K Is For Knee

Right around 1996 or so, I had to get knee surgery. My right kneecap had begun to slip out of place and wander back and forth, causing not only some pretty awful pain and noise in my knee, but some damage as well as it tried to form a new pathway each time it moved.

The orthopedic surgeon had to do a TTT surgery, a tibial tubercle transfer, which basically was to cut a piece of my tibia to which the kneecap tendon was attached, and relocate it, using a titanium screw and collar. As a result, I have a bump below the skin of that knee, and you can easily feel the screw and collar, which are about a quarter inch total width, and they stick up noticeably about the same height, kind of like a prominent spider bite.

The orthopedic surgeon once offered to "slice that open and back the screw out with a drill, no problem, under a local," but I declined. He assured me that the bone, now healed, would quickly grow to fill the cavity left by the missing screw and present no immediate danger. I think I recall saying, "Do I look crazy to you?" and that was the end of it.

Every so often, the presence of a titanium screw in my leg would arise during my time in the classroom. When one teaches English, one teaches Life. There is no end to the topics of discussion that would arise during the teaching of novels, plays, poetry, and even grammar. As one of my students once said, "Mrs. D., you have to know everything to teach English, don't you?"

Anyway, at one point, I was asked how I got the titanium screw in my leg. I merely replied that it was an old hockey injury and moved on. The students all exchanged surprised (and some incredulous, some impressed) glances, but did move on. For a minute or two. Soon, a brave soul asked, "Mrs. D, when did you play hockey? What position did you play?"

"I thought we were moving on," I said. "I played a long time ago. I don't anymore. And I played goalie. And now, we are moving on."

It only takes one class period for word to travel in the halls of a high school before cell phones were in common usage. The very next period, I could see students looking at my legs. To their credit, no one asked me about my hockey injury, but to be fair, they were honors kids and not the type. But by the time my junior regulars arrived, they came in the door with the story and all their questions:

"Ms. D! Lemme see that hockey injury!"

"Ms. D., how much time you spend in the penalty box?"

"Ms. D., ain't no way you played no goalie."

"If you got titanium in there, you could probably hock it, right?"

The best thing about the whole Hockey Goalie Story was that it persisted and took on a life of its own. By the time my own sons attended high school there in 1999-2006, they were confronted with it as well, and asked by total strangers over and over again if their mother did indeed get hurt playing hockey and was her position truly goalie. My kids of course played along.

Here's the most confounding thing about the whole hockey injury story:  as a goalie, I would have worn a ton of protection, especially around my legs. Even back in high school--the late 1970s--there would have been decent protection, and the leagues wouldn't have been coed. It's not like they could have thought I was in a professional or college league, could they? Did they think I got hit with a high-speed puck? Did they think I was in a brawl? With teenage brains, who knows what they thought. It's hilarious.

And here's another thing:  whenever a student had a visible injury or a cast or something, I always said, "Oh, no! I hope that doesn't hurt right now. Do you mind telling me what happened?" Sometimes the story would be that they shut the car door on their hand, or that they had to wear a sling during a bursitis flare-up, or that they sprained their wrist at tennis practice. After hearing those explanations, I'd say, "No. That's a terrible story. No one wants to hear that. Tell people that you fell during your first wing-walking class. Or tell them that you were climbing a tree to save a cat. Or say that you were going for the Guinness World's Record in paddle ball. Always make up a good story."

They never caught on; I practically told them I was lying all the time.

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D Is For Diving Lesson

 Long ago I often took off in the summertime for solo vacations, visiting friends all over the place. I'd take advantage of cheap airfare back in those days and spend time in Chicago, Denver, Orlando, and southern Maryland. Years later, when air travel felt like Prison Intake (take off your shoes; place your metal and valuables in these bins; stand here while we look at you in Naked or XRay Vision; no liquids, etc.), I hopped in my Prius, set my GPS, and drove.

My most regular destination has been southern Maryland, to visit my friend Leanne, she of Banana Price fame. She has a spacious home on top of a hill, backed by woods, and a luxurious in-ground pool. She and her husband are also gracious and generous hosts, and they have a charming and boisterous Boston terrier with whom I have a pleasant friendship. In the mornings when I awaken, I pad over to her mother's adjoining apartment for coffee and conversation. It's a wonderful place.

On one particular summer visit, her daughter, then a teenager, was out in the pool with me. She had been trying to conquer an absurdly large floating shark, but gave up and turned to practicing dives. I was doing what I always do in pools--bobbing close to the edge in the deep water, buoyed up by some small floaty, enjoying getting cool down to my very core. I watched her dive several times, then offered a few observations.

"You need to keep your legs together. They're drifting apart as you head into the water. Try to focus on that, and pointing your toes."

Lauren executed a couple more dives and looked at me expectantly. "How was that?"

"That was way better," I said. "Now, keep that up, but this time, focus on aligning your head with your arms. Your head is dropping down farther than your arms. It's like your head is entering the water before your hands. You should be one smooth arc. One line. Your head shouldn't break the plane of your body."

Lauren nodded and walked onto the diving board again. By this time, Leanne, who had been wandering around the gardens with her sunhat on, stopped to watch. Lauren shook her shoulders and arms loose and prepared to enter the water. I could see she was thinking about what I had told her. In a few moments she tried her dive.

She broke the surface of the pool and spun around to face me, shaking the water from her ear. "I could tell my hands came apart a little on that one, but what about my head?"

"So much better," I said. "But you're still dropping it. Your legs were perfect, and your toes were pointed, too. But keep in mind that your neck and torso are almost functioning as one unit. You want to make a clean entry into the water."

"Nance," she said. "Do you think you could show me? I probably would do much better if I could see it. If I could watch you do the dive, I'm sure I could understand better." 

I looked up at Leanne who was staring at me from her chaise, suddenly alert. It was as if she had been waiting for this.

I smiled at Lauren and told her. "Oh, honey. I've never done a dive in my life. I don't even know how to swim."

 

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Today's Top Ten List: Lies My Parents Told Me

Growing up, my mother and father told me all kinds of things. On balance, most of them were Very Good Things, and I listened to a great deal of them. But like most parents, they also told me a lot of things that were simply Not True. Sometimes they were Nice Things, sometimes they were Comforting Things, and sometimes they were Folksy Things that were passed down for eleventy generations or merely things that became part of their DNA once my eldest sister Patti was born and the Parent Gene was flipped to the On position.

Here then are the

Top Ten Lies My Parents Told Me

1. You're Prettier Than All Of Those Contestants
2. Just Ignore Him/Her And He/She Will Leave You Alone
3. If You Don't Bother The Bees, They Won't Bother You
4. You Don't Need Makeup/Only Whores And Streetwalkers Wear Makeup
5. Piercing Your Ears Is A Tragedy
6. It's School, Not A Fashion Show
7. The Best Thing For A Headache Is Putting Your Hands In Warm Dishwater
8. 8th Grade Is Too Early To Be Shaving Your Legs
9. You Think Too Much
10. We're Not Having Any Pets In This House

I know. Bless their hearts.

1. Both Mom and Dad said this every single time we watched any beauty pageant throughout our lives, and they said it to all three of us girls. We all rolled our eyes because it was Patently Absurd. Some of those women were gorgeous and had perfect bodies. We, ranging in age from Patti--seven years my senior, to Susan, five years my junior, could not possibly imagine how any of this could be remotely true.

2. Absolute bullshit, and almost every day in my family it was proven False by my brother, who terrorized me daily with taunts about my weight. I could never suitably retaliate because he was invincible physically and emotionally. We're very close now, but growing up was hell.

3. Someone needed to tell the bees. I suffered an unprovoked attack--twice--while minding my own business. I didn't even disturb a nest or flight pattern. Ouch.

4. I was in my sophomore year when my mother found my mascara and face powder. She immediately tattled to my father, who gave me a terrible lecture, including the above quotes. Ironically, in later years, every time I would show up at Mom and Dad's without any makeup, my Dad would ask, "Are you feeling alright? You look pale and a little wan." Sigh.

5. In the seventies, everyone was wearing cute earrings. Except me. I waited until I was eighteen and went to the jeweler to get mine done so that I could do it without parental permission. When Dad found out, he was devastated. Somehow, though, I managed to survive it. So did he.

6. As everyone in the universe knows, School IS a Fashion Show. It shouldn't be, but it is. Even as a teacher, it was still, for me, a Daily Walk On The Runway.

7. Oh, St. Patsy, you really thought you were the clever one with this. We all knew what you were up to.

8. No! No, it wasn't! Not when you are mostly Eastern European and your legs looked like gorilla legs and you had to dress for gym. I ended up surreptitiously shaving them while home alone after school one day and took off about a foot of skin on my shinbone because I pushed too hard on the razor. That's another story.

9. St. Patsy still tells me that I Think Too Much. I am not one to brood, but I do analyze. But not overmuch, usually. How is Thinking a Bad Thing?

10. Oh, this one was the biggest lie of all, perpetuated by my mother. For a complete list of the TEN pets "not allowed" in our house and the full explanation, click here and read the post over at Stuff On Our List.

Your turn. What Little White Lies did Mom and Dad tell You?

Because...Politics

I was going to make a (lame) joke about the Dept. of Nance being closed as part of the Government Shutdown as a way of explaining this gap between postings, but the longer this crap has dragged on, the more my outrage has grown.  I'm always unreasonably  incredibly outraged by republicans in general, as you know, but this time, I am so angry and so incredulous that I find myself unable to write about anything else until I get this out and sorted.

If there were more time, each and every one of these idiot House members should be forced to go to their district, rent at their own expense a commodious enough hall, and have an open meeting with constituents who can grill them with Reality Questions, such as, "Do you know how much a pound of hamburger costs here?" and "Do you know how much it costs to fill up the average family car with gasoline?" and "What the goddam hell is it that I am paying you to do in Washington and why in the holy hell are you doing something else?" and "What are you, a big fucking idiot?"  And that moron should have to stand--oh, yes, by heaven--STAND there and answer every single question, no matter if he/she is there until noon the next day.  Or the next.

But, of course, there is no time.  Because we are Governing By Panic Button.  And, by "We", of course I mean the republicans.  Please do not sprinkle rose petals on my path and Pollyanna at me by saying, "Oh, now.  It's both parties' fault.  Everyone is to blame.  Both sides need to come together and yadda yadda blah blah blah."  If you do that, be prepared for me to smack the everloving shit right out of you.  Because you are also a big idiot.  It is not both parties' fault.  Do the Democrats want to go back in time like a science fiction character and change a four-year-old law that has already been declared constitutionally sound by The United States Supreme Court?  That's really the only example that is germane here.  Which party is known as The Party Of No?  Which party touted itself as having an agenda as Jobs Jobs Jobs, yet held more than thirty-five meaningless votes--that they knew would go nowhere--to abolish the Affordable Care Act?  Where are the Jobs Jobs Jobs?

Some people with Jobs Jobs Jobs lost them because of the Sequester, brought to you, ultimately, by the republicans, who are happy because it contains their favorite thing, spending cuts.  It was another game of chicken before another debt ceiling fight, and they begrudgingly cut defense spending as long as a bunch of other cuts were made.  Oh well, they said.  At least we tightened America's Belt.

Now, thanks to the republicans and their inbred cousins, the teapartiers, we are in the kind of position that makes me aghast and ashamed.  It's the same way I felt when I watched with ever-increasing horror the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.  Every moment of news coverage, every day, I stared at footage and reports with wide eyes and gaping mouth.  I kept repeating the same questions over and over again, "How is this my country?  How is this happening in America?"

I'm saying the same thing now.  It was with complete and utter disbelief that I listened to the report that America, The United States of America, had to accept charity in order to pay the death benefits to the surviving families of fallen troops.  And then the reporter said, "This will ease the pressure on both sides, giving them a little more time to work towards an agreement now that this has been taken care of."  Ease the pressure?  I would think it would increase the pressure, knowing that this country cannot even take care of the people who "gave the last full measure of devotion" in service to their country.  It's appalling. The United States of America goes begging like a street urchin.

What on earth has happened to my country?  Who are these people sitting in Washington D.C.?  Have they no conscience?  Have they no loyalty to anything but themselves and their screwed-up ideologies?  Have they no responsibility to those of us who live here and work here and care about what it means to be an American? Have they no sense of history?  No love of this country and the men and women who have fought and still fight for it? 

I think all of them--but most especially the republicans--need to read something.  It's something that will remind them why they are there.  It's not to advance their own stature or to get a plum committee assignment so that they can puff up their resumes to run for something else.  It's not to advance their personal biases and prejudices to a national platform.  And it's not to create chaos and headlines to stroke their ego.  It's about how government and democracy are hard-won.  It reminds them that people other than them do the dirty work of freedom.  It reminds them that democracy is somehow always fledgling, and it needs care to grow and flourish.  It won't take long;  it's less than 275 words.  Send it to your representative and remind him/her that it's your America, too.  Go, read.


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The Art Of Being Nance: We Might Need To Put A Call (Or A Text Message?) Out To Jesus

I find myself singularly uninspired and hugely unmotivated lately.  This leads to massive amounts of Leisuretime Guilt.  It is difficult to reconcile myself with this New Lifestyle.

But I press on.

Mindful as I am with my Tragic Neglect of this space, I will flood it now with a variety of Thingies for your perusal.  Such as:

(-)Yesterday while out on errands, I saw this sign on a church:  NEED A MAKEOVER?  CALL JESUS!  I don't think I'm being deliberately obtuse when I say that I really don't get this exhortation.  Yes, I do infer that it means a spiritual makeover, probably, but why "call" Jesus?  Do I just holler?  Can I punch in 1-800-JESUS on my cellie? Or is there a Latino Clinique representative who rented the sign, maybe? "Oh, Jesus, I don't know. I'm just tired of the same old look. Can we sort of freshen me up a little with a more peachy lip and maybe a moss green eyeliner?"

(-)I am on Day 3 of a Monumentally Huge Headache Of Titanic Proportions.  No idea why.  So...Rick decides to use the leaf blower for eleventy hours.  Clearly, this is Purgatory.  Tomorrow, if my headache is gone, I will be reevaluating my life and considering entering a convent to atone for my (obviously) considerable sins, unless it is too late, in which case I'll say hello to a few folks for you.

(-)What has happened to me?  Some of the following are true! 
1.  I voted for a republican in the last local election.
2.  I own an iPhone.
3.  I have a secret Twitter account.
4.  Ditto Facebook.
5.  I own leggings and wear them in public.
6.  I send text messages.
7.  I ordered beer in a restaurant.
Which of these are you willing to believe of me and shatter all of your Nance Ideals?  Oh, the HORROR, I know!  But I have a good explanation, and you shall have it, for each and every one that is A Fact.

And just so that you can rest easily...

(-)I went on a private tour of the Cleveland Museum of Art this week, with a lovely cocktail party immediately following.  My financial planner and sometime boss (for whom I do some freelance writing) invited Rick and me.  It made me a little ashamed that I had not been there in so long, but renewed my pride in our wonderful museum and its collections. I immediately resolved to drive in one day soon and spend several hours wandering and enjoying the paintings and furniture.  I am not much on sculpture or armor or sarcophagi although there are plenty of those there.  I am also anxious to again prove that I can, indeed, view art and not embarrass myself by crying at it, like I did at the Vermeers in Washington, D.C.

I think I told you about that, didn't I?  Sigh.  (But...his brush hairs were right there and everything!)

This headache...what a bitch.  Send me your drugs. STAT.

Spring Cleaning At The Dept., And Everything Must Go: Ninjas, Paula Deen, And Genes...Especially Those Genes

Here are some little Thought Nerfuls that have been nooking-and-crannying in my brain for awhile. Besides, it's time things got a bit Lighter here at the Dept.

]*[ Jared, shaking his head and chuckling at the memory, recently recounted this scene while reminiscing about his adventures with his buddy Isaac, currently serving in Iraq.

(scene opens at a neighborhood bar. young man in his twenties is at the bar; seated next to him is a young woman of the same age. they are obviously strangers.)

Young Woman: Yeah, so what do you do?
Isaac: Um, I go to school.
YW: Oh, really? What are you studying?
Isaac: (without missing a beat; completely cool, serious) Ninja Arts. At the community college.
YW: What? Wow. (takes a moment to study his face; is skeptical) Really? I never heard of that.

Isaac: Yeah, well, it's sorta like a phys. ed./psychology double major thing. It's pretty cool.
YW: Oh, wow. That is cool. Wow. Could you, like, show me something?
Isaac: Come on. Really? Here? (shakes head with totally disdainful look; walks away)
(end scene)

]*[ The Cleveland Plain Dealer has been doing a series about obesity in America. It recently published an article about celebrity chefs climbing on the bandwagon for healthier eating habits. I almost sprayed my coffee when I saw the name Paula Deen. Holy crap. This is the woman whose Holy Trinity is Butter, Mayonnaise, and Cream Cheese. Who invented a recipe called "Gooey Butter Cake." Who has a casserole called--and no, I am not making this up--"Piggy Pudding" which calls for a cup of maple syrup. I'm sorry, but unless her inclusion in this campaign is Court Ordered, I'm just not falling for it.

]*[ Had Easter buffet/groaning board/Embarrassment Of Food Overload with the Entire Extended Family on Sunday. Lovely...and Freudian in that we all blamed the patently ridiculous amount of food brought/provided on our upbringing by my mother. My sister bought a huge ham, hefted it at the store, and what was her first thought? "I will also make an Oceanic Vat of sloppy joes." I made enough Asian Slaw to bury that continent, and on and on and on and on it went with all of us relations making Titanic containers of food and transporting it all to Patti's house, then feeling waves of amusement, ridicule, and resignation. It is part of our Genetic Makeup. My mother did--and still does--the same thing. My brother Bob witnessed her, standing in front of the open freezer, doing unnecessarily complex mathematical calculations, just to decide how many chicken wings to cook and bring. When he quickly told her what he thought, she viciously challenged him:

Mom: How do you know that's how many?
Bob: Because I made one bag for my poker night for half as many people and it was more than enough.

Mom: But...

Bob: And shut the freezer. You're wasting energy.

Mom: Oh for heaven's sake. You don't even know how many wings are in here.

Bob: (reaches over and shuts freezer door while handing her a bag of wings) There are forty in here.

Mom: How do you know? It doesn't say on here.

Bob: I just know. Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the wings.

Mom: Boy oh boy. I wonder how I ever raised four kids if I never, ever do anything right.

(By the way, there were plenty of wings, but once this story was related to everyone by my brother--and my mom overheard--she made several of her grandchildren ask for more wings, pretending that they hadn't had enough. She can get ornery.)

]*[ Finally, one last story. My sons tease me endlessly about how long it takes me to "run into Walgreens" to get one or two items. They claim that I take hours, aimlessly wandering, lingering too long here and there, reading labels, calculating cost per ounce for the best deals, etc. They never want to take me or go with me. I claim that they are filthy liars. I might take a bit longer than they would like, but it is never hours. But this, too, might be genetic. My brother, who takes my mother shopping, says that she especially lingers overmuch at the greeting cards. "Dropping Mom off at the greeting card aisle is like dropping off a kid at the arcade," he said earnestly. "She can spend hours and hours in there. I can go do whatever shopping I have in whatever departments I need to, and when I'm done, no matter how long it took, that's where I'll find her. It's incredible."

I'm wrapping it up here. Dinnertime, and it's leftovers. For some reason, I always seem to have a lot of leftovers....

Variation On The Thumper Rule: If You Can't Think Of Anything Smart To Say, Then Shut The Hell Up--The Political Version

Mark Twain once said, "It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt." So many people in politics would do well to have that quote tattooed upon their forearms or, at the very least, with them, visibly, at all times. Here are a few examples that I've been collecting lately for your consideration. Hey, everyone needs a hobby.

Case 1. Ideally, we want our leaders to be brilliant. We want them to be smarter than we are and not the kind of ...entrepreneur that puts himself through law school by posing naked for a hotsy-totsy publication. Or the kind that uses his historic (the first time a republican has garnered a Massachusetts Senate seat in over 30 years) acceptance speech to pimp out his daughter. Senator-elect Brown is not your typical republican in many respects--he is pro-choice, he supports his state's subsidized health care system--but he needs to smarten up. Here is a delightful quote that says it all for me: "I'm a history buff. I love the Museum of Natural History." Oh, boy. Come on, Scott. Do you even know what is in a museum of natural history? Heavy sigh.

Case 2. I liked Elizabeth Edwards and stuck up for her when people--male people in particular--said unkind and disparaging things about her. (Same thing about Barbara Bush, by the way, who I always liked until she opened her snobby elitist and out-of-touch yap about the Katrina victims.) You know, the snotty remarks about how she (and Bar) looked old enough to be her husband's mother, how Elizabeth was matronly, overweight, and all that crap. Then, as the media circus was finally settling down and she and her kids could just live their lives and she could focus on managing her terminal illness, Elizabeth wrote her bestseller and dredged it all up again. Okay, whatever. I say, "Stick it to the cheating bastard and make him squirm." But just as John "The Haircut" Edwards is finally facing the music, what is Elizabeth doing? Well, among other things like running a furniture store, she's giving an interview to POLITICO, in which she seems to make excuses for him. Oh, Elizabeth Elizabeth Elizabeth. Here's what she told them about Babydaddy John-boy: "The things he wanted to do weren't going to be natural for continued public life anyway. He honestly cares about poverty." Hm. Well, it's nice that he cares about...something.

Case 3. Speaking of John Edwards. (In the interest of full disclosure, I used to like him. As a matter of fact, he was My Guy way back when. I saw him, as I may have said in a much-earlier election blogpost, as a sort of Kennedy/Clinton clone. Obviously, I STAND CORRECTED. The guy is a slimeball.) Anyway, does this guy strike you as a modern-day Reverend Dimmesdale from Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter, or what? Remember him, the minister who got the Puritan woman pregnant, let her take the fall for him, stayed silent for eight years while she raised her daughter alone and was vilified by the community, and then, as he was dying, gave a pseudo-confession with his last breath, and was still seen as a Christian martyr by many in the community? One of Dimmesdale's midnight promises to his daughter Pearl is that he will one day legitimize her by standing with her and her mother. When Pearl asks if it will be the next day at noon, Reverend Dimmesdale says no, it will be another day: Judgement Day. In an eerily similar vein, here's a little quote from John "Call Me Rev." Edwards: “I have been able to spend time with her during the past year and trust that future efforts to show her the love and affection she deserves can be done privately and in peace. It was wrong for me ever to deny she was my daughter and hopefully one day, when she understands, she will forgive me.” Oh, PS. Little Frances Quinn Edwards-Hunter is TWO. At least she only had to wait ONE year for her father's acknowledgment.

So, yeah, I get it; I get that being under constant public/media scrutiny is tough. You can't filter your mouth nearly enough. But these? These are...just terrible. These people chose a public life. Now they need to choose their words, too, and carefully. Or just shut up.

On Lying

In the book To Kill a Mockingbird, Scout sagely observes, "one must lie under certain circumstances and at all times when one can't do anything about them." That kind of lying is no fun, and is what I term "Survival Lying." It's the kind of prevaricating we invariably practice out of kindness to our mothers, in tolerance of our in-laws, and with sheer instinct for our children. Serious business, that kind of lying. How many times have you said outrageous untruths in emergency rooms, seriously minimizing the level of pain or the number of stitches? How many times have you told your mother that "it's no trouble at all?" And the in-laws...grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Then there's the fun kind of lying--what I call "Recreational Lying." This is really best done with children, of course, because they are most gullible. (Certainly, if you have some of your own, this is easier and safer.) Often, when the boys were little and we would go out to dinner I would lie to Jared and Sam about the status of their meals. They were usually hungry and a little impatient, so after several minutes, one of them would say, "Mom, how much longer?" I would say, "Oh, I forgot to tell you! A little bit ago, a big dog sneaked into the kitchen and ate up your dinner! They have to start all over." Or, if I heard a loud noise, I'd immediately turn to one of them and say, "Sounds like they dropped your dinner and now they have to start all over!" After a while, naturally, that would get old, so I'd have to be more inventive. I would excuse myself and go to the restroom or wander over to another area of the restaurant, then return and tell one of them that I'd overheard one of the waiters talking about how they'd run out of whatever one of the boys had ordered and that they'd had to send a member of the kitchen staff to the grocery store to get more. I know it sounds mean, but really, after they'd look very tragic, I'd assure them I was kidding, and then they were so grateful that they'd be thrilled when their dinner was out sooner.

And you'd be surprised how often and how long they fell for it.

Then, there's a whole other genre of lying that's kind of gender-based. You know, Chick Lying. Don't make me flash my Feminist Card! You know what I'm talking about, and you know I'm telling the truth! Women lie about Certain Things, and that's just The Way It Is.

1. Weight. I will always tell the truth about my pants size and my dress size and my shoe size, but there is no effin' way I will ever tell you my weight. When I was heavy, I lied. Now that I'm a size 2, I will still lie if anyone dares ask me. And when I was in trouble with Dr. Doogie for being way too thin, I lied the other way and told people I was heavier than I was. It's a thing.

2. Recipes. Oh, sure, I'll give you the recipe. But not The Real Recipe The Way I Actually Make It. Because I don't really follow it. Because I don't really measure. And because if I give you The Recipe, then you can make it too and mine won't be special and wonderful and in demand and then maybe I won't be, either.

Those are the two Chick Things I lie about. There are other Chick Things to lie about, I know. Some women lie about age; I don't. Hey, I'm in public education--every year is a victory. I am often accused of lying about coloring my hair. I don't. I'm fortunate enough to have inherited the Slow-Greying Gene from my dad. If you are close to me, you can see the grey hairs; they are definitely there. Will I ever dye my hair? I'm vain enough to know better than to say no. I'm hoping to grey in a very stylish way so that I won't have to because A) I'm cheap and B) I'm lazy. The upkeep would kill me. But my natural color is very, very dark. Grey hair is not. Sigh.

Do I have to even mention Guy Lying? They're just not good at it. They're all over the place, too. No specialization. Reminds me of the republicans.

So, I Was Talking To Hillary, And I Told Her...

..."Look, Hillary, at some point, you've gotta show you're human like the rest of us. I know it's a tough gamble for a woman who's running for the most powerful office in the world and all, but you're coming off as too polished, too 'handled.' It's not like you have to cry or admit to PMSing all over the place or needing your chocolate fix or whatever--you just have to have a couple of hey, I get you sister friend Oprah-type moments. Trust me on this. I mean, if I can't speak the truth to you as a friend, then what are friends for, you know?" And I think she got me. We'll see. It might not show up in a debate, say, but she'll know when to pick her spots. She's that good.

Psssssssssssssssst. How was I just then, up there? Did it sound credible? I've decided to follow a new national trend, making it big by faking it. According to Elizabeth Large of The Baltimore Sun, (reprinted in The Cleveland Plain Dealer 15 June 07) this is perfectly acceptable. "These days it's fine to fake it," she writes. As a matter of fact, there's a book out to help us on our way: Faking It: How to Seem Like a Better Person without Actually Improving Yourself. The mantra of this program is "It's not who you are, but who others think you are." Although this book is designed primarily to help newly graduated college students navigate in the real world, it contains many helpful hints for those who are looking to impress. These hints include:

*Pretend you're a good host by filling top shelf liquor bottles with off brands when you finish them.
*Pretend you're intellectual and well-read by leaving impressive magazines on your coffee table like The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly and The Economist; get a copy of the latest NYTimes best-selling nonfiction book and dog-ear every 40 pages or so. Leave the dog-ear down about halfway through the book.
*Pretend you're a gourmet cook by constantly referring to complicated dishes or ingredients you hear on Food TV shows by claiming to make/use them yourself.
*Avoid exposing your ignorance by being dismissive or saying with a chuckle, "Well, that's a pretty complex issue" and then offering refreshments.

If you're self-righteously shocked by this cool and duplicitous strategy, I ask you: have you never, ever faked it? Not even once?

Have you ever re-gifted? You know, gotten a present from someone, felt really lukewarm about it, stashed it away and, one day been in a spot when a gift was needed on the fly for someone else and...Eureka! That wrong-fit gift became the perfect present for that someone else.

Or...you were asked to bring a dish or dessert to a reunion or a party or a picnic. You didn't feel like putting in the time and effort. You went to a deli or a bakery or the prepared-foods section of a local market and bought something, put it in one of your own dishes and took it to the party. If anyone asked--sure! You made it. Oh, it was no big deal. The recipe? No, you don't dare tell...family secret! (Oh yeah, it was a secret, all right!) I did this! And I admitted it in a previous post.

We've all, as the old old saying goes, "gilded the lily" at one time or another. Who knew it would turn out to be a Millenial Lifestyle Choice? According to professor Ty Tashiro at the University of Maryland, recent research seems to suggest that people are "fundamentally motivated to lie." Technology has made it easier for us to do so, what with Instant Messenger, email, MySpace, texting, and the like. We don't have to face each other to communicate. "People are pretty effortless liars," said Tashiro. And now cyberspace's anonymity and vast network of virtual reality have added to the sense of unreality already out there.

Some have called space the Final Frontier. Is the Internet the Prevarication Perimeter?

Last Year On Dept. of Nance: Men