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You Have Heard of Google, Right?
So, the other day I meet this guy for the first time. During our conversation, he finds out what college I attended, and, hey, what a coincidence, he went there, too.
Okay.
Then he proceeds to tell me an outlandish story about an 8-year-old genius that attended this college when he was there (at least 15 years before I happened on the scene), and how the frats would have keg parties specifically planned for this kid, in which the kegs would be full of root beer.
Uh-huh.
And then, how this kid was consulted by the student body when the college found a way to keep them from “sudsing” the fountain by putting a chemical in the water. And the brilliant boy genius figured out, not only how to counteract the university’s evil plan, but also how to add his own chemical that would make the suds ten times worse.
Yep.
My new acquaintance then says, “Gee, I wonder what ever happened to that kid.”
And I say, “Why don’t you Google him?”
And he says, “I don’t remember his name.”
Seriously? You can tell me how the football team used to run on the field carrying this kid on his shoulder, how he tested out of every college subject, how the professors wanted him to do the teaching, and you can’t remember his name?
I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but I am a Google Genius. And I can tell you, even without knowing this kid’s name, that you made this whole thing up.
I wish I’d had this power when I was in college, when the guy I was dating called to cancel our date, and told me he was at the hospital with a friend “who is having stomach problems” – and it turned out to be his girlfriend miscarrying his child.
Or when my mother told me that she was a medical doctor, with a specialization in Psychiatry. Even though she never went to medical school.
Pathological Liars – A Dying Breed.
Except in politics.
Thanks, Google.
Put a Sock in It
A text from me to Cap’n Firepants regarding an afternoon surprise for our daughter.
Can you guess what the surprise was?
Cap’n Firepants came home from work to take us out for lunch – and a few other things. Our daughter, Dimples (9), a summer flip-flop gal asked us, before leaving the house, “Are we going anywhere after?” She held out one foot with her new leopard-print flats adorning it.
The Cap’n and I looked at each other.
“Why do you want to know?” I casually asked. At the same time, the Cap’n blurted, “Why don’t you wear your new tennis shoes?”
Have I mentioned that the Cap’n is horrible at keeping secrets?
“She doesn’t need to wear her tennis shoes. Why would she need tennis shoes if all we are doing is going to lunch?” I said, very slowly, turning to open my eyes very wide at him. This is my secret way of saying, “Shut up, Cap’n Firepants!”
“O-o-kay,” Dimples said.
On the way to our surprise destination, Cap’n Firepants took the most ridiculous circuitous route possible, weaving behind strip malls, and taxing my “Take the straightest line possible to your goal” obsessive/compulsive mini-disorder to its greatest extent. This was partly because he did not want Dimples to know where we were going until the last possible minute, and partly because he did not know where we were going at the last possible minute.
“Where?” he loudly whispered to me when were almost there.
“Best Buy,” I hissed.
When we finally arrived at our destination, I said, “Surprise!” to Dimples in the back seat.
“I knew where we were going before we got in the car,” Dimples grinned. And she wasn’t lying. I could tell.
“What gave it away?” I asked.
“When Dad told me to put on tennis shoes.”
I glared at Cap’n Firepants as I whipped out the neon green socks I had secreted in my purse.
“You can still bowl, though, because I brought your socks!” I bragged.
“I know,” she said.
She may not have been surprised, but she was happy. Dimples’ dimples were in full evidence as we bowled and skee-balled and wheel-of-fortuned our afternoon away at Main Event.
My one fervent hope is that she inherited our crappy ability to lie. That could come in handy during her teenage years…
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