Everything I say is everything you've ever wanted to hear
I know a fair number of talking heads. Between ex-classmates, old co-workers, and LA associates, I usually catch at least one televised acquaintance a week, pontificating on the election or fall fashion trends or Britney's latest breakdown. And if my mood is bad or my confidence low, I invariably mope and wonder, Why aren't I doing that?
And then I remember: Because I'm a liar.
I don't mean to be. I don't want to be. It's just that on occasion, I open my mouth and let loose with a whopper. The whoppers themselves are usually inconsequential, but it's a tic I can't seem to conquer.
Latest example: Last week I was walking the dog at the beach. It was a beautiful afternoon with lots of families out and about, which meant a lot of wee ones squealing at the site of a hound with long, yankable ears.
One such squirt spotted us and came careening over. Watson stopped and obliged with his sad-eyed "just pull them and get it over with!" expression. Meantime, I chatted with the child's parents.
"What a cute dog!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
It's a boy. My dog is a boy. Watson J. Dog is a boy.
"It's a girl!"
Why? WHY? I have no idea. It just came out. I even felt the idiocy rising in my throat and almost stopped myself, but then realized it would be better to live with the lie than explain why I floundered over a simple question regarding my dog's sex.
And so began the second leg of the walk: Hide the Dog Salami. First, I blocked any view of the dog's pee-pee by jumping next to him and leading him away like a ring handler. Then, once we were past the family, I planned a walking route that took me about a half-mile out of my way, thus circumventing the beach on our way back to the beach parking lot.
It wasn't all bad though -- Watson got some much-needed exercise after a summer of eating many unguarded foodstuffs. And a girl's gotta keep her figure, after all!
And then I remember: Because I'm a liar.
I don't mean to be. I don't want to be. It's just that on occasion, I open my mouth and let loose with a whopper. The whoppers themselves are usually inconsequential, but it's a tic I can't seem to conquer.
Latest example: Last week I was walking the dog at the beach. It was a beautiful afternoon with lots of families out and about, which meant a lot of wee ones squealing at the site of a hound with long, yankable ears.
One such squirt spotted us and came careening over. Watson stopped and obliged with his sad-eyed "just pull them and get it over with!" expression. Meantime, I chatted with the child's parents.
"What a cute dog!"
"Oh, thank you!"
"Is it a boy or a girl?"
It's a boy. My dog is a boy. Watson J. Dog is a boy.
"It's a girl!"
Why? WHY? I have no idea. It just came out. I even felt the idiocy rising in my throat and almost stopped myself, but then realized it would be better to live with the lie than explain why I floundered over a simple question regarding my dog's sex.
And so began the second leg of the walk: Hide the Dog Salami. First, I blocked any view of the dog's pee-pee by jumping next to him and leading him away like a ring handler. Then, once we were past the family, I planned a walking route that took me about a half-mile out of my way, thus circumventing the beach on our way back to the beach parking lot.
It wasn't all bad though -- Watson got some much-needed exercise after a summer of eating many unguarded foodstuffs. And a girl's gotta keep her figure, after all!
