It would be nice if one could declare everything he or she didn’t like “false” and have it be so.
The fact is, that’s impossible, despite the argument I had Monday with my bathroom scale, which stood firm.
When a big story breaks, there are always people standing in line to share their personal versions of the truth. Facts taken from police reports are not always what the “word on the street” has it.
I found myself caught up watching the hearing involving the potential new FBI director and shivered at some of the questions.
National news is similar to the old “soap operas.”
My mom was hooked and wanted me to arrive at her home daily, preferably with sandwich meat and bread, to watch the latest episode of “As The World Turns.”
I found myself wondering Wednesday morning what my mom — we called her Granny — would think of the new president and his spokespersons, who have created “alternative facts” in an effort to create another reality.
She demanded the truth and had ways of getting it out of me that were really uncanny.
Not that I ever deliberately lied to her, but there were times when the truth was a tad uncomfortable so I would embroider it a little.
She was an expert at unraveling the best cross-stitch.
I wish I had some good “alternative facts” that I could have used.
Granny would still have gotten to the bottom of things.
The tube of orange lipstick was fine on my dresser until she read a news report that some chemical in it was suspected of causing cancer.
She met me at the door, lipstick in hand.
“Do you want to have cancer of the lips? You’ll look like a carved pumpkin or a chicken. Chickens don’t have lips and only the ugly sucker fish has them.”
Her snort was monumental.
It was 1961 and I had paid the Avon Lady a whole dollar for the tube.
I snorted back.
Grounded for three days without any make-up, I pondered the purpose for enhancing one’s appearance.
As I watched the hearings, I noticed the participants had well-groomed hair if they had any hair at all and one old goat used the same questioning technique as Granny.
The women were nicely coiffed and their lipstick didn’t stain their front teeth.
Even teenagers in the front row looked nice.
Nobody rolled his or her eyes and the same nobody didn’t grin or grimace. With a dad who would probably be the next director of the FBI, I wondered if they were ever grounded.
Probably not. Wealthy kids seldom are, or people don’t talk about it.
Maybe I’m paranoid, but I believe someone needs to appear before the TV cameras with dark circles under their eyes, a zit on the nose or smeared mascara. Even the men look as if they’ve been prepared for the bright lights, up to and including a really bad orange glow.
There have to be common folks there somewhere.
But, then, women were always gorgeous, men were always good looking and even the maid was well put together on the soap operas.
Even when Erica was caught en flagrante with her amour du jour, she didn’t smear her mascara or dislodge an eyelash.
I can’t wait until reality sets in.