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The Top Five Lies an Honest Person Should Tell



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Lies, Lies....

Lies, Lies....

 

Consider yourself an honest person? Well, bully for you. That’s a very fine quality in a person – especially in a person who meets me, since I can typically spot a liar at twenty paces – moreover, I myself never lie as a general rule, since I have a memory like a broken sieve. To lie would be to deliberately place myself in harm’s way, since I would trip myself up too easily.

Did I say Greece? I meant Ireland. Yeah, that’s right. I was in IRELAND last Thursday. THAT’S why I couldn’t make your party. Yeah, big bagpipe convention. What… oh, yeah, I mean SCOTLAND.

See? I SUCK at lying. No, wait, that’s a lie right there. I’m actually a stellar liar; I could make you believe you were an alien from space, if I really wanted to, but I’m a sucky rememberer. You’d come to me, later, all wrapped in tinfoil, and when I laughed at you, you’d go all crestfallen on me: “But… but… you said…

Then I’d remember and go: “Oh, yeah, Andromeda Galaxy, that’s right. Whoops. Eh-heh…”

HOWEVER (I’m also a terrific digresser) to get to the main point here: SOMETIMES, it’s important to LIE. Because the worst kind of mean-hearted bully is the kind who tries to use “honesty” to hurt other people, to wit:

“I’m just being honest here. You DO look fat.”

Now come on. Is that EVER necessary? No. Lie, people, lie your asses off. If some friend of yours is stuffed into something that makes them look like Jones Pork Sausage, what the hey? They’re already out and dressed. It can’t be helped now. What they need NOW is CONFIDENCE to pull off the look.

Lies, delivered in the spirit of loving dishonesty, do just that.

#1 Your Haircut Looks Great.

Even if you can barely look without flinching, even if your eyeballs start to tear, you MUST manage this, because hair only grows so fast, and your friend/acquaintance/boss/mother now must live with this horror for at least a few long and terrible weeks.

“Is it bad?”

“NOOOOOOhhhhh,” is your answer, as enthusiastically as possible. Add a little primping touch of the hand, as if you can’t resist the touch of the prickly mess, if you can bear it. “It’s terrific. Only YOU could pull it off. It suits you so well!”

#2 No, it SO wasn’t you, it was them!

Your friend is devastated by the loss of a significant other. Perhaps, you, who have followed the drama and the saga, know for a fact that his or her giant chasm of need DID in fact, drive the poor bastard away screaming and babbling incoherently.

NOW is not the time for a personality review.

BAD: “Yeah, sweetie, it WAS you. Poor schmuck couldn’t take you following him to work, calling his cell every ten minutes, texting him every five, I mean, think about it, hon.”

GOOD: “Sweetie, he didn’t deserve you. You’re better off without him. Here: have another pint of Chunky Monkey.”

Later, perhaps, you can suggest counseling, or a good lawyer to deal with the Order of Protection.

#3 How old do I look?

Hang on, here, I have to stop laughing so I can type. Do I really need to spell this out for you folks? Is there anyone out there who really thinks they get some kind of cosmic points for guessing RIGHT?

I’ve seen this – mostly guys – smiling, as if someone’s going to hand them a fluffy carnival toy when they see a woman’s mouth drop open. “I got it, didn’t I? I’m right, aren’t I? You’re 40.”

I have actually said to guys that have done this: “Asshole.”

They’re completely oblivious to the idea that the woman with the mouth agape is struggling NOT to knock the block off the self-satisfied jackass.

Two very good rules to follow here.

Number one: refuse to guess. Claim it’s a policy of yours. This is, in fact, the safest way to go, and if you have the balls to ride it out, you’re good to go. 

Number two:
Part A: If, say, an obviously 50-ish person asks (and stupid, by the way, to ask in the first place), don’t be stupider and say “21.” Why is this stupid? Because it’s so clearly not true, it makes them think YOU think they’re SO old that you have to guess WAY too young to flatter them. It ends up insulting.

Hey – I didn’t say it made sense. I’m just giving you the skinny on how people think.

Part B: Instead, if you think you’re ANY good at guessing – and you best be DAMN good at guessing – take THAT age, and subtract 10-15.

THAT will make it seem real that you guessed wrong – and way under.

The very BEST way to flatter people about their age? If and when they mention the ages of their children, look SHOCKED and say: “I can’t believe you have kids that age. You don’t look old enough to have kids that age.”

That’s believable – and flattering. And it comes up naturally in conversation, and can make somebody’s DAY.

# 4. You’re right.

My grandfather used to say: “A man convinced against his will remains of the same opinion still.”

It’s up to you, here, folks, but personally? I don’t give a rat’s ass about whether most people KNOW I’m right, as long as I do.

For instance: you come across some hardcore goofball on the sidewalk – maybe wearing a sandwich board, proclaiming that he’s a taco.

You know, of course, that he is NOT a taco. Tacos, for those who do not know, don’t have faces, for one thing. Neither do they argue on streetcorners.

Believe it or not, there are some people who will waste valuable moments of their lives they will never get back, trying to convince the buffoon that he is, in fact, NOT a taco, but actually a living human being, and inedible for the most part, outside of a few cannibalistic rainforest dwellers. (Who probably will not wrap him in Mexican breadlike outer coatings and hot sauce.)

Why bother? You KNOW you’re right, he’s wrong, go on your merry way.

It’s so totally okay to be right and have no one know it but you. Even if said Taco Dude has a band of merry Taco Followers mocking you, calling you Dufus. Shrug, and move on to the next street corner, where perhaps you’ll find someone who thinks they’re a hamburger.

#5 This is delicious.

Even if what you’re served tastes like Dog Turd Pudding (see earlier post), if you’ve been the lucky recipient of free food and the free hospitality at someone’s home, however humble, you are unfortunately obliged to eat it.

Tip: your olfactory sense – that is, your nose – is connected to your taste buds. So if you can’t smell, you can’t taste. So breathe through your mouth and choke the Cream of Whatever down. Somehow.

BONUS LIE:

“Everything is going to be all right.”

Actually, this one isn’t a lie. My grandmother – the wife of previously mentioned grandfather – had a good saying, too: “Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger.” So: no matter what ever happens to you, no matter how shitty, everything DOES end up all right in the end. The wheel turns, and daylight breaks again. So this one, once the cosmic shit storm passes, is the truth.

Keep it in mind. 

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Dog Turd Pudding.


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My Chrysler Town & Country VanConstant Reader, if you haven’t caught on by now to my offbeat but — so far — highly effective method of parenting (two daughters, nine and 11, smart, healthy, independent thinkers, funny, and … okay, in therapy, but let’s just say I’m giving them a running start), then here’s a little vignette to give you some insight.

First: yes, I drive a mini-van.

(I caved because my Fender Stratocaster, (search “Classic Series, metallic teal green for mine), the Ovation (acoustic w/pickup), the Fender passport sound system, the mikes, the props, etc. were getting too big for the old, beat up but extremely cool black-with-black-tinted-windows Chevy Blazer SUV the girls and I used to tool around in. So Peter talked us into a — I know, GOLD, would you EVER have THOUGHT? — Chrysler Town & Country, of all things, but d’y’know, it’s GREAT? EGAD.)

SO.

We’re driving home from this:

It’s Spring Break. We’re broke. So we get up early to visit Peter, then on to a client meeting, which is awesome cool, because it’s at a Rita’s Ices and Shakes. This means chocolate Mistos! Then we’re free for the rest of the afternoon, which sounds like fun, until we realize that we are

(a) out of money, and (b) out of gas.

But look: no, really, look: it’s okay, because

(c) it turns out the cash card has magically sprung a money leak after all.

So we can afford eggs and butter at the 7-11. And gasoline for the van, which is a greedy little bugger.

So we arrive at aforementioned 7-11, and splurge on Snickers, because they are seventy-five cents, (an awesome Spring Break deal). Besides, Peter just taught us an extremely cool version of Crazy Eights, which we are anxious to resume.

Plus, we are all curious about what, exactly, will be for dinner. Mom is not famous for her reliability about dinner on an every-night basis.

The girls start chanting: “Five – foot – long. Five- foot – long…” Which, it seems, is the TV jingle for SubWay.

Which, it seems, is a suggestion for dinner – and which, it seems, costs only five dollars. But, it seems, I have eggs and butter nestled cozily in my passenger seat, already paid for, making five dollars seem exorbitant, having, unbeknownst to them, settled nearly seventy dollars into my gas tank.

(You, Constant Reader, at this point might be wondering, perhaps, if there was a sale on commas while we were out? No. Apparently I have developed an unfortunate fondness for them today. Hmm.)

Meanwhile, back at the ranch – or actually, the van – the question of dinner remains unanswered. What is a mother (who herself isn’t hungry; Snickers really DOES satisfy) to do?

Head for the Dollar Store!

We love the Dollar Store. No, really. We love the Dollar Store. We do holiday shopping there, even. Today, for example: We bought two brooms, which we needed because we literally lost two this week. (Don’t ask.) Where else can you buy a broom for a dollar? And, if you need it – in the very same store – bins, binoculars, toilet paper, toys… it’s mind-bogglingly beautiful.

We love it there.

My nine-year-old bought Chinese Finger Traps. (And brooms. Like I said…)

The ride home:

Youngest daughter: I’m stuck.

Me: (Appalled. This is supposed to be the brainy one, who explained to the older one how Australia – again, with the Australia – is a continent AND a country) You got YOURSELF stuck?

Oldest daughter: You push your fingers IN to get them OUT.

Youngest:
I did. Now they’re too close together.

Me: So I guess they really work, huh?

Youngest:
(grunting)

Me: So, how do they work, anyway? Not like bear traps, right? You don’t cover them up with leaves and just hope someone sticks their fingers in, do you?

Youngest: Ah! I did it! No – you play a joke on someone, and get them to put their fingers in.

Me: Is there ANYONE left in the world who doesn’t know that it’s a trap, though?

Oldest:
(dismissively) You can always tear them apart if you get stuck enough.

Youngest: I know what I’m gonna do as soon as I see Dad.

Oldest and Youngest:
So what’s for dinner?

Me: (to the youngest, who happens to be brilliant at entertaining herself) Is there ANYTHING you can’t have fun with?

Youngest: (completely serious) Dog turds.

Me: (laughing hysterically, hardly able to drive.)

Oldest and Youngest): What? What’s so funny?

Me: Dog turds are just… funny. It’s a funny phrase. Like the word “pudding” is a funny word. (I then break out into even more hysterical peals of laughter.) Like “dog turd pudding.” Now: THAT’S what’s for dinner, guys.

Oldest: (who has discovered my blog, and in general, thinks I’m a tad silly) Are you SURE you’re not on crack?*

Me: (pulling the van into the driveway, and hustling the kids into the house with the eggs and butter under my arm) Hurry up inside, girls. Your dog turd pudding’s getting cold.

* Earlier post, where my mother – incorrectly – suspects that I am on crack, but will not admit it to my face. Note, Constant Reader: I actually READ that post out loud TO my mother this morning. She laughed – a lot, but her response: “I love you. Good luck today.”

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