I'm eating an orange... and I'm not even bothering to pick off all the white stuff. What's next -- wearing the same underwear three days in a row?
Oh, wait, I'm already doing that.
My folks are visiting this weekend (weather permitting) and we haven't seen them since Christmas. Wayyy too long! I miss my mommy and daddy. It's nice for Joel to have a little deadline to work on some of the trim in the kitchen (not like he has any time before that deadline to accomplish anything, but still, a deadline is nice).
Speaking of my parents, I think they will be delighted with the job they did when they read that my latest Serious Pet Peeve is being lied to. I think I vaguely remember my mom telling me that lying to someone is pretty much the worst thing you can do. And I've thought about it and you know, I think she really had something there.
Now I know a couple people with the tendency, when put under a little bit of pressure, to fib. It's weird, because I can tell when they're doing it. And I'm not intuitive at all. When there's a kid crying in the next room during Moms' Time at ECFE, I can NEVER tell whether it's mine. OK, that might just be an example of poor hearing. But, like, not ONCE have I had a "bad feeling" about something that actually turned out to be serious. I've never had a bad dream come true -- just the other night I dreamed that a series of tidal waves kept smashing into me and Lucy and Ed on the beach, and for sure there has been nothing even resembling a tidal wave in St Paul. So there!
But sometimes, these fibs, they are obvious. Then there's the times they aren't obvious... and then when I discover the truth I feel like the idiot. There's not much that rankles me more than being made to feel like an idiot. This probably stems from 7th grade when the Cool Girls were talking about their periods, and I thought they were talking about smoking, and they said "What we're talking about has nothing to do with you" and I said "YEAH? AND IT NEVER WILL EITHER!" and when you're in 7th grade, there is certainly nothing humorous about self-effacement, especially in regards to delayed puberty. Now? My lack of breasts is comedy. Then? Devastating tragedy. Where was I?
Right, lying. So I make it a point to tell the truth, even when, on the surface, it might seem easier to tell a little white lie. And if you can muster up the courage to do the same, I would truly appreciate it.