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Adjusting the Scales of Honesty: Do White Lies Count?
“Hey, boys—throw this blanket on top of the sacks. And make sure you get the corners.” I cringed in opposition. Did he just involve our children in a hidden importation? I turned my head to the west and spaced out while he drove. Lest you feel the urge to judge, think about this: if you were taking a twenty-dollar item across the border, would you be willing to pull over and pay a six-hundred-dollar fee for it? Behold, one of my most humbling posts ever. Thoughts of a corrupt government, two years of paying 16% taxes, border agents who charge whatever they’re feeling like that day, and insane importation…
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Gossip: Loose Lipps Sink Ships
“Some say our national pastime is baseball. Not me. It’s gossip.” ~ Erma Bombeck When he welcomed us into his rad classroom, we eighth graders knew we finally made it to the top. To be in Mr. Lipps’ class meant we got the cool English teacher. Of all my junior high classes, this particular one simultaneously thrilled and unnerved me. The middle-aged, borderline hippie spoke with authority and sauntered between our desks with an abundance of confidence. His “Loose Lipps Sink Ships” poster spanned the width of one wall and sat higher than our heads when we stood. It struck me as deep… forward-thinking… high school-ish. And I had no idea…
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Dave’s Daughter, Corky’s Chica, Micah’s Mom: Finding My Identity in My 40s
He leaned sideways against our crummy lockers, tilted his head and flashed his crooked, pearly whites. “So when are you gonna sleep with me, girl?” His casual offer made me blush, but inside I hid my shock. And then a speck of pride crossed my heart. He wanted me. He wanted me? The tall black jock pursuing the tall white jock in the middle of a normal school day made for such great gossip and bragging rights. Good grief, Carrie, snap out of it. You don’t want to be wanted like that. Well, duh. He had no idea who I truly was or where I came from. Never mind…
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Dear Stay-At-Home Mom: I Figured Out Your Problem
My face told him my approximate age. The awkward wedding reception silence told him to ask. I knew what was coming; the same thing that always came after the “nice to meet you” part. “Do you work?” It’s not a question I get down here in Baja; the majority of women stay home and take care of the kids, cook, etc. But when I lived in the States—a perfectly normal question. I wanted to launch. I wanted to redefine his inquiry, spell it out, wrap it up and hand it back. You mean like for money? No, last time I checked there’s no salary for washing, changing, feeding,…
