Like a Rug

Children please...Here's a little mini-lesson on lying.

 "Don't."  Short and sweet.  Easy to remember.  Socially, religiously, economically, intimately, true. 

A break-down of the lies this week.

The dishwasher door no longer closes and the entire unit is jutting precariously out of the cabinetry.  The unit lists to the side where one might, (*might* mind you) stand if one were too short to reach the stash of Cadbury chocolate eggs that are only available to Mama a few short weeks each year and have been rationed out slowly, ever so slowly as singletons for the last two weeks.  Putting these details together with the fact that you just offered me one of my own treats that I know you can't reach, this would not be the time to lie.  This would be the time to hope for a pardon from the Governor, but not the time to look at me with your sweet, somewhat chocolate besmirched face and insist that you "...didn't eat them Mama.  I only got one down for you because I can reach now."

Liar, liar...

The room reeks of nail polish and there is a poster on your wall featuring drying stripes of varnish.  Above it hangs a sign in your handwriting that reads "Beuty Spa" with a hand-drawn picture of a bottle of, (dare I connect the dots?), nail color.  I could give you points for starting with a Vinnie Barbarino-worthy "Whaaaat?"  I could give you points for trying to create the ambiance of Target with the large flashy hanging signs to direct you to good stuff.  And I would, if it hadn't gone down like this.

You:  "Whaaaat?"
Me:  Are using nail polish up here?
You: (affronted) "Nooooo! I know that I have to use it downstairs."
Me:  The polish on this paper is dripping.  Are you sure?  Now would be the time for telling the truth.
You: "Um...I think that's the kind that takes a really long time to dry.  I did that downstairs a couple of days ago..."

Clearly my child thinks I have the intellect of a cantaloupe.  Confiscating the polish simply makes me the bad guy.  Being unable to remove glitter polish from the favorite pillow makes me inept.  The fact that you call it "toe-nolish" does not redeem you this time.  Gnashing of teeth, weeping and wailing ensue.  And finally, the death blow.  "I can't believe you don't believe me."  *sniff*

Oh child.  Oh best beloved...let me summarize for you.

...Pants on fire....

Finally, today.  "Mama?  When you wake up, first thing in the morning?  Your hair kinda looks like Ursula the Sea Witch." 


I have two options.  I can teach the social etiquette lie.  "No your pants don't make your butt look big." and "That's a great haircut!"

 Or, I can assume, given the track record,  that I look fabulous and you're lying to me.

In the words of my other (imaginary) best beloved, Jon Bon Jovi,  "Lie to me. Baby, I can take it. C'mon lie to me." ...