How You Doin’ Blondie?


Reviving The Old Art Of Lying
May 18, 2008, 2:49 pm
Filed under: Dishonesty, Family, Friends, Humor, Life, love, relationships, sex | Tags: , , , , , , ,

I hate parties. I never know what to say. And I hate introducing myself to people. I can usually solve this problem by only going to parties as the date of some guy, that way I don’t have to worry about starting conversations by myself. Every once in a while though, I think to myself “it sure would be fun to have a little soiree with only my closest friends.” And then I remember that, strictly speaking, I don’t have any. I do have friends, but they’re friends that I could never in a million years have in the same room as each other, because then they’d eventually unravel all the little lies I’ve told. I lie a lot when I meet people, not to impress them – mainly just to cover shit up.

For instance, I have one category of friends, and they’re known as “Friends Who Have Seen My House.” This group consists mainly of people in the neighborhood (so I’m using the term “friends” here loosely), but there’s also a couple of people from the Garden of the Month club in there too. The lies I’ve told this group were created in an attempt to explain why a young, single woman who spends far too much time around the house to have a traditional 9 to 5 job and who keeps very, very odd hours; can afford to live in a 6 bedroom house. The lies vary from “My husband is an officer in the Marine Corps, he’s currently in Iraq,” (which is actually my favorite and the easiest to remember) to “My uncle died and left me this house,” (which I only use when I’m talking to a man who could possibly ask me out and all other good lies have escaped me).

Another group of friends is “Friends Who I’ve Met In An Academic Capacity.” These are people I either went to college with or met through some University alumni function (this group also contains my old Mathalete team mates). In addition to the “personal” lies I tell the “Friends Who Have Seen My House”, I also tell this group “career” lies. For the most part, my friends in this group are all in the same tax bracket, so living a life of luxury, in itself, is not going to raise many eyebrows. But these are the “elitist” friends, the “intellectuals” – so they don’t necessarily care what you have, but how you used your superior education and brainpower to acquire it. To these friends, I’m a mathematician crunching stats and formulas for a defense contractor (which serves the dual purpose of impressing them AND preventing further questioning, because you know, defense contracting is all hush, hush).

And the problem with all this lying is not the big lies that I’ve told, but the tiny little “supporting” lies. Because if you want to really sell your story, you’ve got to have background information…and I get a little carried away with my “background” information. I can’t even remember all the jobs I’ve had, men I’ve been in relationships with, or reasons I’ve moved to the area. I should have started writing it all down so I could reference it all in a pinch, but I didn’t, and now I just have to avoid small talk. And parties.

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Call Me Reverend Dimmesdale

It makes me slightly ill when I hear about the sexual affairs of married people. The cheating, the excuses, the understandings. It really does make me physically sick. And who am I to react like that? Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, right? Isn’t my current boyfriend married and the father of sweet little toddler? Don’t I rationalize it away by saying to myself, “It’s different, they have an understanding?” Don’t I judge others by their actions but myself by my intentions?

So why does it plunge me into such a state of utter despair to bear witness to the infidelity of others?

Because I still have a little bit of hope, that’s why. As jaded, hateful, and bitter as I am, there’s still a little tiny part of me that believes in the traditional family unit, wants the traditional family unit. There’s a part of me that dreams about finding a nice, decent, hard-working, down-to-earth, blue collar guy who thinks the sun rises and sets on me; of finding a man who sees me as the most beautiful woman in the world, and the woman he wants to mother his future children. There’s a part of me that cries sometimes, lamenting the loss of the sacred union and a love that weathers storms and the put-yourself-first mentality society promotes. There’s also a part that hates myself, really and truly hates myself, for the life I’ve made.

I hate you, husband who “works late”; I hate you, housewife with the “personal trainer”; I hate you, unhappily married man or woman, who thinks your time is better spent fulfilling your own desires then working on repairing and stabilizing the relationship, the commitment you’ve already made; I hate you so much it makes me angry, angry and sick to the point of vomiting.

But I hate myself even more.



Malibu Barbie is One Tough Fucking Hombre

Picture what the foreign gas station attendant saw: blonde woman in a shiny red luxury car, asking him slowly and loudly if he could break a hundred dollar bill…Guy is probably thinking “she’s probably the daughter or wife of someone wealthy, takes everything she’s got for granted, probably hasn’t worked hard for a damn thing a day in her life.” Where I him, I probably would’ve tried pulling the same slick little maneuver…

I asked him to put $20 worth of gas in my tank, and when he was finished I gave him a hundred dollar bill. He pulled out a dirty roll of cash and started counting twenties off the roll. When he was finished, he hesitated a little and gave me a strange look as he passed me my change. I thought nothing of it as he walked away to service another vehicle, until I counted my change to put it back in my wallet and counted $60. In the most demure voice imaginable, I called after his retreating form, “Hey! You owe me 20 bucks man.” He turned around and came back to my car wearing an expression that to a lesser person would have appeared to be communicating “Yes ma’am? Oh my, there isn’t a problem, is there? Not a problem for my most esteemed and highly valued customer?” So I said again, still in the most measured, ladylike tone, “You owe me 20 bucks. I bought 20 dollars worth of gas and handed you a 100 dollar bill, 100 minus 20 is 80. You gave me 60 bucks, you owe me another twenty.” At this point he hesitates and his English magically deteriorates before he looks at me with big, doe eyes, and says “20? What is 20 I do not-.” At this point he is interrupted as I look him dead in the eye with a stare that can make children cry, and say “Look, you owe me 80 bucks. Give me another 20 right now. DON’T fuck with me.” There was a brief pause, and his eyes widened slightly as he realized he’d made a pretty serious misjudgement. He looked at me again and issued a barely audible “Uhhh” before his fingers started moving like greased lightning as he counted out 20 dollars and said “Ok, ok, here, 5, 10, that’s 70; 5, 10, that’s, 80, ok? I’m sorry.”

Poor guy…rule number one – you can’t work a worker.