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.