You Want Answers?

Since the theme the last few posts has been about confessions and lying, I figured I'd do something I've not done before. No, not confess. Or lie. Not yet at least.

I'm going to open it up to you, dear readers, to ask me questions. I'll answer them in my next post, as honestly as I possibly can.

I apologize in advance to my family, because it is possible this could become really embarrassing.

But, it seems democratic to me.

So, fire away.

What do you want to know?

Don't know where to begin? I'll help.

Frankly, it is your question, so it can be anything you want. Take control! Be empowered! Step up! Despite what the monkey seems to think, I'll guarantee answers.

You want answers? I WANT THE TRUTH. (Bonus points for reading that aloud in your best Tom/Jack impression).

I digress.

The question...It can be something personal about me that I've yet to reveal—if that's possible. It can be a story you want to hear for the first time or again. It can be a follow-up question to a previous post (which would earn you gold stars for readership). It can be just an inquiry to hear my opinion on a topic, a news story, a cultural reference or a random tidbit. Or, it could be just that tiny little burning itch of a curiousity that you're just dying to scratch.

I'll get you started with a few easy ones:

Q: What's your middle name, Colleen?
A: Theresa

Q: Do you like tuna fish sandwiches, Colleen?
A: Not even in the slightest.

Q: What's your favorite city in the world, Colleen?
A: To date, it has to be Prague.

Q: What do you think your biggest flaw is, Colleen?
A: Wanting all the answers right away. It comes from wanting control, I believe.

See? Painless.

While I admit those weren't all that scintillating, or evocative, they were just thought starters. Don't go getting all critical on me. But, do be respectful, please. I won't be humiliated here on my very own blog. That would just be wrong.

Ask me your questions in the comment section, and I'll answer them in the next post. Feel free to do this anonymously if you're not as brave and openly vulnerable as I'm prepared to be. Or, tack your name on and get your VERY OWN FREE BLOG MENTION!

God, I hope I don't regret this.

You're on a (yet-to-be-determined) deadline.

And that's my final answer.

You Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

I have grown fond of the new show on Fox, Lie to Me. It's about a team of professionals who are trained in the art of lie detection, and put their services to use for crime- and problem-solving capers, located right in the heart of America's lies—Washington, D.C.

If you haven't seen it, make a point to catch it. I think you'll like it.

And, if not, lie to me. I'll be fine with that.

It got me thinking, though.

How often do we tell lies? As a good person with a strong Catholic upbringing, I'd love to tell you that I'm always honest.

But that would be lie #1.

And, I'd love to tell you that no one lies to me.

But that would make #2.

See how quickly they add up?

The show's premise focuses mostly on the involuntary, subconscious "micro-expressions" that our bodies make when we tell a lie. Grimaces, flinches, twitches, nervous gestures, body language and even, swallowing. The plotlines carry through nicely, and there is usually at least one twist that reveals whodunnit. I like that kind of program—especially since most of the violence/blood isn't shown too much.

It got me thinking, though.

How communicative are our faces in our daily lives? Meaning, when we're not trying to hide some major, disturbing event. Just the everyday conversations with friends, family and co-workers. I plan to be more conscious of my facial language, I tell you.

More to the point, how often do we lie? And why?

I'm guessing that we all lie pretty regularly, whether we know it or not. Most of the time, I think, we believe it is for their own good: "those pants don't make you look fat, honey," "sure, we can afford it," "you didn't make a fool of yourself, I promise," "your kids are charming," "he misses you, too," or the worst in my book, "I love you, too."

Some of the time, we're clearly lying, and it is a thinly veiled guise of what we're really thinking: "you deserve the promotion more than I did," "we can reschedule, it is no problem," "I'm proud of you for losing the weight I can't seem to drop," or, the most famous, "it's not you, it's me."

I'm pretty sure everyone knows those lies on a first-name basis.

And then there are the lies that simply avoid the truth, or sins of omission, as the Catholics would say. Those lies are the harder ones to read—they are the ones that are told between the lines, behind the real statement, below the surface.

They are the ones we're NOT saying, but really should. The truths that should be confessed, the admissions that ought to be made: "I'm married," "she's my ex-girlfriend and I'm not really over her," "I am threatened by your success," or, the most painful, "I'm disappointed in you."

Finally, there are the lies that we tell ourselves. Sometimes out loud, and sometimes in the quiet of our darkened rooms: "I don't usually do this kind of thing," "it is only a fling, I don't have real feelings at stake," "I'll be able to afford to retire eventually, I don't need to save now," "I don't mind being the grunt at work, it shows my dedication," "I probably deserved that," "I will be ready for love when I am a smaller size," or, the most treacherous, "It's okay that he/she is unsure of how they feel about me, we're just having fun."

I have had several interesting experiences lately where I realized the cold hard truth about lying, unfortunately (or is it?), from the receiving end of the game.

Lying. We all do it. Sometimes we get caught, and sometimes we don't. Sometimes, the times where we DON'T get caught are the most deadly.

Because then we go on lying to ourselves.

Admittedly Lazy

I can't deny that there have been a lot of changes in my life lately. You'd think that would warrant some incredibly deep, thought-provoking, and possibly funny posts.

Unfortunately, (but fortunately) by the time I get home from work, my brain is so spent that I feel like I'm housing a pile of oatmeal up there.

So, I'll share with you an organized list of nuggets that I managed to pluck from the mush:

• Love: American Idol
• Hate: When I miss it because TiVo and I don't get along.



• Love: Pen pals.
• Hate: The distance.



• Love: Time spent on the beach in Miami.
• Hate: Coming back to Winter.



• Love: My new job. It's finally clicking into place!
• Hate: That so many are still unemployed.



• Love: That it was 60 degrees last night at 10 pm.
• Hate: That it was 12 degrees when I went to work this morning.



• Love: That I own a Mac at home.
• Hate: That I'm on a PC at work. None of the key commands or shortcuts are the same!



• Love: That I already got my tax return back.
• Hate: That I can't blow it.



• Love: Realizing that I'm healing and not thinking of him every day.
• Hate: Realizing that I'm getting over it, and that it is really, really over.



• Love: Making my sister and George laugh until they cried the other night.
• Hate: That it was over the phone, not over a beer.



• Love: Having so many friends that they are spread all over the world.
• Hate: That the price of plane tickets and limited vacation time keeps us apart.



• Love: The bathing suits I ordered from Target.com.
• Hate: The fact that I'm not quite ready for them, physically.



• Love: Having a blog that people actually read and request more from me!
• Hate: Not being able to be funny, clever, observant, new, interesting or chatty all the time.



• Love: That today is hump day, and that means we're on the downhill slope to the weekend.
• Hate: That there are still three more days until the St. Patrick's Day celebrations!

Come on. Spill. What is it that you're loving and hating today?

Not on Target (aka Bump 'N Grind)

In the spirit of confessions below, I figured it couldn't hurt to share this one. It may not make you laugh quite like it did for me, but here's a shot.

I had the most embarrassing cart today in Target.

Running errands after work, I grabbed a shopping cart to carry what I knew would be two large items - toilet paper and paper towels. As a single woman, I don't go through these as fast as most families, but I still prefer to buy in bulk, what with the cost savings and all.

I start towards the paper goods section, and realize that my cart has an attitude.

A bad attitude.

It didn't want to go left. It didn't like going right. It had no intention of going straight.

And it complained, loudly, the entire time.

The loudest, squeakiest, strangest noises emitted from this plastic monster. I should have turned right around and put it back in the rack with the rest of 'em.

But, no, I'm just stubborn enough to think I'm going to make it stop. Coerce it into silence. Have my way with it.

Yeah...no.

I proceed to stubbornly (who's stubborn now?!) manipulate, loudly, this ridiculous excuse for a shopping cart all the way around my two-story Target store.

Oh, it gets worse.

Since it was right at 6 pm (I had worked from home today, getting a jump-start on my errands), the store wasn't crowded yet. Translate that to mean - it was quiet.

I maneuvered, loudly, the long distance from paper goods, through shoes (a girl's gotta look!), past accessories (looked the other way) to the cart escalator. I hoped that the enormous piece of mechanic marvel would teach the little cart a thing or two about being well-behaved.

Yeah...no.

I grab the cart, sheepishly, and careen, loudly, toward the grocery aisle.

People were staring. Really. I felt like I had to apologize. Out loud.

I kept uttering, "I know! It's so loud." And, "I'm sorry, just heading this way with my obnoxious cart!" and "It sounds like it is going to explode, doesn't it?" to several passerby. They just stared. At me, and at the offending cart.

It gets worse.

So, on Level 1, I had puttered and noisily bumped past the first floor team meeting. All seven red-golf-shirt khaki-pants-wearing employees turned, slowly, one by one, to identify the source of the noise.

That would be me. And my ride.

When I'd escaped to Level 2, and had dodged mommies and children (who were scared, hiding behind mommy's legs), I made it to the grocery aisle, my final destination, and pulled the plastic and metal hunk-of-junk to a stop.

A quiet stop.

Not before the entire gang of men's and electronics employees had their stare at me. Seriously, those red and khaki people are so judgy.

And, just to the left of the milk case, a woman had the audacity to say to me, "Why didn't you just get a new cart?"

I wanted to, really. I did!

But after you've started in one direction in Target, it is just a huge mistake to turn around. If you do, you'll end up spending $200 on stuff you just don't need but really had to have.

And if I didn't have a cart, I'd have to be physically reminded of the fact that I'm living alone, with no one to help me carry the big stuff, as I stumble and tumble from the toilet paper right over to the feminine aisle. At least I'm not buying cat food.

How do you explain that to a total stranger?

I'd rather have a cart I can't control.

Fess Up

So, folks, I'm looking to you to help me for this one.

No, you don't have to send me bailout money, free products or even a self-addressed-stamped-envelope.

Just play along.

That's all I'm asking.

A friend of mine and I were talking about confessions recently, and we realized that some are big, and some are small. Some things that we keep to ourselves are simply embarrassing habits, rituals or routines that we keep that, for us, make us sane. Some are errors of judgement, bad decisions or mistakes we'd like to forget. Some are urges we deny, cravings we try to ignore or secrets that we keep.

Let's get 'em out in the open, shall we?

Consider it free therapy. And, honestly, is anything really free these days?

I'll start. I'm looking to you to make this work. All of you lurking readers who refuse (or don't know how) to comment, this is your chance to shine.

Your fifteen kilobytes of fame, if you will.

My confessions are these:

I make my bed every day. I always insist on having the toilet paper flap over the top, not from under the roll; I've even switched it in public places to satisfy this one. I wear only one brand of underwear, every day (Hanky Panky lace). I hate to work out and haven't stuck to a routine since high school when I was on a team. I am slightly obsessed with the California Pizza Kitchen BBQ Chicken model. I cried my eyes out in public when I found out that my high school/college boyfriend had gotten engaged, despite the fact that it was me that had ended it years ago. I stole a Hello Kitty eraser set from the local Hallmark when I was five, and my mom made me return it; the rest of the story is not quite so cut and dry. I was totally sober for my senior prom and my high school graduation, and that was ok. I kissed about 10 guys while backpacking in Europe after college graduation. I am still terrified to admit to myself that I have put down roots in Chicago, and tell myself that "someday I'll be back in Atlanta," even if I don't take action toward that vision. I fell down the steps in front of Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe, and they both laughed. I wash my face and brush my teeth every night before bed, even if I've imbibed too much and am just so ready to crash. I hate hate hate those short boots that are so sadly in fashion right now. I still love him, despite the fact that I know better. I chew my cuticles, sometimes until they bleed. I can't hold my liquor with tequila shots. I don't think I have a "makeup mirror face" but I'm pretty sure I do. I retouch many of my personal photos to remove the Vulcan-like wrinkle between my eyes. I still wish I had bigger boobs. I cry at opera music. I am coming to grips with my Catholic guilt as a child regarding sex and intimacy. I have never been at fault in a car accident, unless you count hitting my own car while backing my Dad's out of the garage. I didn't realize I had so much to confess.

Ok. Clearly I got going once I'd started. It was a Pandora's Box, or a slippery slope, but that's just me. Apparently I could use a therapist.

Anyway, I'm just looking for one or two from you. No one is going to send you a bill for the couch time, and I promise not to give you any penance.

Don't leave me hanging out here with my skirt tucked into my underwear, now, please?

Come on. Fess up.


*Thanks, Liz, for this idea!