lying

So…It’s that special time between holidays where my guard goes down, my cold, stone heart turns all soft and mushy, and I throw the entire world a ton of slack…because I’m jolly as fuck!

That being said, I still can’t find it in myself to feel sorry for the poor corporations and the super rich who I’m being told every minute of the day need our help because their tax rate is too high.

Listen, dickless, get your hands out of my wallet and off of children’s healthcare!

Besides, we all know your wealth won’t trickle down. In all the years they’ve tried to convince us it will—it never has. I may be jolly but what do you take me for, a fool?

I’m also not buying the case for doing away with net neutrality. Everybody wants cheap, fast, and impartial internet access. Period. The end. Full stop.

Dear Ajit Pai and the FCC, if you know what’s good for you—you won’t fuck with our internet!

And what’s with all the lying? It isn’t just pervasive, it’s epidemic and it insults my intelligence!

“We never talked to any Russians!”
Oh, mah, gawd! Yes, yes you guys did. A bunch of you. A gaggle. A gang. A coven of suits, you all talked to the Russians.
A lot. Like, all the time!
Then you lied to cover it up, like we all do when we’re just having legal conversations about nothing with lovely folks who aren’t criminals.

I heard a story recently that reminded me of Paul Manafort and (Don Jr.? Flynn? Pence? — fill in the blank) about two dumb-shits who killed a third dumb-shit (this is just an educated guess because of his proximity and relationship to the other two). They hit him in the head repeatedly with a hammer and then tied a cinder block to his legs and threw his corpse into a body of water.

Of course they didn’t do any of that right because his body came up to the surface within an hour—with a head full of hammer marks—and while the police were scouring the area looking for the perpetrators, our hero’s got pulled over for a traffic violation that produced a bloody hammer and a couple of matching cinder blocks — IN THE TRUNK OF THE CAR.

And even though their finger prints and his blood was EVERYWHERE — they denied any wrong doing.
There’s nuthin’ to see here!
They were indignantly innocent because they said they were.

Sound familiar?

My dog thought so.

Here’s a case for trickle down lying.

Last night, for the first time in the four years she’s been alive, our little brown dog jumped up onto the kitchen counter and ate half a pot roast.

Judging from the suspicious look on her face, the drooling, and the licking of her chops as she left the room we were in on her way to the kitchen, I suspected as much. But my husband, his faith in her good behavior stubbornly intact, gave her the benefit of the doubt until she failed to come after repeatedly being called.

Ruby! Ruby? Ruby…where are you?

He got up to check on the roast at the exact same moment she left the kitchen. They even passed each other in the living room. The fact that she could not maintain eye contact, had her tail between her legs, and was virtually commando crawling past him was the clincher for me. It was her “bloody hammer in the trunk” moment as far as I was concerned.

“Motherf*#@$ dog!” He yelled, bounding back into the den and grabbing her sorry ass in a headlock all the while dragging her back to the scene of the crime amid a firestorm of obscenities.

“You bad dog!” he hissed. “You ate half a damn roast!”

Really? Did you see me eat it? I heard her say as she was forcibly dragged from my sight.

She obviously watches too much cable news and has come to believe this new truth we’ve been subjected to, that lying about and denying something—means it didn’t happen.

The beef was gone. She was the only other person in the house —and her breath smelled of…you guessed it—roast beef. Yet, she continued to deny it and her remorse in the end was tepid at best.

A lot of things could have happened to that roast. And besides, hypothetically speaking of course, it isn’t against the law if I were the one to have eaten it. Everyone knows that eating meat in this house is NOT a criminal offense!

She barked all of that from her bed, which is located in the lower back-forty of our home (fifty feet away) where she was banished for the rest of the night.

I felt bad. Bad that I had such a roast-eating-lying-liar of a dog and even worse that I knew I’d probably choke to death in my sleep from the horrendous beef farts brought on by her impending meat sweats.

So there you have it. That special time of year. When the government tries to take away all of your deductions, the wait time for online catalogue customer service is measured in hours not minutes, and some asshat comes up with definitive proof that raw cookie dough can kill ya.

I call bullshit on December—and while I’m at it, pretty much all of 2017.

Carry on,
xox

“If you are going to tell people the truth be funny or they will kill you.” ~ Billy Wilder

I took the truth for granted and I’d bet my mothers Sees fudge recipe that you did too.

I love the truth. It’s solid even if it’s messy and it’s so much less complicated than lying.

We’re all grown-ups here, we know we can expect some lying in our daily lives.  Used car salesmen, the waiter who insists the coffee is decaf, and normal, run-of-the-mill politicians.

I miss the truth.

Heck, I’ve lied before and not just a little white lie. It wasn’t black, like saying the dingo ate my baby, it was more brownish-grey, like no, I’m not attracted to that other guy. Anyhow, all I can tell you is that I don’t possess the skill it takes to be a gifted liar. It tore me up. I couldn’t sleep, I lost weight.

Now I don’t have the bandwidth to lie. I could never remember the fabricated story I’d have to tell so even the simplest question could trip me up.

The truth is simple. It’s easy. I read a study once where they had figured out through years of studying vigorous lying that the longer and more complicated an explanation was —the more likely it was to be untrue.

Truth is quiet, lying is loud.

Truth feels like a deep breath after you realize you’ve been shallow breathing again.

Truth is like watching murky water clear up. Once it reveals the beautifully colored fish and the multi-colored rocky bottom, you discover you aren’t in deep water after all. Nope, it’s shallow as shit and you can stop furiously dog padding and just put your feet down.

Truth is the difference between squinting to read the small print, and going and getting your glasses.
Instant clarity.

Clarity is truth’s sidekick. Together they calm us down. We know where we stand. We can see the bottom, read the small print.

I never realized how much I counted on those two until recently. I took truth for granted. It never occurred to me how scary watching someone repeatedly lie could be.

But all is not lost. Here’s what I know for sure. From one really bad lying liar to you.

Liars get cocky. They make mistakes. They forget about all the past bragging, the hidden cameras, the blind ambition of the hyenas in the room—and this one simple fact:

Truth, like that stubborn splinter in your finger always works its way to the surface.

I take solace in knowing that.

Carry on,
xox

DING DONG.

What’s that? A door bell?

DING DONG.

It’s not our doorbell. Ours sounds like, DING DING DING DONG. DONG DONG DING…(It’s ridiculous, you can stand at the door, in front of someone, waiting for it to stop ringing. Sometimes they are long gone and it hasn’t finished announcing them yet).

DING DONG.

Wait, I’m dreaming. There’s a doorbell ringing inside of a dream. No door. Just a…

DING DONG.

OKAY! You have my attention!

I’m trying to remember, what does a doorbell mean in a dream? An opportunity? A new experience?

Or somebody trying to get your attention. Ah Ha!

What was going on right before the DING DONG? A voice asked inside of the dream.

Let’s see….

I was very upset about a false accusation. I had been denied a position I was seeking because of some accusations that were hidden away in my “file” from back in 1988.

“It says here you stole jewelry”, the “file keeper” revealed.

I felt the blood run out of my face, replaced by boiling rage.

“I did what?!!” I screamed. “I did nothing of the sort!!”

“Says here, four pieces. You stole four pieces of jewelry. We can’t in good conscience hire a crook, now can we?”

“A crook?!!”

I remember a tidal wave of emotions engulfed me. A surge of, Oh now EVERYTHING makes sense! Like some giant conspiracy that’s been running through my life, fucking things up, and THAT’S not true! I was a jeweler AFTER 1988 for almost twenty years! You’re a liar! This isn’t REAL!

But the most overwhelming emotion of all? Injustice. THIS ISN’T FAIR!!!

DING DONG.

My husband and I are the Norma Raye and Che Guevara of THIS ISN’T FAIR.
We will soap box stand and spark revolutions when the deck looks stacked in favor of a lie.

This runs heavily through our energy and at any given time we are fighting one or more wrongful injustices because that’s what happens when you fight lies and liars — they are attracted to you like moths to a flame.

This would be commendable if we had different lives as Union busters or Wall Street vigilantes.
Instead, it just brings us (mostly my hubby), but me too, injustices to fix. Wrongs to right. Tickets to fight. Lawsuits to win.

I believe thoughts become things. I know that to be true as much as I know chocolate has medicinal properties. And as of late, I’ve been working on purging the THIS ISN’T FAIR from my energy.

I think it fought back a little last night. Or at least, it came out from hiding in the shadows.

DING DONG.

Olly, Olly, oxen free! You can come out now where I can see you!

Do you have an idea of what’s running in your energy? I’ll give you a hint: Take a look at what keeps showing up.

Are you a problem solver? Problems.

Are you a nay sayer slayer? Hello, nay sayers.

Get it? Good. Me too!
Carry on,
xox

She told me she didn’t do it, but with my keen observational skills, the fact that I have opposable thumbs, a larger brain, and language (I know some words) — I knew she was lying.
Plus she was the only other “person” in the house.

The conversation went something like this:
ME: Hey, you. Where YOU going so fast and what did you do to the rug?
DOG: What rug?
ME: The one in a pile at your feet.
DOG: I don’t see a rug.
ME: Seriously?
DOG: Oh, that. Is that a rug? Because it looks more like…
ME: It was until your track and field event ran through here.
DOG: Track and field. That’s a good one. You should write a humor…
ME: Why do you lie so goddamn always?
DOG: It came with the cute. A package deal. You know, puppies and toddlers and twenty-year-old models named Raoul.

She was right. I straightened the rug feeling duped once again. If there’s a grudge in here somewhere…  I’m holding it.

Back in my jewelry days, I had a limey friend. He was unattractively attractive in that way that some men can be. You know, so ugly they’re sexy. A guy whose British accent was so thick that if you got any on you—it would stick and eat through you, like alien slime, taking with it any and all traces of your common sense.

Everything he said was melodious and beguiling— a perfectly wrapped gift to my ears.
It was also a lie.
He was one of the slimiest characters you could ever hope to NOT meet, but everything he said sounded like poetry.

Like a shitty smack-talk, lying sack-talk sonnet.

He once told me to “sod off” when I caught him in yet another lie. And even though I had no idea what that meant —I wanted to do it. Immediately. AND it made me a little hot all day — I’m not gonna lie.

So, lies. They come in all shapes and sizes. Tiny, white, “I didn’t eat the last cupcake”, ones — to giant, wtf, “I can be and do whatever you think you need. I’m here to save you”, delusional ones.
In other words, everything that comes out of a politician’s mouth.

Unfortunately, they become acceptable when they have a cute puppy face, a thick foreign accent, or apparently a shit ton of money, a stage to stand on, and a camera pointed in their face.

I don’t now about you, but it’s beginning to feel like we’ve all been slimed.

I, for one, am pretty sick of this shit. I’m not falling for it anymore. Is that because I’m old? Or too smart? Or did the slime wound finally heal and I regained my common sense?
I feel like I can’t be lied to for one more minute!

Not by the lying limey with the lilting language, (Okay, you gotta love that).

Not by the cuddly and cute but corrupted canine (I’m on a roll).

Not by any of the plotting, placating and prevaricating politicians.(Bazinga!)

Can we just call foul; tell ‘um to “sod off”; take our balls and go home?

What do YOU think? Ever had anyone lie to your face? How many times before you got wise to it?

I’ve gotta go now. I need to teach my dog that it’s not okay to lie. I’m going to ground her AND take her phone away.

Carry on,
xox

GULLIBLE
gul·li·ble
adjective
Easily persuaded to believe something; credulous.

synonyms: credulous, naive, over trusting, over trustful, easily deceived, easily taken in, exploitable, dupable, impressionable, unsuspecting, unsuspicious, unwary, ingenuous, innocent, inexperienced, unworldly, green

I have a real problem with…bending the truth.

Never mind that, let’s call it what it is: lying.

I was slow to learn that deception can be so blatant. But I did…eventually.

Now you can deliver an untruth to me on a silver platter, but I’ll still call bullshit on it all day long. Why?
Um…because it’s a lie!

Here’s what I mean.

People that accept all the accolades and compliments because they look so goddamn great for their age — that have clearly had surgical help.
Pahleeeeez!

Mascara commercials where the actress is very obviously wearing false eyelashes.
Come on.

A twenty-eight year old, airbrushed within an inch of her life, pitching us fifty something’s wrinkle cream. “Gee, maybe I’ll look like that if I spend one hundred dollars for an ounce of this magical concoction made from the frothy uterine lining of a unicorn.”

What do you take me for, a fucking moron?
Just how gullible do you think I am?

What about vacation rental listings?

Cozy little cottage by the beach.

The pictures online look idyllic.
“You’re so lucky it’s still available”, the woman gushes over the phone. The word miracle is even used, and you know how that gets me going.

So I plunk down a hefty chunk of change and when I arrive at the destination I’m convinced Garmin is stoned.
“The destination is on your right.”

“Stop it Garmin, don’t fuck with me! I just drove six hours and I’ve gotta pee like a racehorse.”

I blink, then blink again, slowly sliding my sunglasses down my nose to get a clearer view. Then I roll down the window.
Still sucks.
EJECT — Out comes the CD. There is no soundtrack for moments like this.
I want to vomit.

There it is in front of me, all set for our Labor Day weekend pleasure.

An itty-bitty shit hole of a shack. Over a mile away from the beach. There aren’t even seagulls overhead or any traffic, that’s how far away my beach cottage is from actual sand and surf.

I fumble inside my beach bag which is doubling as my purse for the weekend. Lost inside is the printout from the agency, never taking my eyes off the disaster in front of me, I find it.

I’m in shock, it’s a train wreak — therefore it’s impossible to look away.

That’s when I realize that mid road trip, (probably about the time I was reaching for change at Foster Freeze), my sunscreen opened and has thoughtfully covered pretty much everything in my bag with its SPF 50.

Even so, I can still make out the address. 12 Gorgeous Vista Road.
It’s a match, but it ain’t gorgeous and it has no vista to speak of.

Fuck. Even the name of the street tells a lie.

It is smaller than my first single apartment, yet it says right on the page in front of me: sleeps six.
My mind leaps ahead a few hours. Fitting all of my friends inside that shack will be like stuffing a clown car.

What to do, what to do?
See, here’s the problem: who do I kill first?

The gullible one who drank the rental agency Kool-Aid (me), the crazy red-head at the agency who was so chirpy as she handed me the keys? (Sucker, that’s what it says on my form in her office — I’m sure of it — Sucker Bertolus.)

The pimply faced guy at the car rental agency who said it wasn’t far, (it was) and that it was in a great neighborhood (it isn’t)?

It’s clear to me now that they are all in cahoots.

Wait…was that a gunshot?

Window…up.

What about all those helpful friends who gave me the name of this agency and had such glowing vacation house stories?

They all get to live.
It was me. It was my fault.
I was over trusting and easily exploitable.

I should be in every advertising test group. I’m their target idiot audience.

I made a vow right then and there that I would never fall for that sort of LIE again. That I would pay the other half of the deposit after I saw the property, and that I would carry a separate smaller purse inside my beach bag.

Just like I wanted to believe that the last available house on a holiday weekend was Shangra-fucking-La, I want to believe that a mascara can give you the same lush lashes as two pairs of falsies, (I have a drawer full of both), and that applying an expensive miracle cream will erase fifty-seven years of laugh lines, (same drawer).

Am I gullible or have I been lied to? What do you think? Both?

How gullible are you guys? Stories please.

Carry on,
Xox

The hubby just returned a couple of weeks ago from an arduous off road motorcycle journey through the back country of British Columbia. It was brutal. He returned with a banged up bike, a couple of cracked ribs – and some great stories.

As he sat in a much needed bath, soaking in Epsom salt, he regaled me with tales of breathtaking scenery, ferry adventures, muddy, rutted roads, his epic falls (this is the guy who doesn’t fall) and all the laughs shared around the campfire at the end of each day with wine and great grub. I know most of this tribe, they are smart and funny and major badasses.
Unfortunately, no one was able to avoid dropping their big, heavy, overloaded bike.

But here’s the first rule of off road adventure riding: you just don’t talk about falling, about going down. And you NEVER name names.

Zip it.

A couple of motorcycle journalists went along, to chronicle the ride for their various publications.

When the first article came out, as I read it, I couldn’t text my husband fast enough:
How much does it cost to have someone killed? This guy has broken the first rule!

I was joking, of course (sort of) but there it was, in print, the jerk mentioned the rough terrain, and my husband BY NAME, saying he had fallen twice.

“Of course he did” hubster replied over dinner that night.
“We got into it a couple of times. He’s a young, insecure know-it-all, and after awhile, when I heard him throwing inaccurate stories around about people I know, places I’ve been and courses I’ve taken, well, I corrected his facts and he didn’t like it. Hence,(he says hence in conversations – I swear) he felt the need to try to embarrass me. No biggie, we all know what went down. The fact is EVERYONE fell – parts of it were reduced to a mud pit.”
He was laughing and cringing; holding his left side.

Another journalist’s article came out last week and it was well written and more importantly, humorous and accurate.

Then, a couple of days ago, the first guy published a second piece. 

It has now become his Hero’s Journey, with his bike the heaviest, (it wasn’t) his struggle the hardest, due to riding on street tires (they weren’t) and his proud claim that he was the only one who had the skills and wherewithal not to fall (WTF?)

Dude, it was already a really good story, you didn’t have to lie about it.

All the guys from the trip are emailing each other privately to vent, they’re too gentlemanly to publicly humiliate him by leaving comments on his website.

We all know why he did it. Insecurity, inferiority, blah, blah, blah…I don’t care.

Why do people lie? Especially when you have twelve other people out there that know the truth?
Now he’s just writing fiction. It’s the tale of “The Boy That Cried Hey, Have You Heard How Awesome I Am?”

Somebody really smart (I can’t remember who) said that most non-fiction is really fiction, because it come from the writer’s perspective. Hmmm…

I can’t stand lying.
When I write I do not lie. I may embellish (I didn’t really kick my Christmas tree until it begged for mercy, I stopped when it asked me politely the first time). But I write humor. Although, when I write about real people and real situations, I’m SO careful to depict them truthfully.

My stories aren’t written as vanity pieces, to make me sound good; on the contrary, most are cautionary tales of all my fuck-ups.

As I sat and stewed about this guy, I remembered some words of wisdom from my therapist, back in the day. She was a very beautiful and wise woman. Imagine Yoda and Oprah in the body of Candice Bergen.

1) “Janet, the biggest mistake you make in life, is thinking everyone feels and thinks JUST – LIKE – YOU. I can assure you, THEY DO NOT.”
That little nugget has saved me a lifetime of misery. My internal rules, dialogues, morals, and views on life are mine and mine alone. If I want others to know them, I have to communicate them.

Which brings me to:
2) “Janet, you’ve gotta cut people some slack, they’re not mind readers.”
This one needs no explanation.
Although, the guys do have a kind of Jedi mind meld about their rules of the road. They are un-discussed, yet understood – apparently with the exception of a certain Pinocchio.

3) I truly believe – with all my heart – that liar’s pants – should actually CATCH ON FIRE. 

There. I vented. I feel so much better.

Have you heard or caught someone in an epic lie? Something that made them sound awesome, while trashing everyone else? Share please.

Big, group hug,
Xox