read it in the summer between third and fourth grade, during the English for Elementary program at the library. We read that, and Great Expectations
, and Anna Karenina
. They made us write essays for some kind of anthology-- it's still in the library reference section, I think."
At this point, a good teacher would've asked me what the essays were about. In my mind, I was prepping all sorts of BS about society, and the roles of women, yada yada yada.
But Mr. Roger, God bless him, just put on his earnest face, and blathered about how much initiative that showed, and how far ahead I was going to be when I started high school in the fall.
Then we watched Colin Firth play Darcy until the end of the semester.
My eighth-grade English teacher, Mr. Rogers (name changed in order to semi-protect his identity. NOT TECHNICALLY A LIE. Also probably unnecessary since anyone who went to Jr. High with me knows exactly who I'm talking about.), was one of those. This was compounded by his first-year teaching naivete, as well as his earnest desire to be Robin Williams in The Dead Poet Society.
And in that equation, I think I was supposed to be Ethan Hawke, and in a climactic transition scene, he would coax me into bursting free with heretofore unknown poetic prowess, thus curing me of my crippling shyness and prompting me to cry out, "Oh, Captain!"
I forgot to mention that I also lied to him because he was kind of creepy.
Even though I was a terribly shy and awkward 13-year-old, I wasn't completely friendless or as discomfited as he thought. I definitely didn't warrant him crouching down next to my desk during "homework time," asking me how I was doing, what I was reading in my free time, and if I had any feelings I'd like to share.
You should know that I never have, and never will, have feelings.
It took about two days before I gave into temptation. I invented an entire sub-life, which, instead of consisting of Pony Club rallies and ballet class, had Junior Olympics, off-off-off Broadway performances, and some kind of grassroots Save the Pandas nonprofit.
Was I projecting my actual dreams and goals? Probably-- who doesn't want to save pandas? But the larger issue remains: why did this guy believe me? Was it my amazing commitment to detail-- I actually gave him a contact number and website for the panda organization. And my essays always detailed the European warmbloods I was training, down to their sire's bloodlines. I even wrote a short story about one of my dance performances, even though I can hardly count it as a lie since I ripped off the storyline to Centre Stage.
Maybe it still seems a little mean, but in addition to being an overly earnest creeper, he was also a terrible, terrible English teacher. Before Christmas break, when we "read" A Christmas Carol
, he showed us the Muppets' version, encouraging us to "follow along" with the text. The kicker came during Brit Lit week (week!) when we studied Pride and Prejudice by watching the 1990's BBC miniseries. No offense to Jane Austen, but from the first commercial break (that's right. He didn't pay for the movie-- he taped it off A & E one night), the plotline's super easy to figure out. So, when he had us go around the room and make our predictions, I guessed that Elizabeth and Darcy, and Bingley and Jane, all wound up together.
I think he felt like Michael Phelps' Tadpole swimming coach. He spent about twenty seconds in shock and awe, before getting suspicious, for the first time, and assuming I must've read the book before.
I've never read the entire Pride & Prejudice text
. Not even when I did a project on it senior year of high school. But because lying to Mr. Rogers was practically compulsory at this point, I had to say,"Yeah, is that OK? I read it in the summer between third and fourth grade, during the English for Elementary program at the library. We read that, and Great Expectations
, and Anna Karenina. They made us write essays for some kind of anthology-- it's still in the library reference section, I think." At this point, a good teacher would've asked me what the essays were about. In my mind, I was prepping all sorts of BS about society, and the roles of women, yada yada yada.
But Mr. Roger, God bless him, just put on his earnest face, and blathered about how much initiative that showed, and how far ahead I was going to be when I started high school in the fall.
Then we watched Colin Firth play Darcy until the end of the semester.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Getting stronger...
Cue the rainbows and fireworks: last night, for maybe the first time ever, I RESISTED THE URGE TO LIE.
It was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. And it was a good lie, too.
First, for a little background: I have a bracelet fetish. I'm never truly happy unless I have strands of silver and baubles clanging around my wrists. I love the jingling sounds they make, even though I've been told that it makes me like a cat with a bell when I trot down the halls at work.
MORE background: my official job title is Emergency Patient Registration Representative. I'm the annoying woman shoving paperwork under your nose while you have a heart attack.
Yesterday, I had to annoy a perfectly nice 11-year-old with a broken ankle, and her mother. While explaining hospital legalese, the girl informs me that she "OMG, totally loves" my bracelets for the day.
One was a silver peace-sign pattern from Aeropostale. The other is a string bracelet with little chunks of jade hanging down from it. I bought the first bracelet in the Kingsport mall; the second, I bought in a store in Taipei. So it was reasonable, really, that I had to bite my tongue from saying,
"Hey, thanks! I bought these off a Taiwanese gypsy!"
It's a good story, right? Mention gypsies, and people automatically get romantic notions about a traveling band of musicians and artisans, with whom I had to haggle in order to procure my bracelet.
Unfortunately, Googling Taiwan and gypsies doesn't turn up any results. Gypsies aren't really a thing over there. I don't have a lot of faith in 11-year-olds, but I'm pretty sure she could've figured that out. And then she would've been all disillusioned, and realized that instead of buying an awesome piece of jewelry from a 117-year-old traveling merchant, I purchased it from what was probably the Taiwanese equivalent of Aeropostale.
For once, I thought beyond the initial awesomeness of my lie. Look at me, I'm growing.
Work week ended in SUCCESS. Which brings me to my next point...
For some reason, this rotation totally kicked my oh-so-toned rear end. Also, it's snowing and COLD outside. Therefore, I probably won't venture out in the public much during my off days.
This poses a problem for blogging. The way I see things (which, I admit, is slightly unconventional), I have two options:
a.) I can lie to my mother a lot, and hope she doesn't catch on. This might be difficult, given that she's probably 50% of my readership.
b.) I can 'fess up to some of the lies I've told throughout my life. I've been lying for the past 22 years, so there's some pretty good material to work with. Also, in keeping with my resolution thing, coming clean may help purify my karmic reservoir.
Mom, get ready to hear about the moose I just saw in the front yard. Actually, I think it was a reindeer, and James Franco was riding it...
It was quite possibly the hardest thing I've ever done. And it was a good lie, too.
First, for a little background: I have a bracelet fetish. I'm never truly happy unless I have strands of silver and baubles clanging around my wrists. I love the jingling sounds they make, even though I've been told that it makes me like a cat with a bell when I trot down the halls at work.
MORE background: my official job title is Emergency Patient Registration Representative. I'm the annoying woman shoving paperwork under your nose while you have a heart attack.
Yesterday, I had to annoy a perfectly nice 11-year-old with a broken ankle, and her mother. While explaining hospital legalese, the girl informs me that she "OMG, totally loves" my bracelets for the day.
One was a silver peace-sign pattern from Aeropostale. The other is a string bracelet with little chunks of jade hanging down from it. I bought the first bracelet in the Kingsport mall; the second, I bought in a store in Taipei. So it was reasonable, really, that I had to bite my tongue from saying,
"Hey, thanks! I bought these off a Taiwanese gypsy!"
It's a good story, right? Mention gypsies, and people automatically get romantic notions about a traveling band of musicians and artisans, with whom I had to haggle in order to procure my bracelet.
Unfortunately, Googling Taiwan and gypsies doesn't turn up any results. Gypsies aren't really a thing over there. I don't have a lot of faith in 11-year-olds, but I'm pretty sure she could've figured that out. And then she would've been all disillusioned, and realized that instead of buying an awesome piece of jewelry from a 117-year-old traveling merchant, I purchased it from what was probably the Taiwanese equivalent of Aeropostale.
For once, I thought beyond the initial awesomeness of my lie. Look at me, I'm growing.
Work week ended in SUCCESS. Which brings me to my next point...
For some reason, this rotation totally kicked my oh-so-toned rear end. Also, it's snowing and COLD outside. Therefore, I probably won't venture out in the public much during my off days.
This poses a problem for blogging. The way I see things (which, I admit, is slightly unconventional), I have two options:
a.) I can lie to my mother a lot, and hope she doesn't catch on. This might be difficult, given that she's probably 50% of my readership.
b.) I can 'fess up to some of the lies I've told throughout my life. I've been lying for the past 22 years, so there's some pretty good material to work with. Also, in keeping with my resolution thing, coming clean may help purify my karmic reservoir.
Mom, get ready to hear about the moose I just saw in the front yard. Actually, I think it was a reindeer, and James Franco was riding it...
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A Clarification
While lying, and talking about lying, is great fun for me, it's come to my attention that some people (namely, some family members) are a little disturbed by the whole thing. So, please allow me to clarify a few points:
I do not consider myself a liar, per se. To me, a liar is someone who lies in order to misrepresent themselves, or inflict harm unto someone else. I would never, ever do either of those things. Maybe an appropriate disclaimer would be: No strangers were harmed in the making of this blog.
If I had to estimate it, I'd say 99% of my tales stem from boredom, and a desire to spice up someone else's day. Above all else, I'm a storyteller, and in the back of my mind, I truly believe that telling a crazy story to someone can brighten their day. It's up to them whether or not to believe me, and either way, they have something to go home and tell their kids about.
If someone wants to worry about my mental state, worry about the other one percent of my lies. Those are the lies that I tell for no reason, that fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Check out my Reba McEntire story for an example of that. Those are told without an agenda; they don't help me in any way, nor do they hurt anyone else. They just.. happen.
None of my lies are malicious. I cannot stress this enough.
And underneath any stories I tell, I'm still me. I've never, ever, ever tried to be someone I'm not, except for a week sophomore year when I spoke in a British accent. No matter where I am, or what story I'm telling, I'm still Ashlea Chase, from a goat farm in east Tennessee/ southwest Virginia. I love ponies, dogs and Canadians, and hate people who drive Hummers.
I also hate liars.
I do not consider myself a liar, per se. To me, a liar is someone who lies in order to misrepresent themselves, or inflict harm unto someone else. I would never, ever do either of those things. Maybe an appropriate disclaimer would be: No strangers were harmed in the making of this blog.
If I had to estimate it, I'd say 99% of my tales stem from boredom, and a desire to spice up someone else's day. Above all else, I'm a storyteller, and in the back of my mind, I truly believe that telling a crazy story to someone can brighten their day. It's up to them whether or not to believe me, and either way, they have something to go home and tell their kids about.
If someone wants to worry about my mental state, worry about the other one percent of my lies. Those are the lies that I tell for no reason, that fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. Check out my Reba McEntire story for an example of that. Those are told without an agenda; they don't help me in any way, nor do they hurt anyone else. They just.. happen.
None of my lies are malicious. I cannot stress this enough.
And underneath any stories I tell, I'm still me. I've never, ever, ever tried to be someone I'm not, except for a week sophomore year when I spoke in a British accent. No matter where I am, or what story I'm telling, I'm still Ashlea Chase, from a goat farm in east Tennessee/ southwest Virginia. I love ponies, dogs and Canadians, and hate people who drive Hummers.
I also hate liars.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Resolutions: Redux
Over the past 24 years, I've read hundreds of books, watched thousands of hours of TV, had a James Franco airport sighting (at least, I hope it was him. My entire world will crumble if that turns out to be a lie), guest-starred on Smallville
(that's a big lie. But it's one I tell a lot, so take note), and I've learned exactly one thing:
Talking about New Year's resolutions becomes super lame after January 3rd. Therefore, if this post is ever going to happen, it has to happen TONIGHT. Let's all revel in the sense of urgency, shall we?
Unfortunately, I was really tired at work today. Probably because after leaving there at 3 am yesterday, I stayed online until 6 creating this blog. The problem with staying up a couple hours later is that instead of being awesome punch-drunk tired, you're just sleepy- tired.
Sleepy doesn't yield great lies.
However, while discussing resolutions with some co-workers, I announced my intention to stop saying "I know, right?!" as a response to... just about everything. I was careful to explain that my overuse of that phrase gives off the impression that I'm an empty-headed Valley Girl, and that I should probably make it more obvious that I'm perfectly capable of discussing Russian politics, labeling various lobes of the brain, or pontificating about the symbolism of pear trees in Their Eyes Were Watching God
. Or I could make it clear that I know what pontificate means.
I could even talk about how I write a blog where I tell ridiculous lies and talk about James Franco constantly (Just wait. It's coming).
Anyway, THAT RESOLUTION WAS A LIE. I have zero intention of giving up my favorite rejoinder. As much as I babble on about how much I'd love to have serious, deep discussions with people, the simple truth boils down to this: no one I talk to cares about pear trees. And really, if I started talking to someone about high heels or smelly people, and that person started blathering on about feminist literature, I'd probably be a teeny bit put off. And then I wouldn't want to be friends with that person, and she'd have no one to talk to or go see TRON with. She'd learn the hard way that when someone says, "I can't believe that guy has Who Let The Dogs Out
as a ringtone!" the only, only, correct response is "I know, RIGHT?!" Thus, those three words have just saved her from a lifetime of loneliness and ostracism. Those words are heroes.
Despite being too tired to tell anyone about my adventures in Singapore a few years ago, (during which I not only shared a hookah with Tony Blair while he was vising on super-important British business, but I also had a mystic tattoo the secret of life on the back of my leg, where it's impossible for me to read), I managed to slip in a few just-for-fun lies. My apologies to the following people:
Guy behind me at the vending machine: I don't know why I told you I have a three-year-old. But really, when you said, "Oh, buying those fruit snacks, huh?" I felt like I needed to justify buying two packs of them. And since I'm pretty sure grown-ups don't eat fruit snacks, let alone subsist on them for days at a time, I had to think quick. And sorry for telling you the story about how "Caroline" got a kitten for Christmas. I don't know why that happened, except I felt like I needed to develop her character a little more. You know, so that a stranger could believe my lie.
Everyone who just read this entry: I have almost no memory of Their Eyes Were Watching God, except that there was a character named Sop-in-the-Bucket (I think). If you try to talk to me about imagery and symbolism, I will stare at you blankly.
And then blink and say, "I know, right? It's so powerful, the way Zora Neale Hurston writes that. You know, she was like, best friends with my grandmother's cousin..."
(that's a big lie. But it's one I tell a lot, so take note), and I've learned exactly one thing:Talking about New Year's resolutions becomes super lame after January 3rd. Therefore, if this post is ever going to happen, it has to happen TONIGHT. Let's all revel in the sense of urgency, shall we?
Unfortunately, I was really tired at work today. Probably because after leaving there at 3 am yesterday, I stayed online until 6 creating this blog. The problem with staying up a couple hours later is that instead of being awesome punch-drunk tired, you're just sleepy- tired.
Sleepy doesn't yield great lies.
However, while discussing resolutions with some co-workers, I announced my intention to stop saying "I know, right?!" as a response to... just about everything. I was careful to explain that my overuse of that phrase gives off the impression that I'm an empty-headed Valley Girl, and that I should probably make it more obvious that I'm perfectly capable of discussing Russian politics, labeling various lobes of the brain, or pontificating about the symbolism of pear trees in Their Eyes Were Watching God
. Or I could make it clear that I know what pontificate means. I could even talk about how I write a blog where I tell ridiculous lies and talk about James Franco constantly (Just wait. It's coming).
Anyway, THAT RESOLUTION WAS A LIE. I have zero intention of giving up my favorite rejoinder. As much as I babble on about how much I'd love to have serious, deep discussions with people, the simple truth boils down to this: no one I talk to cares about pear trees. And really, if I started talking to someone about high heels or smelly people, and that person started blathering on about feminist literature, I'd probably be a teeny bit put off. And then I wouldn't want to be friends with that person, and she'd have no one to talk to or go see TRON with. She'd learn the hard way that when someone says, "I can't believe that guy has Who Let The Dogs Out
as a ringtone!" the only, only, correct response is "I know, RIGHT?!" Thus, those three words have just saved her from a lifetime of loneliness and ostracism. Those words are heroes. Despite being too tired to tell anyone about my adventures in Singapore a few years ago, (during which I not only shared a hookah with Tony Blair while he was vising on super-important British business, but I also had a mystic tattoo the secret of life on the back of my leg, where it's impossible for me to read), I managed to slip in a few just-for-fun lies. My apologies to the following people:
Guy behind me at the vending machine: I don't know why I told you I have a three-year-old. But really, when you said, "Oh, buying those fruit snacks, huh?" I felt like I needed to justify buying two packs of them. And since I'm pretty sure grown-ups don't eat fruit snacks, let alone subsist on them for days at a time, I had to think quick. And sorry for telling you the story about how "Caroline" got a kitten for Christmas. I don't know why that happened, except I felt like I needed to develop her character a little more. You know, so that a stranger could believe my lie.
Everyone who just read this entry: I have almost no memory of Their Eyes Were Watching God, except that there was a character named Sop-in-the-Bucket (I think). If you try to talk to me about imagery and symbolism, I will stare at you blankly.
And then blink and say, "I know, right? It's so powerful, the way Zora Neale Hurston writes that. You know, she was like, best friends with my grandmother's cousin..."
Saturday, January 1, 2011
A Resolution!
Happy 2011!!! No offense to 2010, but it wasn't exactly a year full of growth, excitement and life-changing revelations. In fact, I closed out the year in the same way I began it-- living in my mom's house, working in a field unrelated to my major, and single.
I did, however, get a nine-cent raise a couple months ago. So there's that.
So, when life gets stagnant, you have a few options. First, you can wait for something to happen to you; for instance, Baz Lurhmann catches your eye at Target in East Tennessee and immediately casts you as Jordan Baker (for the record, one of my favorite characters in all of literature) in his new The Great Gatsby movie. You then live happily and fabulously ever after.
To be honest, that's my preferred method. Not only does it involved the least amount of work, but the next time you watch something like The Lizzie McGuire Movie
(*cough* not that I ever saw it, of course), you can't scoff and say, "That's so unrealistic! Not even kids can buy into this dreck!" because you lived it. You are THAT GIRL.However, unless you actually are Lizzie McGuire, changing your life requires actual action on your part. This is a little trickier, because as awesome as it being That Girl Who Stumbles into a Lucky Break and Lives Happily Ever After, it's equally un-awesome to be That Girl Who Changed up Her Life, Only To Fail Miserably and Live Unhappily Ever After, and then Die.
Which leads us to the resolution conundrum: to pursue something that could conceivably make your life better, but probably won't kill you. So, this year, I'm taking the advice of my mom, friends and hairdresser: I'm going to try to stop lying.
Everybody lies. I know this. However, most people limit their lies to the basics, like, "Have you lost weight? You totally look like you've lost weight." Or, "Oh, no, officer, was I speeding? I wasn't paying attention because I'm on my way to visit my sick grandmother." Even the occasional, "Sorry I can't pick up an extra work shift. They're testing my leg for radon."
My lies are better than that. I can't quite explain it, but sometimes when I'm talking, the most absurd things pop out of my mouth. One of my favorites happened a couple of years ago, when I wrecked my car into a ditch and needed a new tire rim. The guy at the auto shop told me it would take four days or so to get fixed, which was completely unacceptable, since I had to go back to college in two days, and my school was five hours away. I probably could have told him that, and he would have accommodated me. However, before it occurred to me to be honest, this story came out.
"Sorry, that won't work. I'm a personal assistant for Reba McEntire, and if I'm not in Nashville by Saturday in time for the CMTs, the entire world will implode."
I can't explain why that happened. Gun to my head, I'm not sure I could name a single Reba song.
OK, that's a lie. There are a couple on my iPod.
But to make the story better, the guy believed me. I got my car back the next day, went back to school, and proceeded to tell crazy stories to grocery store clerks and study group partners.
Lying is fun, and occasionally profitable. It's not, however, particularly good for one's karmic reservoir, and mine probably needs all the help it can get. So, for the next 365 days, I'm going to try REALLY REALLY hard to quit lying. I'm going to document my efforts on this blog. And while I love myself, and have an almost delusional sense of self-worth, I'm pretty sure I'm not going to succeed, not completely.
Therefore, whenever I lie this year, I'm going to record it. So if I'm talking to you, and I tell you that I brought a gunshot victim back to life by singing the score to Wicked
(side note: I work in an emergency room. Much, much more on that later), check here to see if it was true.It quite possibly could be.
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