I'm a Size 2

I lie.

A lot.*

For those who know me in the Real World: DC, don’t fret; I lie not to you, close confidantes and drinking acquaintances, but instead to strangers. On the Metro. In the freaking Dress Barn (please don’t ask me what I was ever doing in Dress Barn; surely flashbacks and non-hilarity would ensue). And I lie at restaurants and to neighbors and the homeless for no apparent reason.

Setting: Retail store, Northern Virginia

Store clerk: “Can I help you find something, or are you just here to look at our shoes?”

Kris the Liar: “No, thank you. I’m just here to look at all of your items . . . Can't help myself. I just LOVE shopping.”

Truth: I abhor, detest, hate and loathe that reportedly female pastime called shopping. I buy online when at all possible (I don’t think I entered a mall during the last holiday season, and if I did, I blocked it from my memory just as I do my annual ob/gyn visit). I was there for the sole reason of checking out their shoes, as I have had the damndest time finding an acceptable pair of brown boots for fall. I didn’t mean to fib; I just didn’t want this lovely woman to woo me and my wallet by detailing the personal benefits of purchasing the black ankle-height pair at 20% off and bringing out photos of the grandchildren she hasn’t seen since last Easter at Joan’s house. And had I seen the bedazzled turkey sweaters all mine on a two-fer? Ugh.

Setting No. 2: Grocery store checkout line, Washington, DC

Cashier: “Ooooh. This pasta looks great. What are you thinking of making?”

Kris the Fraud: “Probably baked ziti. It’s really good!”

Truth: What? I knew full well as those words passed my lips that the only place I ever consume baked ziti is at my mother’s dinner table. I also knew full well that I planned to take that pasta home, boil it in an inadequate amount of water, in my infinite hunger strain it before it had even reached al dente status, dump cold Ragu on it, and consume it while plopped on the couch watching Forensic Files. No reason to lie. That answer would have been sufficient, however unfortunate the interpersonal scarring my lengthy account may have inflicted on the kind cashier.

The baby Jesus weeps in a manger far away.

And perhaps most egregious, Setting No 3: Outside a 7-11, Washington, DC

Man: “Miss, could you spare any change?”

Kris the Phony: “Ooooh, sorry. I just charged these things (dramatically hoists up bountiful bags of 7-11 goods) and don’t have any cash on me. I’m sorry . . .

Truth: I probably had at least a Vegas day’s winning of unneeded quarters and dimes and most useless pennies in my purse. But I was in a hurry and the bags were kind of heavy and wasn’t I a good person anyhow being that yesterday I gave real cash American money to that homeless woman at the highway exit? And after all, I did have that excellent episode of First 48 to rewatch at home, given that I really didn’t get the full flavor of the Memphis Homicide Department or that corpse in the bathtub the FIRST THREE TIMES I WATCHED IT. Ugh again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I really must run. You see, Bug somehow glued his back legs together with epoxy and Truman Capote is on his way over for mac and cheese . . .



*I should admit here – in the interest of truth and the Hall of Justice, of course – that I have written about this pathology before. I frankly am too lazy at this moment to search the archives and feel the need to confess the offense anyhow.