Because I, personally, like a hobby that’s a challenge. And both of these are. It is not so easy to lie, as you might think. The closer you are to someone the craftier you have to be. But, I like that. I’ve always been good at crafts, thanks to Vacation Bible School.

Ask U.L.

He’s kept every single thing I ever made at VBS, with the exception of that frightening plastic Jesus-on-the-cross-shaking-hands-with-PawPaw objet d’art I made, when I was six. I don’t blame him for that, though; it’s difficult to know how long these things should bake in the oven before they’re ready. Also, why on earth six-year-olds would be given anything, plastic or otherwise, that required an oven is nothing I can fully explain.  Anymore than I can tell you why I received an Easy Bake for my seventh birthday.

Hide your secrets. He's back.

But, U.L., like it or not, would lie to me and say, “I love it.” And, sweet man that he is, kept everything like it was a treasure…some in public, but most of them in the cedar chest, “for safekeeping.”

I don’t want to flat out say I learned how to lie from him, but I can’t deny that it was a routine part of my upbringing, under the wily auspice of “sparing someone’s feelings.”

Because that’s not lying; that’s “good manners.” When you spare someone’s feelings.

Eavesdropping is another thing, altogether.

And no, it’s not the same as gossip. Technically speaking, you’re not actively participating in the gossip itself; you’re merely hearing it. It’s more like being a human garbage can for jealous, backbiting, enviable biddies and their wayward tongues.

And, who’s going to say a garbage can is a bad idea?  People don’t want trash in their lives. That’s how I think of gossip; it’s trash you can’t wait to get rid of. That’s why I eavesdrop; I’m the trash can. If your trash includes a commentary on the “pitiful woman who forgets to put a bra on when she cuts the yard, and doesn’t cut the yard until You Know Who gets off work because they’re having an affair ,” then I’m more than happy to eat your garbage.

That kind of trash is 100% pure treasure.

But it doesn’t always come easy. That’s why I have to lie, sometimes, to be honest.

A well-placed lie encourages confidence, and once confidence is attained, you can leech right onto their tongue and pull out all number of stories, rumors, beliefs, hopes, fears…

Maybe I’m just an evil person, like my Aunt Estelle says.

But, I don’t think I am; I don’t think I’m doing anything different than anybody else does, aside from admitting it.

I lie and eavesdrop because a) it makes me feel like a spy which is something I always wanted to be, and b) Why not. Nothing quelches a bad day like a good lie and a strong arm-shelf (which I imagine one would use with which to lean on, straining to overhear what shouldn’t be overheard). Oh, and FYI: “quelch” is a word in the same category as “ginormous.”

I heard she was made of ham.

I don’t do anything damaging, per se, with the information I make-up or overhear other than use it a base for a character, or a story line, or cocktail conversations because they’re not real.

And, hey, it’s not like I haven’t been lied to or gossiped about. Heck, I’m basically an urban legend…rumors about me are so old they’re just south of being a fine cheese.

I remember two, specifically:

1)  After my Oral Interp class one afternoon I had a strange, young man (whom I’d only met briefly, and by briefly I mean that he was coming into the party as I was leaving) approach me outside of McComas Hall and tell me he was praying for me.

I was touched if a bit put-off, but I said, “Thank you. May I ask why?”

“I heard,” he mumbled, “And we think you’re brave.”

A pause.

“I’m just, I’m very sorry for your illness,” he finished.

“Oh, OK. Well, thank you.”

I mean why tell him otherwise; attention is attention, and surely to God, by now he knows…or thinks I’m a survivor. He held the door open for me, patted me on the back. Suggested I eat peanuts, which I’m assuming was a clue as to what I was suffering from…or, perhaps he was hoping I was anaphylactic and this make for an “easy out.”

The second time was a bit harsher.

I was just nineteen, as thin as three seconds and a breath of air, and completely hairless (this was at the height of my sexual identity issues and eating disorder – more on that when I’m intoxicated), and for whatever reason, I was cast against type as Captain Brackett in South Pacific. This news made its rounds throughout the campus, like a fire-sale.

Even my Spanish Instructor had something to say about it, in front of the class, which resulted in a healthy bout of laughter.

I felt horribly miscast and overwhelmed, for the second time in less than a year, but I reminded myself that even amid the horrible anticipation of my role as Big Daddy, earlier that semester, I had managed somehow to get them on their feet for an exhaustingly, well- deserved ovation…and I do say so myself.

I’d just have to do it again.

After opening night, I was hesitant to attend the reception. I treaded to the dressing room, rinsed the make-up off, pulled on my civilian attire, which had just begun to include a hat, and put my glasses back on – I would just slip away, like that, nothing to it.

I tried to tiptoe through the side lobby, but a few other actors — some of the chorus of Seabees — were also exiting through that way, and we all got stopped by this achingly sweet elderly couple, holding punch and a shared paper plate of melons and strawberries.

You can always blame a strawberry. Always.

“OH! Here they are!  Trying to sneak off! Hey! Y’all did great!  Just great…such great voices!!”

(You should note: Captain Brackett doesn’t sing).

But they thought I was part of the Chorus…so, maybe I could slip on away…

“Thank you, thank you,” we murmured.

I took a step toward the doors, when I heard: “Even that Captain did a good job, but we’re confused about it, though.”

I couldn’t resist. This was eavesdropping at its best: they didn’t know who I was, at all!

“What about?”

“Well, as many people as are on this campus, I don’t understand why they let a girl play it. But, she was very good, all the same.”

I paused, swallowed, a bit excited and angry and proud and hurt.

I took off my cap, so they could get a good, full look at my face.

“I am that girl,” I said.

The woman reached her hand out, took mine in hers, and said, “And you do a real good job, honey.”

…

Liar.

Related Posts:

• Real love requires 2" heels, at least.
• Pointing, by the way, is not polite.
• Suffice it to say, I was spanked, a second time, OR The 100th Blog.
• He was called Bear because he looked like a bear.
• But, wait, let me back up and come at this like a drill.

It’s true. But, no worries, I’m not perfect. For instance, I have a cowlick.

100% Natural Cow Lick

No, what I’m referring to is my “curse.” I have one. (I probably have more than one, but I have one that is simply prevalent, at all costs, regardless of any personal demographic).

I never forget an injustice.

Ever. As a matter of awkward fact, I could go for years without seeing you, or thinking about you, and not even a second after a re-introduction, or a chance meeting, I immediately am reminded of That Thing You Did.

I can’t help it.

Once, I was at The Pig to buy some veggie dogs, and, because as always happens in the grocery store I simply cannot leave with only what I went there to buy, I’d decided to get some Fig Newtons, and as I turned the corner, there stood a person I’d not seen (hadn’t really wanted to run into, either, to be honest) in over a year, holding a bag of potato chips, the real good kind.

“Well, Kris, I’ll be…how on earth are you?”

I was so hoping I’d not been spotted. I was shoulder-level to a row of canned squash (perish the thought) and of course, I pretended to need four cans of it, announcing that I was in quite a hurry, and how good it was to see them (it wasn’t good to see them – we’d never been that close), and how was the family, and blah, blah, blah.

Ahem. You’ve been there, before, I know…you’ve filled your buggy with cans of squash a time or two, I’m sure.

I should have been nicer, more southern, I knew better, I did, but I couldn’t look at them without recalling that time (and this was back in high school!) that they’d stolen two candy bars from the Store (we sold candy in between classes to raise money for the annual) and then blamed me for it.

No one believe it, not for one hot second, of course, but still…I had not forgotten. I hadn’t remembered that I’d not forgotten until right then, but you see my dilemma.

This raises an interesting question within my Articles of Faith, you understand.

If I can’t truly forget what you’ve done to me, for whatever reason (and I’m sure a few were warranted), then can I truly forgive? 

I hate to sound petty and trite about this, but I am a little worried. Why does my subconscious care so much?  Have I somehow given such absolute weight to every grievance done to me? (And is this a reciprocal action?)

Godspell.

I mean, Lord knows, I’ve not gotten hung up on your wrongdoing in my daily life, or routine, but why should your “mistake” (let’s call it) be the first thing to crop back into my mind, the moment we run into each other again?  I accept the fact that I’m human, and thus, flawed. Fine.

But, what else lies down there in my psyche? 

I had no idea you could carry a grudge and not feel it, not know it…

What’s the point of anger, in that case?

It’s even a little embarrassing. I try to make light of it, to joke about it, but it still sits there, right under my eyebrow, there I am sitting at the bar with you watching you sip, sip, sip your G-a-T; or, there I am, elbow-to-elbow with you in the audience enjoying a play, a musical, a concert; or, there I am passing by you in Wal-Mart, pretending I’m not recalling that time you stood me up, didn’t pay me back, spread a lie about me, left me off the invite list, whatever – it never has to be a big thing, you know, doesn’t have to be a major event.

Probably, I could argue, that it’s the smaller ones that hurt the most, that my psyche clings to.

But, get this, it’s not even that I care that much about it, or that I’m usually that offended by the oversight…the kicker is that my mind thinks it is. Heck, if I kept a list off all the things that overlooked me, the times that stood me up, the unpaid debts, and so forth, I’d go missing.

What I hate is that the moment we reconnect, this is the first thing I think of. I go straight to it. And so, I have to re-evaluate my dialogue, in that conversation, because you’re probably not thinking of that stray moment, either…and I don’t want to bring it up, necessarily, myself.

I’m just not sure how to work through it. I swear, I don’t really keep a tally. (Maybe I should, though, maybe that would alleviate this need I have mentally to “judge”).

It’s a horrible thing to discover that about yourself, that you judge others, when you really, truly, didn’t think you did. It’s like discovering those sebaceous pimples – the kind that hurt, that bump up, but they never break the surface, so no one else really believes you have a pimple.

Oh, but you do. You do. And you know you do.

I’m not even sure therapy would help. I tend to think of the subconscious as being this massive sieve, and all day long it sweeps through the murk, the mud, the mess and collects all those moments, issues, feelings, etc. that you couldn’t deal with and its first attempt comes that night, through your dreams. (This is why I’m a vegetarian).

But, if it doesn’t get a chance to release them then, it just throws them into a back room until later. Later, by the way, usually manifests as aggravation, anger, frustration, irritation, divorce, diarrhea, headache, bankruptcy, and suicide. Sometimes, the only symptom is mild discomfort, but you should still consult your phys — wait, wait, wait. I’ve gotten this confused with Levitra.

Doctor Feelgood isn't in. Ever.

What I mean to say is, probably that’s the basis of my Mistake Retention. I’m just projecting onto something within my control that stems from something that isn’t or wasn’t. Maybe that’s the whole reason we make the mistakes we make in the first place. We just haven’t cleaned up, on the inside. All that clutter gets in the way and the next thing you know, we’re operating under the Best Intentions Rule.

If best intentions were money, we’d have no poverty left in the world, would we? I haven’t met a soul yet who doesn’t have them.

The trouble is, we just don’t know how to spend them.

Related Posts:

• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• Sometimes, it’s a lonely thing. And sometimes, it’s like being Jesus.
• The lure of the maraschino cherry, and other things I learned this weekend.
• The Dollar Bill Incentive, Or, Being Good For Nothing.