I was taught to lie at a young age.  I also had my butt busted at a young age for lying about the least little thing. It did not occur to me until this morning, at 38 and a half years old, that I was brought up a liar.  I was frying bacon and eggs for a sandwich. I thought, “Oh, goody! We can use our new Christmas plates since this is just a sandwich and we don’t need big plates.” I then went over to the table and felt their heft as I lifted them. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. I broke my new turtle glass the other day, and I didn’t want to risk these so early in their life. What if I couldn’t replace them? I mean, they’re just Wal-Mart plates but I really like them. No, not the Pioneer Woman ones they’re pushing. These are the Twelve Days of Christmas. I could just see me washing them and their soapy slickness slipping through my grasp and thirteen million pieces as it went everywhere. So I set the plate back down and thought, “Lets not and say we did.” Which. Is. A. LIE.  But that’s a passable lie, since it was always used in jest. Like when I wanted to do something that nobody else did, like go to the store, or…