Once I required medical attention to something involving what medical textbooks refer to as "my ass." When I got to the doctor's office I had to fill out a questionnaire that gave their near-high-school-dropouts in scrubs something to type into the computer while they related to their coworkers the latest drama regarding their baby daddy and his new girlfriend.
Well, when I got to the question regarding my line of work, I knew my office job might be to blame for the problems with my ass (or, as it's spelled in British medical journals, my ærse), so I shouldn't lie about having a desk job, but I also wanted to use the chance to lie to get some lying in, since I enjoy lying so much. So I wrote down that my job was "hostage negotiator." I figured that was desk-jobby enough that I wasn't actually keeping my doctor from knowing something he needed.
When the doctor came in and reviewed my form he said, "You're a hostage negotiator?" I said, "Yeah, I am." He said, "Really?" That's where I decided to quit the lie, since there might be some sort of medical effect of hostage negotiating that I didn't know about. I said, "Um, no, not really." He said, "What's your real job?" and then he made sort of a production out of crossing out my lie and writing in "city planner."
This weekend was our ward's campout, which sounds like fun until you realize that you're busy and there will be bugs. Our kids were convinced we were going to spend the night this year, since we own a tent now. I knew I would have to bargain them down if I wanted to just go for dinner and then come home, so yesterday while IMing Persephone from work, I had her present this deal to the kids: we would not spend the night at the campout, and in return we would rent "Underdog" and go swimming at the city's aquatic center. Both Crazy Jane and Articulate Joe signed on immediately.
And who's not a hostage negotiator, Dr. Mohammed?