I suck at lying.
Well, actually that's a lie. I'm OK at lying in some situations and not so good in others. If it’s a big old lie-or-die kind of lie, I'll not only tell it, I'll weave a lie that features such Stephen King like complexity and becomes such a thing of wicked beauty, I have to keep telling it just so I can see how it ends.
However, when it comes to lying to anything in a uniform, my suckiness comes to the forefront. Cops, postal workers, carhops at Sonic….they all bring out some sort of sick need to spill my guts. Not only can I not lie to them, I turn into a Catholic school girl and confess stuff I’m sure they really didn’t even want to know in the first place.
“Umm, thanks for sharing Lady, but whether or not you are wearing underwear is truly none of my business.”
Well excuse me, but those Wal-Mart smocks can be very intimidating.
The problems that my inability to lie to a uniform present might not be such an issue were I not married to a uniform-wearer and have friends who likewise are uniform-wearers. Just today Deputy Pretty noticed the giant rug burn on the back bumper of my car and asked in a loud and condemning public servant voice, “What did you do?”
“I don’t want to tell you,” I said…which was no lie.
“Tell me,” he said.
So I did. I had no choice. He’s a uniform-wearer. Maybe I watched too much Wonder Woman as a kid.
The scariest most intimidating uniform wearing walking shot of truth serum of them all though is my Mr. Man. One look in those great big blue eyes he swears are green and I sing like a canary.
Which brings me to confession time, kids.
A few days ago I did something that I know would make Mr. Man so angry he would fold his arms in that superior uniform-wearer way he does and threaten to shave my eyebrows off when I’m sleeping. So angry would the man be with me should he find out, he would likely take away all my chewing gum and empty the house of chocolate out of pure spite.
Baby did a bad, bad thing…and now Baby is having an epic inner struggle between the part of her that loves chewing gum and chocolate and the part of her that wants to blurt out the transgression to Mr. Man and then run for the hills.
Not to mention the fact that I committed this transgression in front of my son, who has decided my secret sin is his ticket to unlimited PS2 time and ice cream for breakfast.
I’m really scared to tell Mr. Man what I did, so I figure if I list three things here that I might possibly have done (but am in no way admitting) I’ll have purged my soul at least enough to ease my conscience but not so much that a jury of his peers might not lock him up for killing me.
So, here we go then.
To My Beloved Mr. Man Who I Love Because He is Pretty and Smart and Too Nice to Punch Me in the Nose,
Below are three things that I may or may not have done recently which might anger a lesser man. Please do not ask me which of these things I did, because I’ll have to tell you and I’m too funny to die.
1. I may or may not have washed your duty weapon in the washing machine on the delicate cycle with rain fresh detergent. In my defense, I have repeatedly requested you empty your pockets when you take your clothes off. The good news is criminals will appreciate the nice clean smell your bullets have when you shoot them in the back.
2. I may or may not have used your beard trimmer to shave the dog’s behind when I saw something sticking out of there that looked somewhat unsavory and definitely out of place. He drug his little hiney across the lawn in an effort to extract the foreign object himself, but to no avail… thus the need for your trimmer. The good news is it wasn’t poo. The bad news is it looked like something that once starred in a movie with Sigourney Weaver.
3. I may or may not have lost $500 while gambling online in the middle of the night while you were at work. The good news is this is entirely your fault for leaving me home alone in the middle of the night. The bad news is I realize you’re not gonna buy this one because you know I never have $500 to do anything with, much less gamble.
Note to my readers: if you don’t hear from me in the next few days, please remember me by eating a Moon Pie in my honor and shedding a tear each time you shave something icky off a dog’s raggedy behind.
Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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