print Hello world.

Would it be a “good lie” – a pale little white lily of a lie – to say that I am confident about this project? That I am excited at the prospect of having an audience to my scrawl? That the very thought doesn’t terrify me, and that I don’t worry I’m dwarfed by my fellow writers in competency, experience and talent?

Is the good lie to grin, strut confidently center stage and declare to the world that, “I Am So Fucking Amazing!”?

Rhetorical questions, of course. But they are parading through my consciousness nonetheless as we kick off this Most Awesome of Awesome Projects slated to end with an orgasm of cakey goodness. Hello, fellow cakers!

print A history.

Those questions address a moot point anyway, as I was born without the liar muscle. It’s a handicap, really. The truth comes out faster than my brain can spin fiction. Earlier this year, I was asked on a probably-date by a colleague. It was fairly obvious what he was after, but not quite obvious enough that I could call him on it while standing outside of a press conference. Stripped of the comfort of my well-loved blurt, “I have a boyfriend – thanks anyway and sorry!” (Thanks, D, for being my excuse!), I had to come up with a good reason to not walk into this trap. You know: I’m helping a friend move. It’s my Dad’s birthday dinner. My grandma died. Big deadline in the morning. Or screw the details – “I have plans,” would suffice. Anything… Ummmmm….

“Sorry…”

::deafening silence::

“…I’m dog sitting…”

Totally true statement. Score!

Also, it’s 4 pm and no half-competent person needs the rest of the day to feed and walk a dog. But now I’ve blown my one chance.

“…so I’ll need to go home and feed and walk him, but I could come out after that.”

Epic, awkward fail. Terrible.

Actually, terrible does not even do justice to the train wreck that is me lying. A terrible liar plays with her hair too much, or buckles when asked to tell her story backwards. A terrible liar swears up and down that he has not yet had his dessert while donning a chocolate mustache.

But to really play in the big leagues, you have to take it a step further by practicing the art of the Self Tattle. My mother to this day likes to commit suicide by way of laughter while recounting the numerous times I snuck a cookie I wasn’t allowed or committed some other heinous offense and shortly thereafter came running to explain what I had done. Psh. Parenting me was a breeze (kidding!).

Fortunately for me, I gave up even attempting to lie years ago (see: dog sitting).

This past weekend, I went to visit The Boy one state over. On my last trip, I promised I’d see one good friend the next time I was there. And then I didn’t manage to make it happen. Literally while writing this, she texted me to say, “Long time no talk, how are you?”

Dude.

I JUST got back. I can’t IGNORE that I was just there, can I?

::fretting::

By now, you know how this story ends.

I suppose I am just too fragile to handle the remote (or not so remote?) possibility that I might be found out and have to endure reproachful looks. Or that I’d have to keep a detailed chart of lie details in my hole-filled memory so I don’t misstep. Or worst of all, that I might find myself floating above my body, watching myself red-faced and mumbling some half (nay, 2%) baked excuse while others look on, faces contorted in horror. Watching someone trying desperately to use a muscle they don’t have? So sexy.

This is my life. As such, I plead Insufficient Knowledge to Address This Prompt. Which amendment is that, again?

Guests are coming. Oh me, oh my. I’d better do some tidying up around here. Pay no mind to the cobwebs and ancient decor – I’ve been MIA for too long. All you need do is review the comments on my last two posts to see a friend has shown more dedication over the past few years than I have.

Dear me.

Well now, what have you missed? I promised myself I’d quit my last job before 2010, and I did. I moved back to my home state. I brought The Boy. He moved back six months later. Now we do That Long Distance Thing. I’ve traveled to Israel and Germany. I’ve had a small handful of Life Crises, as I like to keep it interesting by constantly reevaluating The Plan. I have a new job, in a new industry that is as unlike me as the last job was. Osama was killed. Allegedly. (Kidding!) Not Obama. Osama. And there was a Royal wedding. I didn’t see it. I hear it was wedding-y.

Consider yourself up to date.

What’s new, other than an updated About page?

My lovely other half has ingeniously devised a plot to enslave myself and others to the typewriter every week by triggering our Pavlovian response to the promise of cake. You can check it out the details here.

Welcome, Cakers!

I turned 27 this past week. I’m ancient. Sure 27 isn’t that old, but when you consider that I consistently act about 60 years older than my age… well… I’m ancient.

In other news, I answered the door at my parents’ house the other day and was greeted by a campaign canvaser who asked if my mom or dad were home.

One day last week my neck ceased to be composed of flesh and instead transformed itself into 100% Organic Spasm.

When this happens at work I do, on occasion, retreat to the file room and lie down on my back, which seems to be the only position in which the Organic Spasm will chill out for one single second. But this fit was more persistent and I figured that no number of five minute file room lie downs would permit sitting at my desk for more than a few minutes.

I stayed home and in the evening had occasion to speak to my friend D on the phone. I relayed my situation and the unfavorable ratio of necessary lie-downs to allowable sit-ups, complaining that the only position that made my neck any better was flat on my back. He concluded

Well, I guess it’s time for a career change. The Boy will just have to deal with it. You can crash on my floor until you find a place in The Valley.

Look for my name in lights any day now…

I’m so resigned to it now that I caught myself absent mindedly tapping my fingers to the ivory tickles.

I’ve crossed to the other side. Save yourselves.