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.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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.
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