four rules for lying

We all have those moments when we feel stupid.  When we put the milk in the cabinet and the cereal in the refrigerator or back into a shopping cart in the Kroger parking lot where our friend works, sending it flying into a BMW.  Gretchen would call these human moments.  I thrive off these moments.  They’re when I feel alive, when I feel stupid.  What I could live without are moments when someone I realize that someone thinks I am stupid. 

This Christmas we had our usual round of parties and this Christmas I even hosted one.  I’ve never hosted a party in my parent’s home before and I’ve only really co-hosted a party with Casey or Michelle before.  I have a social-anxiety disorder and I don’t like to go to parties, be at parties, or have one.  They’re an endurance test for me.  I think that’s why when I do need to do something of this nature I prefer to have a dinner party: it gives me something to do to absorb my nervous energy.  I spend the entire time nauseous and if I learned one thing from grandfather who served in the Navy it was, “having something on your stomach if you’re nauseous because if vomiting sucks you should try dry heaves.” 

I went to my friend’s acquaintance’s Super Bowl party this Sunday.  When I arrived at the party the host thanked me for coming to the party and apologized because they missed my party.  They had text-messaged the day of the party and said they could not attend.  They text-messaged days after the party and said they had missed the party because their stepmother’s father had died.  I put it out of my mind, save for concern for my friend acquaintance and their family.  I didn’t hold it against them:  I miss parties all the time for lesser reasons.  I preface my RSVP to social events with my social anxiety disorder in case I ‘freak out,’ and know in advance I can’t do it.  I once helped my friend Linda move in a valiant effort to avoid a meet and great with the Governor.

He told me they had missed my party because his wife had to prepare for a job interview on the telephone.  It was in that moment that I wanted to leave.  Had I not been parked in and had I not promised my friend Leslie I’d be at the party with them I would have left.  I reeled; I lost my balance.  I was furious: not that they had missed my party but because they didn’t have enough regard for me as a human being to coordinate their reason for standing me up.  If this wasn’t enough – because politeness would have dictating me writing off this indignity – his wife, also a friend acquaintance, apologized for us missing the party because he had been sick.  

I'm not mad they missed my party.  I could give a quick list of reasons why our party wasn't bereft of their society.  That' s tacky so I won't, what I am doing is tacky enough.  

I wanted upon to call Suburban Island because it says in the Bible in 2 Chaos Bean, 4:12, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the Suburban Island from whence cometh my scolding.  My scolding cometh from the Suburban Island; which made Web 2.0 and Social Networking.”  I need someone to right my ship.  I need someone to tell me to behave.  I needed to ask myself, “What Would Suburban Island Do?”  Simmer with rage, blog about it later!  I wanted to ask myself, “What Would Chaos Bean Do?  Use their toaster, a copy of US Weekly, and a bad gas line to blow up their house ala Jason Bourne.  If you can imagine, on my shoulders sit Chaos Bean in a red jack with a skeleton on it, she’s holding a martini telling me, “don’t get mad, get even,” on the other shoulder is a frazzled Suburban Island dressed in the manner of Glenda the Good Witch, she is juggling: a rosary, a lap top, cell phone, and a PDA with one hand, holding a Caramel Macchiato (double sugar-free caramel, skim milk) in the other saying Hail Mary’s entreating me to be good.  I don't like people treating me like I am stupid.  I hate it.  It disturbs my digestion.  

I let Suburban Island win this battle and endured the rest of the party and I wish I had done it better.  I had moments of rudeness of my own.  I was glad when game was over and I could leave.  I was glad when I left that I would never have to go back there.  The parking is impossible and I can never find their house anyway.  I think it was a hint from God: find other homies.  I've gotten the hint.  Please Lord, let those homies be Valerie and Doug.  Let me go home.  

I am not a good liar, and Chaos Bean isn’t either.  We have developed a few simple rules for lying to people to make your life easier and your friendships stronger. 

1. Don’t do it.  We try to be frank and explicit at all times – which creates it’s own confusion – people always know where we stand (near the open bar or the potato chips) and are never offended to learn we had led them to believe something false.  It’s easier to keep the truth together than it is to hold a lie in place. 
2. If you must lie, keep it simple.  It is very difficult to keep a complex lie straight.  For instance, when I taught elementary school Johnny’s great aunt Arlene died six times in one year.  Do not give a name of the relative who died and do not give them an important station.  Express that the relative wasn’t that close to you but you had to go because of family politics or your cousins needed you there.  Nothing makes you look like a bigger ass then being caught later in public with Dead Aunt Arlene.
3. “I am saying this because you want to hear it,” came right out of Chaos Bean’s mouth at our Grandmother’s funeral, and she proceed to tell my cousin a polite reason why we are not close with them.  Always preface what people want to hear with the fact that you’re only going to say it because of that.  You could see Chaos Bean’s deep and abiding love for humanity when she said this: she loved them enough to do this.  Normally we would suggest saying, “I know you want me to tell you that the name for the baby is clever, but really it is stupid,” or something similar. 
4. Coordinate your lie with the other liars.  In the rare occasions that Chaos Bean appear before Captain von Grandfather in a clothing made of curtains we do not profess that our faces are blue because the strawberries were so cold they turned blue.  We have a believable story prepared that is simple and easy to follow.  We have a scenario that is plausible in our lives.  I am a terrible driver and get pulled over a lot.  We live in the boonies and there are always cows in the median, tractors on the highway, or bizarre accidents.  Chaos Bean’s legendary pompadour doesn’t just happen. 

 Presenting believable lies to your friends, loved ones, and people with whom you share your life is the polite thing to do - if you must lie.  I would normally support any bad behavior: drinking, cursing, shoplifting, etc, but lying is so difficult and burns bridges so completely that it should just be avoided.  

As for me, this friendship has quickly gone from being that to an awkward social interaction that I am going to let die on the vine.  I feel that confronting the couple about this would be rude and pointless.  If they didn’t value me enough to tell the truth in the first place, to tell a believable lie, preface their lie, or coordinate it then they also don’t regard me enough as a human being to care that I think they’re rude.  This isn’t worth fighting fire with fire on, and it is never is: in situations like this it’s always best to walk away and not look back.  There are lessons to learn from everything and the lesson I’ve learned in this situation is that if they’re really your friends then they will tell you the truth or a quality lie.  If you can’t do that for someone then you are not a friend.  

Comments

[philosopherP]

I agree -- kind of like a twisted Hallmark slogan -- friends who care tell quality lies...

[Suburban Island]

It's hard work sitting on your shoulder giving you all that Suburban Island advice but someone's got to do it.

[iidlyyckma]

So - if I am understanding correctly the folks who missed your party told conflicting lies. Nice...