I once worked with a guy, who taught me how to lie (sounds like the start of a dirty limerick…). He said the key to lying effectively is: keep it simple and keep it close to the truth.
Jon Jon says there is a point in a lie when one should just stop talking. He’s referring to those folks who convince and then buy it back because they keep rabbiting on until the listener gets the distinct impression they’re protesting too much.
Both my children say I am a terrible liar.
My lying started when Lauren and Jon Jon were small. We were living in London then – it was sleeting in August, and my husband was never home. I’m not tattling, just setting the stage and he was always in fucking Monte Carlo or Milan or someplace exotic on business (monkey business – yeah I said it). That’s when I started putting wine in my morning orange juice. Jon Jon tasted it one time (kids are wily) and when he asked me what was in it I lied, “It’s my medicine, sweetie. Don’t drink Mommy’s medicine.”
That was fifteen years ago. Since then I have told a thousand lies to answer dangerous questions. Where have you been? What happened to the case of wine in the garage? What in the world happened to the car? Did you drive? Are you okay? Have you seen the bottle of vodka that was on the sideboard? Did you break this? Are you drunk?
I’ve always said that when someone cheats, it’s not the infidelity that horrifies so much as the lying. Alcoholics are cheaters. We always have alcohol on our minds like a memory of a rumpled hotel room – like the place you want to be instead of the place you’re supposed to be.