I ain't gonna lie to ya

I find it interesting and somewhat unnerving when people use the phrase “I ain’t gonna lie to ya” more than six times in a conversation.

My immediate response is to think “well, that’s good… but I didn’t assume you WERE going to lie to me."

Today I conducted an interview with a sweet young woman hoping to get a job as a caregiver with my company.

ME: “So, Tami, do you have experience providing care for senior citizens?”

TAMI: (to be read in EXTREME SOUTHERN ACCENT, worse than Ellie Mae Clampett) “Well, I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I took care of my grandmaw for three years 'fore she died. She weighed like 400 pounds and she could be a hateful old bitty. But I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I loved the work…. Honest.”

I really wanted to reply, "Thanks, Tami. You're such a refreshing change from all the other candidates who announced that they WERE going to lie to me."....but of course I didn't say it.
ME: “Great. Do you have any training in the healthcare field, CNA or anything like that?”

TAMI: “I got my CNA certificate early last year and worked in a nursing home after that…I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I would of stayed there longer, but, to tell the truth, I got laid-off. I loved them people in that home. I ain't lyin."

And so the conversation went…me asking typical interview questions and Tami unconsciously reassuring me that her statements were 100-percent truthful. I started to grab the Gideon Bible off the shelf and say “Tami, do you mind placing your right hand on this for the rest of the job interview?”

And she’d respond ,“I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I don’t mind placing my hand on that there Bible one bit.”

And then I’d respond, “Tami, I think you’re lying. Are you lying to me, Tami?” Maybe I'd grab her around the throat and shake her just for dramatic emphasis.

And then she’d respond. “I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I’m not lyin.’ Not one bit. No ma’am, I’m not. And that's the honest truth.”

I used to have a boss who’d pepper his dialogue with the phrase “if you will.”

“We just finalized the new strategic marketing plan for the peripheral product line. It’s going to be a different approach, if you will.”'

"Tomorrow I'm assuming you're still meeting with Peter in graphics to approve the new layout. He's quite a character...."if you will."

Just once I wanted to stop him and say “as a matter of fact, I WON’T this time, Bart! No, I will NOT. I’m not sure what I won’t do, because I really don’t know what you think I WILL do. If I will…WHAT?”

I ain’t gonna lie to ya, phrases like that get on my nerves.

Incidentally, Tami didn't get the job. I just couldn't shake the feeling that maybe she was....lying to me.

The Long Road to Soda Addiction Recovery

Hi, Everyone. My name is Angela and I’m a Diet Pepsi addict…..now in recovery. It’s been 96 painful hours since my last drink. That’s FOUR. WHOLE. DAYS. I would’ve written sooner, but my hands just slowed their shaking enough for me to type. The night sweats seem to have subsided. And I haven’t had any more hallucinations of Ray Charles singing “You’ve got the right one, baby.” I just may be out of the woods. But the cravings are wicked bad! I can’t walk past the garage refrigerator to my car without white knuckling my keys.

Since around age 13 I’ve been a three Diet Pepsi a day gal, drinking as many as six on occasions of low impulse control, full moons and Giants/ Dodgers match ups. I’m now almost 37, which means that my kidneys look like owl pellets riddled with buck shot. Diet Pepsi has been my constant liquid companion for over half my life. Heck, I was holding a Diet Pepsi in my wedding pictures, at my high school and college graduations, when my kids were born and during all three of my probation hearings.

If you’d asked me on Tuesday at 4 p.m. if I ever planned to kick my soda habit, I’d have thrown my head back, given a hearty, British, “have you gone MAD” sort of laugh… and then taken a long aspartame laden swig. But it’s amazing how life can be turned upside down by out of control stubbornness.

See, it all started when I went to meet my friend Grant to plan a St. Patrick’s Day event called the Shamrock Shindig. (Yes, I know that’s a really bad name for a party.) Grant is one of those people who can turn a simple half-hour snooze of a business meeting into an animated debate about the fall of the white male in modern society or the myriad of uses for lime Jello. Grant has a talent for speaking his mind even if it might get him executed. If he were to ever visit a Middle Eastern country, he’d totally end up in front of a firing squad by sundown.

That day, the party planning was replaced by an intervention because I happened to be holding a Diet Pepsi when I showed up at his studio.

“What’s THAT?” Grant wailed, almost spilling his Perrier in alarm, as if I’d arrived wearing a combative black mamba around my neck.

I laughed, “How long have we been friends and you didn’t know I’m like, ’addicted’ to these things?”

“Oh, ANGELA! Now I understand why your waistline looks bloated and your skin has that sort of grayish tint. Every time you drink one of those pollutants, you poison your body! Don’t you know that?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Was he really saying this to me? I was too stunned to even reach for the mace on my keychain. So I just stood there listening.

“You’re putting foreign substances in your body and it has no idea what to do with them. So your body stores these substances as fat cells. Fat cells!” Grant whispered again for dramatic emphasis.

My ears weren’t betraying me. “YOU’RE ACTUALLY CALLING ME FAT!!! Not even my husband gets away with calling me fat” I blurted, unable to contain my skyrocketing incredulity.

“No, not you. Just the cells that make up your body. They’ve stored all those years’ worth of artificial sweetener as gelatinous lard that’s just sitting there inside you,” Grant explained, while not even attempting to hide his appraising inspection of my midsection.“

“Oh, what a relief! You’re not calling me fat, just the 75 trillion cells that comprise my body” I said sarcastically, eyeing my three-quarters-full Diet Pepsi with its condensation seductively running down the can.“

“Don’t do it, Angela,” Grant warned, obviously reading my mind.

I half expected a screen to drop down from the ceiling, starting a video, narrated by Dr. Mehmet Oz demonstrating how human cells store fat and how diet soda companies are lying to us with their 'diet' labels.

“Ya know, Grant, you don’t have a single weight loss or nutrition book on the New York Times Bestseller List and you can’t run across the room without stopping for a break. Why should I listen to you?”

“You’re taking the focus off yourself by attacking me now…. You can’t quit drinking them! Can you, Angela? …You said yourself, that you’re ADDICTED.” challenged Grant, turning my own words against me as if he were Dr. Phil in front of a studio audience.

“I could quit ANYTIME. I just choose not to. Plus it’s not like it’s heroin or meth. It’s soda! Who gets addicted to that?” I countered.

As the words came out, I flashed back to an old house divided into apartments. My college roommate Meredith and I shared a common wall with Jake, Brandon and Chris, who smoked themselves retarded by noon everyday on their rust-colored velour sofa.

“You see, Angela, pot is perfectly safe. It’s all natural, so there’s no way for it to be addictive, because addictive substances are man-made,” explained Brandon, like a middle school health teacher, occasionally choking on a bong hit.

I remember thinking that Brandon was an undiscovered genius. It was unfortunate that he couldn’t hold down a job, dropped out of school and was always behind on his rent. Some people were just unlucky that way.

I also thought of my cousin Mary Sue, the only person who drinks more Diet Pepsi than I do. She's always on a diet, but looks like she swallowed a tire tube from a dump truck.

“Alright, Grant! I’ll quit!... just to PROVE to you that I’m not addicted!” I blurted like a kid just challenged to a Double Dog Dare. “You won’t win this one, Mr. Self- Righteous-Know-it-All-Health-Expert!”

That was four whole days ago. I’m starting to get used to drinking water. This morning I noticed that buttoning my jeans required a little less physical strength and breath holding. Maybe my waistline is starting to shrink. Maybe, just maybe….Grant was right.

Nah, probably just a coincidence.

Does Your Dog Have this Problem?

My dog Hope has this not-so-attractive habit of regurgitating her food about an hour after eating. Her ample serving of Kibbles and Bits is in line for the intestine coaster when “whoaaa….back out the hatch.” I’m sure it’s very confusing for the food.

She doesn’t do it every night, or else she’d be residing at the Humane Society by now, but this game of volcanic “see food” has been going on intermittently for a year now. If Hope were a body obsessed, under confident teenage girl, I’d swear she’s bulimic. But, in reality she’s a comically unattractive pit-bull mix who barks at her own reflection. Maybe she is bulimic and barking into the bathroom mirror is her cry for help. A dog owner can never be too sure about these things.

I mentioned Hope’s digestive malady to her veterinarian, a sweet, empathetic woman, the Jane Goodall of canines, with an entertaining Canadian accent. (the doctor, not the canines.)

“Well, in Hope’s mind she’s still feeding her puppies! You guys are her litter and she’s serving you up a treat,” replied a smiling Dr.Gooddog, who seemed to consider the regurgitation an impressive dog trick like shaking hands and fetching a beer from the fridge…and was a noticeably put off by my desire to correct it.

I half expected her to suggest that I get down on all fours, open wide and show some appreciation.

“So that’s why Hope looks offended when I scold her,” I said, trying to empathize with my dog and simultaneously score points with her advocate.

“Exactly,” said Dr. Gooddog. “She’s trying to provide nourishment for you.”

In a disgustingly self sacrificial way, it all makes sense. Hope had a newborn litter of puppies when we rescued her. She was skin and bones, having been put out beside the highway to waste away by her owner…or pimp. After the puppies were weaned, Hope would eat her dinner in the house and then run down to the shed and regurgitate it for her puppies’ dessert, oblivious to the massive pan of Puppy Chow they were walking around in right next to her. The little ones, always thrilled to see their mom, would scamper up and ask in dog language “what'd ya bring us?” as if Hope had just returned from a routine business trip from which she always surprised them with lightly digested goodies.

But the puppies are all grown now, happily residing at Michael Vick’s house. Could she be reliving the past?

This theory does explain why Hope chooses to vomit, not in a remote corner, but right in the middle of whatever we’re doing….like on the stack of Community Chest cards during a heated Monopoly game and on the living room floor, while the boys are playing Wii…barefooted.
She stands there wagging her tail, looking from us to the pile of liquefied chunks and back again, as if to say “hey, don’t be ungrateful. I spent an hour making this for you. Bon Appetit!

“Mom, you know that if you don’t clean it up, Hope’ll just eat it all over again,” pointed out my nine-year-old son Andrew, who has highly acute powers of observation regarding life’s grossities.

“The other night she threw up on our Blokus board while you were on the phone with Grandma… and after a few minutes, she just gobbled it back up.”

“Nice!” I exclaimed. “What happened to the game?”

“Jack won,” replied Andrew.

Picturing Hope waiting around to see if we’d eat her secondhand dinner makes me think of those deaf people who always hung out in airport terminals back in the day. They’d walk around covertly passing out pencils and sheets of stickers along with pre-printed notes saying something like “I am deaf. Please enjoy the Easter Bunny pencil and Dukes of Hazard stickers for a $5 donation.”

If you didn’t want the festive pastel pencil and 80’s themed stickers, the proper etiquette was to pretend to not notice them lying two inches from your arm rest. A few minutes later, the deaf person would return and silently recollect the unpurchased wares.

I wonder what those people are doing for extra cash in the closed-off airport terminal days since 9-11. I doubt Gray Hound station patrons would provide the same profit margins.

I’m still not sure what to do about Hope.

“Keep her outside for a couple of hours after she eats,” suggested my husband, who brought at least 98-percent of the common sense to our marital gene pool. Gold compared to my double jointedness and tongue-rolling contributions.

“I’ve tried that already. She’ll just save it until she comes back in,” I volleyed. “It’s her way of showing that she loves us, according to Dr. Gooddog.”

“How about a nice bed on the back porch? She can officially be an outside dog,” countered James, strategically.

“How about a canine psychotherapist? Maybe Cesar Milan would be interested.”

“Why don’t you give him a call, Honey? After you clean up that treat Hope left you over there.”

Valentine's Gift Buying Advice for Men

With Valentine’s Day just around the corner, we’re bombarded by advertising. Most is directed toward guys…because they rely heavily on ads to tell them what to buy their gals for holidays. That way they don’t have to think. If a company were to market yak manure as the perfect Valentine’s gift, you can be darn sure that hundreds of men would send it to their sweethearts. Run a commercial with a few hot models oohing and ahhing over a steaming pile of droppings, and orders would pour in by the shit load. (sorry, I couldn’t resist).

Now a word of caution.

I’m not sure what I’d like for V-Day, but I can guarantee with 100% certainty that it isn’t a teddy bear from the Vermont Teddy Bear Company. Yes, you’ve seen the commercials, running 386 times a day on every cable network with even one male viewer.

The ads feature attractive, female recipients, ages 20 to 40-something, thrilled to receive an over-priced stuffed animal…that “arrives as a Bear-Gram gift, packed inside our fun and colorful gift box with air hole complete with a personalized card and gourmet candy”.

Maybe in my 36.9 years I’ve lost touch with the true concept of “fun” but I’ve never been one to consider a gift box to be fun…unless it contains copious amounts of bubble wrap.

Popular teddy bear themes include:

- “I’ve Fallen for You” bear that comes complete with a bandage and crutch.
- “Love at First Bite” vampire bear, which is dressed like a black street corner pimp. If that doesn’t say “true love, then nothing does!” …
- “Hooked on you” bear, which looks like Paddington as a transvestite pirate.
- Perhaps my favorite is the ‘Hoodie/Footie bear, dressed in footed pajamas with its paws in the pockets looking like “what? I didn’t do anything.” The best part, though, is that we women can have our own pink hoodie/footie pajamas to match our teddy bear.

My question to Vermont Teddy Bear Company executives is this…

Do you think we’re toddlers? How many women over the age of six, with an IQ above 50, would actually hope to receive a stuffed animal for any holiday... and then want to dress themselves like the toy?

If you were marketing these for dads to give to their little girls, it would make sense, but wives and girlfriends? Yeah, maybe if you're targetting pedophiles!

Not even when I was a kid did I ever look over at my teddy bear collection and think “Gosh, I’d sure like to have my own “hug me” t-shirt like Snuggle Bear is wearing.” I know some girls did, though. The American Girl Doll craze is a classic example. But, again, those are for kids. Not grown women with jobs and kids and dinner to plan and PMS and depleted 401k’s.

I don’t want a FREAKIN’ TEDDY BEAR or the ridiculous matching jammies! I want Jewelry! Botox! A Caribbean Cruise! A Keurig Coffee Maker! A Spanx Wardrobe! A Clean House! My pre-childbirth boobs back!

So, James, if you’re reading this, I don’t care how many Vermont Teddy Bear commercials you see between now and Monday, Never …in any realm of the imagination, unless I sustain a brain altering head injury, will I want one of those God forsaken carnival prizes. I don’t care what it’s wearing, or what I could wear to match!

End of rant! Tomorrow, I'll go off on Pajamagrams.

Toilet Telephoning: is it just me or is that.... wrong?

“Angela, Honey, I’ve GOT to have the recipe for that soup you made us last night. It was DE-VINE…and such a good colon cleanser.”

This is the text I received from my friend Amanda this morning. I can’t help but wonder if she typed it from the comfort of her toilet seat, during the therapeutic internal cleansing elicited by my chicken tortilla soup. I guess I should be flattered.

Maybe it’s a niche I can fill in the meal delivery business, catering to a constipated clientele. I’ll need more prunes…or dried plums, as they call them now. Better marketing, you know.

Over the course of my adulthood, I’ve brought dinner to many a family in need of a hot meal due to sickness, death, cosmetic surgery, the birth of a new baby, as opposed to the birth of an old baby. (Why do people put “new” in front of the word “baby?” Like someone’s going to give birth to a secondhand baby, a vintage baby or a 2004 model baby with low miles, still under warranty. Sounds rather redundant to me.)Delivering meals is part of being a Southern Christian woman, up there with saying "oh my goodness" and "bless her heart."

Back to the Amanda thing: I’m not the kind of person who can send a text while using the bathroom. I have an irrational fear that it will be flagged by Verizon as a toilet text for all recipients to see. Like when someone updates their Facebook status and it says in the corner “sent from my iPhone.” I’d hate for my update to say “sent from my toilet.”

It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where George took the book into the bathroom and it was flagged as unclean. I can’t risk sending unclean texts.

My husband can conduct a webinar for his entire company, complete with sound effects while doing his bathroom business. He acts as if I’m a prude for even mentioning that this might be just slightly pushing the modicum of business casual.

Even my grandmother, my GRAMMY (the local Miss Manners of her day) thinks nothing of talking on the phone while using the bathroom.

“Yes, Honey, your Aunt Gloria and I spent a whole morning cleaning out the storage house. Then we had the best lunch at that new deli downtown. They have amazing corn salad.”

**FLUSH**

“Grammy, have you been using the bathroom this whole time?”

“Oh for God’s Sake, Angela! Loosen up! Why do you have to make such a big deal out of it? I told Gloria how you got onto me for doing it last week and she said it was your problem. Not mine. You need to learn to be more accepting of people. Not everyone is as regular as you are. In fact, I haven't had a phone conversation in 20 years with your cousin Nelda where she wasn't sitting on the toilet. And I never once risked embarrassing her by bringing it up."

“Sure, Grammy. I’m sorry. But I don't think she's easily embarrassed anyway. By the way… I didn’t hear you wash your hands.”

“Oh for GOD’s SAKE, Angela! I’m washing my hands...and hanging up now!!!”

"What? Are you too modest to talk on the phone while washing your hands?"