Liar Liar Pants On Fire

There are two lies I spin all the time. 1) I’m fine, and 2) I have read and agree with the terms and conditions. When it comes to the sidestep shuffle, a little white lie is your get out of jail free card. I carry a small arsenal of vague excuses appropriate for any occasion. Long live the harmless half-truth!

When we were teens, we told some whoppers. Like, I was at the local library studying with Dewey Decimal. If I was detained for seized contraband, the cigarettes, mickey of vodka, and sensimilla in my sock belonged to him. After the third time, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Dewey anymore.

This generation has a harder time flying under the radar. Technology blew a hole in our tried and true alibis. Your offspring can’t commit perjury when smartphones double as a tracking device. Their saving grace is most Moms’ can’t figure out the app.

Him: Nice shoes.
Me: Oh, these old things? I’ve had them forever.
Him: Um, hello. The doorbell camera says Amazon delivered them yesterday. And, you paid by credit card.
Him: By the way, there’s five more packages on the doorstep.

As parents, we bold-face lie to our kids. I didn’t touch your Halloween candy. They don’t sell batteries for that toy. Rover went to live on a farm. Mommy’s not mad at Daddy. Fabrications for their safety and our sanity.

On the grand scale of honesty, white lies are the kindergarten of untruths. What an adorable baby. I’ve only had two drinks. My phone “died.” An average joe fibs 1-2 times per day. The biggest lie I tell myself is I don’t have to write it down.

What little white lie did you tell today?

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