Liar, liar, pants on fire…hanging from a telephone wire!
I googled this phrase and came up with a whole lot of nothing. Nobody knows where this phrase originated or precisely what it means and yet it’s one of the most popular sing-songs of the English language.
However, I doubt it takes much of a brainiac to interpret its meaning, given the vivid visual of the whole scene. How absolutely painful and humiliating it would be to have one’s pants on fire, hanging up high for all to see?
My dad’s pants were on fire. My dad is a recovering alcoholic (27 years sober) and recovering alcoholics have great difficulty telling the truth about anything. They lie just for the sake of being heard. Because they’re bored. Because they have shit to cover up, and then more shit to cover up the covered up shit, and so on. Part of the twelve step program requires self awareness and honesty, and so when my dad first went through that process he came clean (literally) about his life and in fact, the honesty was so freeing that it may have even become one of his new addictions.
Vern is a great story-teller. He’s SO entertaining. But back then he’d finish up his story, see us all in gales of laughter and then, because he was/is dedicated to his recovery, he’d go through the whole entire damn story again, pick out the parts that were embellished and confess the parts that were simply not true. At the end of it all, the story was disappointing, boring, and anorexic. But as the truth came out, my dad got better, and that’s all that mattered.
I love truth because it sets people free, and I love freedom. Where there is freedom, there is growth. Where there is growth there is love, and good food, and babies, and sunshine, and beaches and miracles and lilies and sex positions you’ve never been brave enough to try, and textures that squeak when you bite into them, and everything feels better. Everything tastes better.
Yesterday I posted the link to a podcast that I was in, and something about it bothered me. When I said that I qualified for the Commonwealth Games? That’s true. But I qualified as a substitute, not as one of the top three. And I didn’t leave that part out to be deceptive but I realized later that there is a big difference between a real qualification and a substitute. Nevertheless, it would have been an incredible experience! I didn’t go over to England because it was during our divorce and I had no money to go.
While we’re all telling the truth here, Callum just threw a fit because I wouldn’t let him use my phone for YouTube Thomas the Train videos so he yelled “FUCK” and then started spitting on the floor. I love the smell of gasoline and permanent marker, and this morning I woke up to Cadbury mini eggs melted all over my thighs and stuck to the bed sheets. I guess I ate them in the middle of the night when I woke up to get my way-too-old-to-drink-a-bottle toddler a bottle of milk. Waking up to brown matter stuck to my body is a bit alarming, but I am glad that the truth is chocolate-flavoured.
Tell the truth about something….
Have you ever eaten anything in the middle of the night and woken up to a bit of a mess?
Do you know any compulsive liars, and how do you handle them?