I Am Not a Total Bald-faced Liar . . .

I am a bit ashamed of my shameless lies. I mean, I try to be honest--though some of you bragging on my lying abilities flattered me and made me wonder if I should lie more often Muahahahahah--so I feel indebted to come clean and tell the truth. *cough*

1. When I was 5, I became so angry at a boy I had a crush on because he kept ignoring me that I decided to get his attention by running up to him at recess and then shrieking "I hate you! I hate you!" before kicking him in the crotch. He still hides from me to this day.

False The basic details of this story are true--you know what they say about a woman scorned--but I was actually 6 when this happened. In a further note of nitpickiness, I actually screamed "I hate you, Charlie! I hate you!" because I wanted him to know this was not a random attack or a case of mistaken identity. Also, I haven't seen this guy in ten years, so I have no idea if we would hide from me or not, though he did hide last time I saw him. I have no idea why . . .

2. I know how to make a guitar out of a gas can.

Before I tell you the answer to this one, I am going to tell you a story. Most of you know my dad served in the 82nd Airborne. During his time in the paratroopers, my dad did 2 nine month tours of duty in the Sinai desert in the early 1980s. During those tours, my dad did a lot of patrols, and he witnessed some interesting things. One night his squad had been walking for several hours in the desert when they heard an eerie noise wafting over the dunes. The more they walked, the closer the noise got, and the more it unnerved them. They had never heard such an otherwordly noise. My dad and his comrades started to get nervous. They asked for permission to lock and load their weapons. Their lieutenant was also rattled, so he gave them permission. So . . . they rounded the next dune, arms drawn, prepared to blow whatever it was to smithereens. They did not see a djinn or a ghost. But they did see a highly intoxicated man wailing mournfully in Arabic, while accompanying himself on a guitar made out of a gas can. So the answer is . . .

False. I have no idea how to make a guitar out of a gas can, but I know it can be done.


3. When I was 7, I loved the book Matilda so much that I hid the school's copy in my desk the entire year and disavowed all knowledge of its whereabouts, so nobody else would take it from me.

False. This did happen, but I hid Bunnicula all year from everyone, not Matilda, though I did adore that book, too. Nobody was taking away my vampire bunny book until I was finished obsessing!

4. I never once got in trouble at school, because I was a goody-two-shoes. Or should I say I never once got caught getting in trouble at school. ^^

False. I got in trouble once. I was in kindergarten, and I had been told to not skip on the way back to class after lunch. But I was pleased with my skipping skills (I could skip and not trip and fall--a small miracle seeing as I could not do this while attempting to walk) and I was the teacher's pet, or at least I thought I was because I didn't eat crayons, so I skipped, anyway. She yelled at me and when we got back to class, I got my card--which always stayed on green for being good--moved to yellow as a warning. My card had never been moved before. I was the only kid in class who had never had the card moved. I was so distraught that I sobbed hysterically all afternoon, which interrupted my teacher's reading lesson so much that she had to stop and reassure me that I was not in trouble and my card would be back to green the next day. I still kept crying. I wept all during naptime, too. Everyone else napped while I laid awake, sniffling into my little nap mat and reflecting on my evil skipping crime. I was inconsolable until I came back the next day and saw that my card was green. (Did I mention I was a sensitive child?)

5. When I was a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian, because I loved puppies and kitties and they loved me! When I was told I'd have to touch blood, I shrugged. Puppies and kitties would need help, anyway! But when I was told I'd have to touch saliva, I lost all interest.

True. Blood has never bothered me, but spit? EWWWW! That is the most vile thing ever. I even get hysterical when I get dog slobber on me. Seeing large quantities of blood does not bother me--even if it is my own. I used to dissect things as a kid with absolutely no problem. Seeing someone spit makes me want to vomit, which incidentally enough also grosses me out. When I see vomit or spit, I vomit and when I vomit, well, you get the picture. I sure hope you're not eating while reading this. I think I made a wise decision in deciding to be an English and history major.

6. When I was a junior in high school, my local homeschoolers' group took a week long trip to Chicago. My first day there I ended up getting lost at O'Hare Airport and spent hours walking in circles, wondering where everyone was. I finally gave up and sat on my luggage until someone noticed that I looked confused and pathetic. It works every time.

False. This one is so false it is not even funny. I have never been to Chicago. (But I would like to go. Al Capone Museum, here I come! *cough*) In fact, the farthest north I have been is southern Illinois. I have not been in an airport since I was nine. I have never been lost in an airport. Even though I was homeschooled in middle school and high school, my family never had anything to do with the local homeschool groups. We're lone wolves. I also am someone who, though painfully shy, am assertive when I need to be. I get proactive when I get lost. Finally, and this point is not to be underestimated, but I am also lazy--I would march up to the nearest desk and ask for help before I circled a large airport several times.

7. I am so shy that when I was twelve, I entered a local talent contest to play the piano and froze on stage. I got over my stage fright by running off stage and never getting on it again.

I am so shy that I have never entered a talent contest. I am self-taught on the piano and would never, ever have the nerve to play it in front of anyone. I have run away from social gatherings before, though. ^^

Okay, I promised e-cookies for those of you who correctly guessed the right answer. Three of you deduced the right answer--Feathery, Patrice, and Sky. Yayayayayayayayayay! Congratulations! Each of you get a lifetime supply of e-cookies!

*looks around at other followers who are begging for e-cookies* Oh, all right, each of you can get one. *hands out a cookie to everyone*

Am I not merciful? AM I NOT MERCIFUL? *develops deranged Joaquin Phoenix-like glare* Sorry! I watched Gladiator this weekend, and it has two of my favorite actors in it--Phoenix and Russel Crowe--and I really enjoy randomly quoting it. It also greatly saddens me that Phoenix is no longer acting and that people think he is insane, though he probably is. Come back, Joaquin. :(

On that totally random note, I will leave. :D

I am a Bald-Faced Liar . . . And So Are You

How's your weekend been, dear readers? Mine has been a bit strange. I suddenly became sick Friday night with, well, I am not sure what. One minute I was happily typing away on my computer, the next I was lightheaded and suffering from a pounding headache and nausea. As to quote John Cleese, "I got better" on Saturday, but I was still a bit woozy and remained that way for the weekend, which is my excuse for wearing my shirt backwards all day Saturday, even though I kept denying that and instead thinking it was actually inside out. (It wasn't, but it most certainly was on backwards.) Maybe it was because I was all hopped up on generic over the counter pain medication. Yeehaw! Or, maybe, it 's just that I am the world's biggest space cadet when sick. I am not sure.

Anyway, in a time honored routine, I huddled in bed and read while my devoted and delightful Chihuahua of nearly ten years tried to make me feel better by using my head as a trampoline. He does this every time I am sick. That or he uses my head as a stage to tap dance on. And, as usual, he performs his little jump/dance routine for about five minutes while I whimper for him to stop, then he settles his delicate five pound frame next to me and sleeps quietly until I feel better. I do not even pretend to understand his methods, but I know he loves me with all of his little heart, as I do him. I think he is practicing an ancient medicinal dance of his native Mexico to restore my health.

But enough about me.

Spammy and Rebel gave me this most prestigious award, with the following instructions:






If you want this award, you must:
1. Thank the person who gave you the award (Thanks, Andrew and Rebel! :) )
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog
3. Link to the person who nominated you
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself and at least one outrageous truth, or vice-versa
5. Nominate seven "creative" writers
6. Post links to the blogs you nominate
7. Leave a comment on each blog letting them know they've won the award.

So to that end, here are my lies . . . or are they truths?

1. When I was 5, I became so angry at a boy I had a crush on because he kept ignoring me that I decided to get his attention by running up to him at recess and then shrieking "I hate you! I hate you!" before kicking him in the crotch. He still hides from me to this day.

2. I know how to make a guitar out of a gasoline can.

3. When I was 7, I loved the book Matilda so much that I hid the school's copy in my desk the entire year and disavowed all knowledge of its whereabouts, so nobody else would take it from me until I was finished. Um, well not really keep it until I was finished so much as keep it so I could obsessively read it every day for the year. Do not judge me.

4. I never once got in trouble at school, because I was a goody-two-shoes. Or should I say I never once got caught getting in trouble at school. ^^

5. When I was a child, I wanted to be a veterinarian because I loved puppies and kitties and they loved me! When I was told I'd have to touch blood, I shrugged. Puppies and kitties would need help, anyway! But when I was told I'd have to touch saliva, I lost all interest.

6. When I was a junior in high school, my local homeschoolers' group took a week long trip to Chicago. My first day there I ended up getting lost at O'Hare Airport and spent hours walking in circles, wondering where everyone was. I finally gave up and sat on my luggage until someone noticed that I looked confused and pathetic. It works every time. :D

7. I am so shy that when I was twelve, I entered a local talent contest to play the piano and froze on stage. I got over my stage fright by running off stage and never, ever playing in public again.

I nominate 9 bloggers for this award, just because, well, I don't see why I have to choose seven:

Aly
Amarantha
Bruce
Eric
Jourdie
Math
Penguins
Ryan
Sky

And whoever can correctly guess which is truth and which is fiction--or guesses better than everyone else--will get, um, well, will get their name mentioned with lots of exclamation marks and be awarded e-cookies when I post the truth. :D

Forsooth! My Socks Lied To Me

I apologize, guys! I was going to post something about writing, but I had to spend another day glued to a chair, working our county's run-off election, so I just whipped this up. I hope you enjoy it! In case, you're wondering--you really aren't, I know--the election was much like last time, except our ward captain abandoned us, so I got stuck filling out paperwork for two precincts. *twirls finger* I hate paperwork. I hate paperwork almost as much as I hate lying footwear.

This makes me tear up to say it, but my socks are liars. *pauses to dab eyes* They are unrepentant, shameless liars! Liar, liar, pants on fire, Mr. Socks!

I am getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry. It just upsets me when my socks are deceitful. What happened, you ask? Why does Zella accuse her socks of bearing false witness? Aren't socks by nature truthful creatures? What motives could socks have for lying? Can socks even talk? And why did Zella name her socks something as atrocious as Mr. Socks?

I recently had to buy some new socks. My sock supply has decreased in recent months. I am not sure if they have a hidey-hole they retreat to or what the deal is, but my socks are disappearing at an alarming rate, and the ones that remain are holey. No, they are not saintly socks bestowed with spiritual powers. My socks have no religious affiliation. (On the contrary, my socks are apparently diabolical and quite criminal in nature.) They are just full of holes and wear marks, and they are falling apart.

Monday, I left for work about an hour early to buy myself some new socks. This is necessary, because I live in a very rural area and it takes me roughly thirty minutes to get to town. Also, I am picky about my feet and what goes on them, so I wanted plenty of time to buy my new sock soul mates. My socks must be 100% cotton, black or dark blue in color, plain, and neither too short nor too tall in height. In case you're wondering, I am not picky about the stylishness of my clothes, not in the least (I am notorious for wearing mismatched socks and dressing like a slob, in fact), but I have some medical issues that make me picky about my feet's comfort--and let us not forget I am too lazy to ensure they match my outfit-- hence the rigid requirements.

I usually don't shop for clothes in a store--that's what garage sales and Goodwill are for, my dears--so I went to our local Wal-Mart--the same one I encountered the Bratz dolls in--and walked around for several minutes trying to locate the socks. When I found them, I was mortified. The only socks available were shocking neon colors of some unidentified but most certainly not cotton fabric with disturbing plaid, striped, or polka-dotted designs, and they looked too small for my feet. What is a pathetic nerd to do when confronted with such footwear? My eyes were starting to hurt from this visual assault when I noticed that the socks were all marked as "Girls' Socks". Not "Ladies' Socks." I was in the kids' section. Oops!

I didn't want to admit that I had no idea where the women's socks were, so I went to the counter and nonchalantly asked for the socks. I assumed since I am always mistaken for a thirty year old, the clerk would automatically point me in the right direction. For once in my life, I assumed right. She pointed me toward the women's socks, which were the direct opposite direction of where I had been.

*stifles sob* This is where my tale becomes tragic. *blows nose* I circled the three sock aisles repeatedly, searching for socks that met my requirements. Alas, I could find none. There were a lot of hose (which I dislike) and colorful socks (which are right out!) and those little socks that have their edges below the ankles (ICK!) and some socks that went to the calves (NO!). But no socks that met my requirements. I began to slightly panic, because I had to be at work in twenty minutes, no socks were suitable, and I have a serious depopulation problem in my sock drawer.

Just when I was beginning to think that the socks of the world hated me and that no socks in the world loved me and that my poor little, erm, not so little for a petite woman's, feet would be unprotected for eternity, my little nerd eye spied some black cotton socks on the bottom rack. I grabbed the package and was delighted by two facts:
1. There were ten socks in the package and they cost less than the packages that only held six. (I am notorious for being a miser, so this made my skinflint heart beat with joy).
2. The pictures of the socks showed them as coming roughly up to one's mid shin, which is exactly where I like my socks.

I was elated. I would have danced a jig if someone had not been standing there. I grabbed two packages and scurried to the self-check out.

Once I paid for my new treasures and carried them out to my car, I quickly drove to work. I arrived, parked, and stared longingly at my socks for some time. I really wanted to wear a pair of my new socks to work, I thought I deserved to wear my new socks to work, and, gosh darn it, I was wearing my new socks to work. I tore into the package and pulled out a pair . . . only to discover they had . . . had . . . lied to me!

My socks were not shin length. Those Benedict Arnolds were ankle length. :( THEY LIED! I feel betrayed. What has the world come to when you can't trust your socks to be straightforward about their length? They were the only socks that even remotely matched my description, so I would have bought them, anyway. But this . . . this treachery? It is inexcusable. *cries in corner*

But, if you want me to be honest with you, I like my new socks because they are comfortable, though I am not sure I could ever truly trust them. (Or, rather, I would like them if they weren't lying liars who lied about their true lying selves.) ^^

What are your feelings on socks? Are you picky or will you wear anything?