Nothing But the Truth

And the lies just keep on comin'.

I had a doctor's appointment the other day, the first in many moons. How many? Since Shrub took his first oaf of office, er, oath. Whatever, you do the math. I've been a bad bad girl. I don't know why I never go to the doctor, I just don't. I know women who see their doctors as often as their hairdressers. They call their doctor by its first name.

"Yo, Bob, how's the family? The golf game? Oh, and I've been feeling a little fatigued lately."

Well who the fuck hasn't. No reason to overhaul the healthcare system.

So I'm filling out this questionnaire in the waiting room at the doctor's office (these days it's called a Medical Center), and I'm checking all the usual boxes and priding myself on pretty much telling the truth, when the question of alcohol use comes up. Being in Truth Telling Mode, I answer as honestly as I deem fit, that is, just over the border into White Lie territory: "12-15 per week."

It's only later when checking my work (advice I've always given my daughter when it comes to school and which she's always ignored) that I realize the question was how many drinks per week, not bottles.

Details, details.

On the question of lying, I acquiesce to my mother, R.I.P., the once-reigning Queen of Little White Lieland. It was at her little white knees that I was first schooled in the ancient art of embroidering the truth. No intricate cross stitch of the Golden Rule to hang on the bathroom wall for that broad, nosirree. My mother's idea of a sampler was having several different versions of the truth to choose from. Like multiple choice.

"I'm sorry, my daughter can't play with your daughter today because..." (Choose one)

A. She isn't feeling well.
B. She has to work on her "Unknown American Women" project.
C. Her doll died.

These were the options in Little White Lieland. In Honestyland, it was always True or False:

"My daughter can't play with your daughter today because your daughter eats paste." (T F)

My mother wasn't big on the truth. She thought it was overrated. In her world, learning to lie was an exercise in creativity. It smacked of imagination and depth. Why settle for the mundane when you could have the extraordinary? And learning to lie with aplomb was a rite of passage for girls, right up there with never telling your real age and making sure your lips and nails matched.

She did, however, make a distinction between a Lie and a Little White Lie, and I was weaned on the latter. Kruschev and people from Chisholm lied. People with breeding and manners told Little White Lies. And a Little White Lie was not only creative, it was often the kinder choice, the classic example being:

"That dress looks like sausage casing on you." ...versus... "My, what a nice color!"

So when I casually alter my answers on the questionnaire in the doctor's office, I'm defaulting to an instinct buried deep in my marrow. Why complicate my doctor's busy day any more than necessary? She has bigger fish to fry. What happens in my liver, stays in my liver.

Plus, I want to present myself well, it's what people with breeding and manners do. How would it look to admit I fell out of an outhouse in a drunken stupor and cracked a rib? After all, I'm a direct descendant of the royal house of Norway. At least, that's what Mom always said.