The truth is a funny thing. From a young age we are bombarded with the message that truth is tantamount and lying is BAD. ‘Tell Mommy the truth, did you break your brother’s model airplane?’ ‘Did you brush your teeth?’etc. [I stuck a pin in my sisters’ bouncy ball. I never told a soul for years. In my defense I was simply curious how long it would take to deflate – that sucker took a long long time.] In fact, this message comes at us so much that we become little disciples of veracity regurgitation, which can lead to the embarrassing moment when you’re young child tells the woman at the shop that she’s fat. Can you blame them? They're just following directions like good little girls and boys.

What they don’t tell us when we’re young is that apparently there are many versions of the truth that can be danced around, interpreted and downright evaded, depending on the situation. What I always found confusing was the childhood message of truth interspersed with all the mistruths, or little white lies as many call them. Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, eating my lima beans is good for me (it SO wasn’t; gagging is not something I associate with goodness). 

In fact, there are a lot of yarns we are fed as kids that are downright lies. Like Fido has gone to dog camp, and not into a big hole in the backyard six feet under. I know I know, you don’t want to tell a child too much, or burst the bubble that the universe is a lot less warm and fuzzy than they think. So fine, tell them some big fat white man – a stranger mind you - will break into their home and leave them gifts if they’ve behaved accordingly. I get it, sort of. But what seems somewhat tortuous, is that when some kids do find out Santa Claus is a mere invention of adults to keep kids in line (my interpretation anyway), they are downright devastated. I thankfully was never one of those kids. I had older sisters who kept it very real in our household. I suppose this is when you first learn that adults have a funny relationship with the truth.

When you get to adulthood, you soon realize that the truth is a malleable thing. It can be shaped, molded, or downright bastardized to serve a purpose or agenda – or my favorite, to protect people from hurt and embarrassment (hey, if my ass is fat, I kind of want to know about it so I can do something pronto)! Obviously, every situation is different and there are plenty of times when kit gloves are needed so as not to send someone to the top of a tall building with a fifth of vodka. Cause some people simply – in the words of the mighty Nicholson – can’t handle the truth!! They have successfully surrounded themselves with their own idea or version of the truth for their entire lives. “I’m not fat, I’m curvy.” “I’m not an asshole, I’m a man of opinions.” “I’m not cheating; we never said we were fully committed.” Yeah, okay, whatever you need to tell yourself to get by.

Then of course there is the white lie – the harmless (so we think) go-to when we just don’t have the energy to be totally honest. This of course has its own pitfalls, i.e when you get caught, and have to defend why white lies aren’t lies (They are. We’re just always looking for another way to interpret things). Try going a whole week without telling one white lie. I dare you. You’ll see how used it we’ve become. No more, I’m about to jump in the bath when that person you SO don’t want to speak to calls; no more I did go by the store, they were all sold out; no more, I love your new haircut, it really suits you. Or, I have to pass on tonight, I’m feeling kind of run down….no you’re not, you’re lying. You feel fine and you’re about to bust open a pint of ice cream and watch Idol. You just don’t have the nerve to say you don’t feel like going cause they bore the shit out of you….okay, so none of the above are egregious life changers, but you get the idea.

The question is, if we’re trying so hard to shy away from the real truth where does that leave us? I suppose, living in a world of shades of gray and sugar coated language that never really gets to the core of things. (Politics is a perfect example of this) I suppose in our personal lives, that is where delivery comes in. And there is an art to it trust me. The goal: to try and deliver the ‘truth’ in the most polite and gentle way possible so as not stray from the point of delivering the truth. I know confusing. But if you want someone to hear the truth, you have to get them to hear it, not kick off in some huge fight cause you chose your words wrong. Men can sometimes suck at this as they're not always the kings of subtlety. Then again, there are some people who can handle the tough love approach (note to men, find out your woman's cycle and then plan accordingly). I suppose it is knowing who you’re dealing with before you dish it out and waiting for the opportune time – and then of course duck and run!

On the other hand, there is something so refreshing and admirable about those in the life that just serve it up, no editing, no fluffy bunnies, just what it is as they see it. I can be this person sometimes when I’m with a very close friend – whom I’m assured won’t impale me with something sharp. I’m not saying it doesn’t feel like a punch in the stomach, but there is something refreshing – not to mention helpful – of having a best friend or family member that can give you a dose of reality in such a way so that you can swallow it and not choke. Cause most times, the sobering truth is exactly what you need to hear.

Come on, bring it, I can take it!

I am now at the point of my pregnancy where there is just no getting around the fact that I have swallowed a twenty-pound basketball. And with this of course, I have adopted the gait of a bulbous geriatric duck – i.e. a very slow waddle. My partner can’t help but laugh under his breath when he sees me walking down the street towards him or when he catches me trying to do something that used to be so easy and well, mundane like tying my shoe or picking up something off the floor.  If I could move faster, trust me I’d give him something to laugh about (love ya honey….now unload the dishwasher so I don’t have to bend over!)

I often wake myself up at night, as in my sleep I’ve rolled onto my back and become stuck like a monstrous insect (Kafka’s The Metamorphosis springs to mind). And trust me, the chore of turning over onto my side isn’t as easy as it used to be, but I know that if I don’t turn over, I could be lying like this forever. So with limbs flapping and twisting, I finally manage to right myself onto my side – it’s amazing how just this is a workout. And to make it even more exciting, I’ve developed sleep apnea so I am usually gasping for breath when I awake or making some extremely attractive sputtering or snorting noises; how my partner resists me is beyond me. I am the epitome of hotness – oh, wait, that’s just another heat flash.

Then there is the body pillow. Or as my partner calls it, ‘the third person in our bed.’ It is huge…and soft and fluffy, and I love it. In fact, he’ll go before it does. And don’t you know, I cling to that thing in my sleep like a flotation device. In fact I’d like to velcro it to my body and walk around just hugging it, maybe lean against it when I get tired and catch a few zzz’s at the post office. Come to think of it, it may improve my overall demeanor.

The other day, feeling stubborn and insistent that this belly was not going to dictate everything in my life, I set out to give myself a pedicure. Mind you, this is not something I find easy even at the best of times, but determined I was. So I got out all the utensils and set myself up in the living room to work wonders on my toes. About three minutes into it I realized either I was going to have to hook my leg over one shoulder like a cirque du soleil acrobat so I could reach my feet or call for help. I opted – foolishly – for the former. So there I was, at some ridiculous angle, probably crushing the skull of my child in utero, so I could make my toes look presentable (hey, my face and toes is pretty much the only thing I have going for me at the moment, one has to work with what they have).

The other new symptom of my current state is the joy of Braxton Hicks. I love these innocuous non-descriptive terms to describe something that is anything but that. For those of you that have not experienced this, let me walk you through it. Suddenly out of nowhere, your entire belly contracts and tightens like it’s about to explode and you feel like your child’s backside is about to bust through your stomach lining. This usually happens of course when you’re trying to sleep, which makes the whole nighttime experience a real treat. And yes, it certainly is preparing oneself for what is to come i.e. not only is your life no longer your own, but you will never sleep again. So I’ve been told.

God this kid better be cute and know how to do housework (I kid I kid).

In Jakarta Indonesia, a two-year old boy was recently discovered to have a two pack a day habit. Not gum, not trading cards, I’m talking cigarettes. There is a video on CNN.com that will leave you speechless. To make matters worse, this child is also deemed obese already, and smokes like some veteran pool hustler – he can blow smoke rings, do tricks with his smokes, and inhales with the confidence of James Dean. All I keep thinking is dear god your poor two-year-old little lungs are utterly doomed!

The thing is, in Indonesia, (clearly!!!) they haven’t caught up to speed on the whole smoking will KILL you thing - and apparently stuffing your child full of food within an inch of its life is also par for the course. The Mother, who they interviewed at the airport, holding her son who was wearing nothing but a diaper; okay, it’s a hot region, but maybe that should make the list of things to change as well, makes it sound like it’s some unfortunate habit he just picked up hanging out with the wrong crowd, and well, she’s going to try and make him cut down. CUT DOWN???? He’s a flipping toddler addicted to one of the strongest drugs in the world that pitches fits when his nicotine level dips too low and bangs his head into walls. Houston - or in this case, Jakarta!, there is a serious problem!

I’m not one to tell others how to parent; in fact, it’s a cardinal rule of mine even though it’s sometimes extremely difficult to refrain from sharing my opinion. But in this case, I think all can agree that this situation is flat out child abuse. The Chairman of Indonesia’s National Commission for Child Protection was quoted as saying that Aldi, the child in question, was a victim of his environment in which smoking is the norm (Gee, you think?!) and he clearly…wait for it….just needs a distraction to kick the habit. WOW. There are some strong fighting words Mr. Chairman. You hear that Mom?! We’re not going to take away your child, instead, how about engaging Aldi in a nice distracting game of eye-spy? Fisher Price, if you’re out there, LISTEN up and get in on this racket. Why should Philip Morris be making all the money in that region, get in there and get these kids some gosh darn toys. Even better, fly over some chocolate cigarettes, apparently you’d make a fortune!!

What’s even scarier is this case is not a fluke. Apparently in the region, it’s quite common for children to take up smoking. A study by the Child Protection Commission - as we’ve seen, their title is clearly an oxymoron - demonstrates that between 2001-2007, the number of children smoking between the ages of five and nine jumped 400%. And that study doesn’t even take into account those smoking who are under five. (I can’t even believe I just typed that sentence).

My question is (besides, how does a kid who smokes that much have time to eat anyway??) – and Aldi’s mother this one is for you – who the hell is buying cigarettes for these kids, not to mention lighting them?Do they have their own ATM cards too? Does Aldi jump on the back of his motorcycle and say, ‘Ma, I’m heading to the shop to buy some fags, I'll catch you later!’ To my knowledge most kids that age have barely mastered running and jumping, let alone seeing over a counter to pick out what brand of smokes they want to try out.

Aldi’s mother claims she wants her son to quit, and in fact didn’t want him to start in the first place (um, sweetheart, you’re in charge, not the other way around), but says that she has to be gentle with him. You’re beyond gentle lady. Here is what I suggest: strap that bulging ball of dough down to a nice teak Indonesian table, feed him fruits and vegetables for a few weeks, and nurse him through his withdrawals. He’ll kick and scream for a while but I have an idea, distract him! In the end he’ll thank you for that fact that you’re allowing him to see his late teens without both his lungs dissolving into a powdery ball of ash.....If none of this works, call me and I’ll take care of it; cause last time I checked, at my current body weight I can easily take an unruly nicotine addicted toddler down!

Do you ever notice when a celebrity dies – one who has clearly lost his place on the celebrity food chain - suddenly all other celebrities come out of the woodwork and start waxing poetic about the life and talent of the person: ‘he was like a brother to me,’ ‘the pain is over my friend, find peace in heaven,’ ‘your talent was an inspiration to all,’ blab la bla…And the ironic part is, often these deceased celebrities have fallen so out of fashion that in life they were shunned like an untouchable. But in death, oh his work, his memory, his unparalleled talent, suddenly it is up there with Scorsese.

Let’s take Gary Coleman for example, for you that were not glued to your TV’s in the late 70’s, he was on a show called “Different Strokes.” He was small, adorable, and had pretty wicked comic timing. [And of course then there was that infamous line that would haunt the poor b*stard for the rest of his days]. The problem was, once the show was over, he had difficulty moving into other roles. Or shall we call it as it really was, in Hollywood, if they don’t know what to do with you, you’re not going anywhere. I can hear the agents now….“Gary? He’s too small, no one will ever buy he can do normal things like fall in love, solve crime, scale tall buildings!”

So overnight, Gary was lucky if he got a holiday on the Love Boat – clearly Fantasy Island had no room for another short fellow with a big personality. Sadly for Gary, he soon fell into the child star abyss that has claimed many. He ended up suing his parents for stealing all his money, had a host of medical problems, not to mention a few assault cases that popped up along the way. It got so bad that he went to work as a security guard working for the studios – an honorable job of course, at least he was working – but it gave those in the community even more reason to put at least a mile between he and them – ‘careful he might be contagious!!’

With a CV later in life that boasted such denigrating shows like Divorce Court (he was apparently trying to work through his marital issues with his wife) and the stellar film, ‘Midgets and Mascots,’ you could say his career suicide was pretty much cemented. But then a funny thing happened, upon his death he was suddenly deemed a lost talent, whom everyone wished and hoped eternal peace. Well, I’ll tell you what would’ve brought him some peace along the way – a flippin’ J-O-B in the industry in which he thought he had made such headway! It’s not like the man was an extra all those years; he was the star of a hit show, he had his own catchphrase for godsakes! And I can confidently bet the house (I rent, so I’m that confident) that when he was alive, if he had approached half these well-wisher celebs in a restaurant, they would’ve turned and run like the wind!

I think the biggest example of this type of posthumous kiss ass was after the death of Michael Jackson. Okay, so he was the self proclaimed ‘King of Pop.’ And the man had an insane catalogue of songs to his credit; I don’t think at this point I have to go through all his accomplishments. But let’s be real here, he also had become a pariah, a circus sideshow; and as he aged – and whitened – people were merciless in not only their fascination with his life, but with his demise: his spending, his surgeries, and of course his legal troubles. It got so bad that people weren’t even sure whether or not to publicly call themselves his fans – I will be fair and say he was never convicted of anything, but seriously, some of his behavior was flat out suspect. But I shall respect the dead and keep shtuum (for once).

The ironic, and of course amusing part of it all, was once he was pronounced dead, it was as if Jesus himself was lying on the table at Cedars Sinai Hospital. Suddenly he was not only the King of Pop, he was King of the freaking world. And the love, oh the love couldn’t you just feel it?! Everyone was a fan, everyone had the utmost admiration and respect for him, and everyone went out in droves and bought his records. Suddenly the pariah was missed and heralded by those that curiously didn’t have much time for him when he was alive (not that there was much room for them in between Bubbles, his posse of 12 year olds, and all those hideous marble statues he insisted on buying).

I suppose this isn’t much different than it’s always been. There have been a plethora of authors and artists who have not found favor till well after their death. I’m sure Van Gogh would’ve liked some love while he was alive to pay his medical bills – what must it cost to treat that ear?? But it’s the fall from grace and the return to grace post death I find so fascinating. (And poor Van Gogh didn’t even get the love while he was alive. At least MJ could afford a few years of riding carousels at Neverland – seriously, can you say Peter Pan syndrome?!). I suppose it is true, for some, with death comes absolution and adoration – call it a post death Alzheimer’s. Thinking about it, I better get to sinning!