Weeding the Garden of Deception
I value honesty high among the traits humans bear as their finest decoration.
Fatty: Yeah, but you said there are some things you should never tell the truth about.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No!
Fatty: Yes.
[elapsed time: 45 minutes]
The Comrade: Okay, maybe I did.
Do you like this [enter random object the asker is displaying with obvious delirious pride]?
Truth or no truth, the answer is always yes.
Fatty and I went up to his family's cottage last weekend. We drove up in the middle of the night making only one pit-stop at the wretched golden arches, a place neither of us had entered in nearly 2 years. While insidious, there is something contemptibly delicious about their sausage and egg contraption. Alas.
We arrived 18 hours before any of the other guests. In those 18 hours were meals made, dishes done, a swim, mosquito slapping, tent raising of all denominations, leisurely yard and beach work and naps.
Uncertain whether it is a consequence of my darling Fatty's occasional night terrors, an inheritance from his mother's side of the family, the sweet love of my life is prone to waking up bitchy. I don't have this affliction. Mine is wholly different. I have a tendency to become incredibly irritating to others by way of either being über chipper or panicking because I've arisen late and there is still too much to do.
We were napping in a tent at midnight by the time our guests arrived. I wanted to greet these guests with Fatty. I wanted to go up to the main cottage with my boyfriend. I didn't want to go alone.
Subtext: What would they think about us? The strength of our relationship. Appearance Keeping 101.
But I couldn't find the thing I was looking for in the nyloned dark as Fatty was standing outside the blue, guaranteed to sleep 3, biting-fly inhibitor.
The Comrade: Where the fuck is my [insert random personal belonging which I couldn't care less whether he liked or not]?
Fatty: I don't know.
The Comrade: [panicked] Well I can't find it! Don't go anywhere!
Fatty: I'm not going anywhere.
Apparently I frantically asked him not to go anywhere about a dozen times. The decibels and panic levels grew by increments. Approaching the 8th time, the last place Fatty wanted to be was where he was.
Fatty: I'm getting eaten alive out here so I'm going to go up.
The Comrade: What? Okay.
Abandoned.
What an issue that is.
I found out later that there weren't any bugs that were giving Fatty any grief. He used that as an excuse to get the hell out of a situation that was too taxing, too irritating. Boy did that not sit well with me. And boy did he hear about it later. And boy did I regret handling it the way I had.
But we now had company. In total there were 4 other adults and 4 children. The children's ages ranged from 10 months to 10 years. As neither of us care to air our dirty laundry in public, we waited as I seethed.
My least favourite cottaging kid was Emily. I don't blame Emily for my not liking her as much as the other kids. Her parents were my least favourite adults as well. Something her dad liked saying was Giv'r. This is a word that I don't suspect will become part of my everyday vernacular, though you never know. My lovely Fergus was the inspiration to my now incessant awesome's. What I didn't like about Emily's character was that she was 5 years old without a proper vocabulary in which to express herself. Everything that came out was whiny grunts of dissatisfaction. It was made doubly bad by her constant state of having twin rivulets of snot cascading from nostril to lip in varying degrees of viscosity. Emily was born snotty but pretty and that was apparently enough. There was no need to develop character.
Though I still don't think it right, I chose a favourite.
Aidan.
He looked like a young Orlando Bloom.
Whip smart.
Slightly shy.
Independent.
Always asked when he didn't know.
Total grammarian.
Brown belt in karate.
When asked who he wanted to live with, his father or his mother (who has a tendency to leave good men whom she has children with), he chose his dad...
(An excellent choice).
Tried desperately to put me in an arm lock but I kept levelling him into the sand.
Aidan: Oh come on! Just let me put you into an arm hold.
The Comrade: You're not going to hurt me?
Aidan: No, I promise.
The Comrade: Okay.
The lovely Aidan puts the Comrade into a delicate arm hold and asks her to try to get out of it.
The Comrade: By any means necessary?
Aidan: Just try.
I kicked his feet out and mock jumped on top of him, looking, ever searching for a pair of Ninja ginch to yank up over his head, knowing inherently that young Aidan was light enough to string up in a tree.
Strange fruit.
The little bastard was going commando.
Drat.
Aidan: Yeah, well I'll be able to kick your ass when I'm as big as you.
The Comrade: Darling Aidan... How old do you think I am?
Aidan: Twenty.
The Comrade: That's right, mister.
Like I'm going to correct that.
His dad Craig, incidentally my favourite cottaging adult, is one of the best dads I've ever seen in action. The mind altering drugs he's done in the past had expanded his natural inclination towards philosophy. He spoke to his child once of fear.
Clap on.
Clap off.
Fear of the dark.
A bedroom is still the same bedroom with one difference. The absence of light. We fear what we cannot see. He is teaching his child that the generation of fear is from the very powerful mind. We do it to ourselves. I grew up on a street where some of the parents propagated the concept of the Boogeyman. Horrible, wretched liars.
Later, from this lesson, young Aidan will be better equipped to be able to detect the fear generation of media and government. He currently sings old songs of Rage Against the Machine. I wish to be there when he fully understands the magnitude. By the time he's 20, I'll be 30 anyway. I'm not going anywhere.
When Fatty finally told me the truth about my driving him nuts because his mental faculties were reduced while my panic level had increased, I initially lost it. I was hurt that he left me. I was angry because he couldn't tell me the truth. As a rule, I don't want to be lied to. I can actually handle it when someone says to me, "Look, you're being a crazy bitch. Now stop it." I hope he knows to do it next time because it hurts like hell when someone I love walks away from me.
When I first started seeing Fatty in a romantic capacity I did stress the utter importance of truth. I would not accept deception of any kind. If he was caught in a lie, there endeth the union. But he's right: I did say there are things that are better left unsaid or to lie about.
Certain white lies need to be weeded out just in case it mushrooms into a garden of deception. But there is clover in my own garden that I choose to not weed, maybe in hopes for that 4 leafer the mini Irish fellas sit at stirring their pots of pure gold.
There is a Santa Claus.
I'm not a disgusting person for looking at my own poop every single day.
But there is a line.
If it is selfish, self-serving or harmful to others, that is a bold line crossed to a point of no return.
Fatty: Yeah, but you said there are some things you should never tell the truth about.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No I didn't.
Fatty: Yes you did.
The Comrade: No!
Fatty: Yes.
[elapsed time: 45 minutes]
The Comrade: Okay, maybe I did.
Do you like this [enter random object the asker is displaying with obvious delirious pride]?
Truth or no truth, the answer is always yes.
Fatty and I went up to his family's cottage last weekend. We drove up in the middle of the night making only one pit-stop at the wretched golden arches, a place neither of us had entered in nearly 2 years. While insidious, there is something contemptibly delicious about their sausage and egg contraption. Alas.
We arrived 18 hours before any of the other guests. In those 18 hours were meals made, dishes done, a swim, mosquito slapping, tent raising of all denominations, leisurely yard and beach work and naps.
Uncertain whether it is a consequence of my darling Fatty's occasional night terrors, an inheritance from his mother's side of the family, the sweet love of my life is prone to waking up bitchy. I don't have this affliction. Mine is wholly different. I have a tendency to become incredibly irritating to others by way of either being über chipper or panicking because I've arisen late and there is still too much to do.
We were napping in a tent at midnight by the time our guests arrived. I wanted to greet these guests with Fatty. I wanted to go up to the main cottage with my boyfriend. I didn't want to go alone.
Subtext: What would they think about us? The strength of our relationship. Appearance Keeping 101.
But I couldn't find the thing I was looking for in the nyloned dark as Fatty was standing outside the blue, guaranteed to sleep 3, biting-fly inhibitor.
The Comrade: Where the fuck is my [insert random personal belonging which I couldn't care less whether he liked or not]?
Fatty: I don't know.
The Comrade: [panicked] Well I can't find it! Don't go anywhere!
Fatty: I'm not going anywhere.
Apparently I frantically asked him not to go anywhere about a dozen times. The decibels and panic levels grew by increments. Approaching the 8th time, the last place Fatty wanted to be was where he was.
Fatty: I'm getting eaten alive out here so I'm going to go up.
The Comrade: What? Okay.
Abandoned.
What an issue that is.
I found out later that there weren't any bugs that were giving Fatty any grief. He used that as an excuse to get the hell out of a situation that was too taxing, too irritating. Boy did that not sit well with me. And boy did he hear about it later. And boy did I regret handling it the way I had.
But we now had company. In total there were 4 other adults and 4 children. The children's ages ranged from 10 months to 10 years. As neither of us care to air our dirty laundry in public, we waited as I seethed.
My least favourite cottaging kid was Emily. I don't blame Emily for my not liking her as much as the other kids. Her parents were my least favourite adults as well. Something her dad liked saying was Giv'r. This is a word that I don't suspect will become part of my everyday vernacular, though you never know. My lovely Fergus was the inspiration to my now incessant awesome's. What I didn't like about Emily's character was that she was 5 years old without a proper vocabulary in which to express herself. Everything that came out was whiny grunts of dissatisfaction. It was made doubly bad by her constant state of having twin rivulets of snot cascading from nostril to lip in varying degrees of viscosity. Emily was born snotty but pretty and that was apparently enough. There was no need to develop character.
Though I still don't think it right, I chose a favourite.
Aidan.
He looked like a young Orlando Bloom.
Whip smart.
Slightly shy.
Independent.
Always asked when he didn't know.
Total grammarian.
Brown belt in karate.
When asked who he wanted to live with, his father or his mother (who has a tendency to leave good men whom she has children with), he chose his dad...
(An excellent choice).
Tried desperately to put me in an arm lock but I kept levelling him into the sand.
Aidan: Oh come on! Just let me put you into an arm hold.
The Comrade: You're not going to hurt me?
Aidan: No, I promise.
The Comrade: Okay.
The lovely Aidan puts the Comrade into a delicate arm hold and asks her to try to get out of it.
The Comrade: By any means necessary?
Aidan: Just try.
I kicked his feet out and mock jumped on top of him, looking, ever searching for a pair of Ninja ginch to yank up over his head, knowing inherently that young Aidan was light enough to string up in a tree.
Strange fruit.
The little bastard was going commando.
Drat.
Aidan: Yeah, well I'll be able to kick your ass when I'm as big as you.
The Comrade: Darling Aidan... How old do you think I am?
Aidan: Twenty.
The Comrade: That's right, mister.
Like I'm going to correct that.
His dad Craig, incidentally my favourite cottaging adult, is one of the best dads I've ever seen in action. The mind altering drugs he's done in the past had expanded his natural inclination towards philosophy. He spoke to his child once of fear.
Clap on.
Clap off.
Fear of the dark.
A bedroom is still the same bedroom with one difference. The absence of light. We fear what we cannot see. He is teaching his child that the generation of fear is from the very powerful mind. We do it to ourselves. I grew up on a street where some of the parents propagated the concept of the Boogeyman. Horrible, wretched liars.
Later, from this lesson, young Aidan will be better equipped to be able to detect the fear generation of media and government. He currently sings old songs of Rage Against the Machine. I wish to be there when he fully understands the magnitude. By the time he's 20, I'll be 30 anyway. I'm not going anywhere.
When Fatty finally told me the truth about my driving him nuts because his mental faculties were reduced while my panic level had increased, I initially lost it. I was hurt that he left me. I was angry because he couldn't tell me the truth. As a rule, I don't want to be lied to. I can actually handle it when someone says to me, "Look, you're being a crazy bitch. Now stop it." I hope he knows to do it next time because it hurts like hell when someone I love walks away from me.
When I first started seeing Fatty in a romantic capacity I did stress the utter importance of truth. I would not accept deception of any kind. If he was caught in a lie, there endeth the union. But he's right: I did say there are things that are better left unsaid or to lie about.
Certain white lies need to be weeded out just in case it mushrooms into a garden of deception. But there is clover in my own garden that I choose to not weed, maybe in hopes for that 4 leafer the mini Irish fellas sit at stirring their pots of pure gold.
There is a Santa Claus.
I'm not a disgusting person for looking at my own poop every single day.
But there is a line.
If it is selfish, self-serving or harmful to others, that is a bold line crossed to a point of no return.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
8:38 p.m.
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