When I was little, as my family would sit down to dinner, I would be asked one simple, almost insignificant question: What did you do today, Heather.
Without a second of hesitation I would launch into a detailed description about my day interspersing actual occurrence with snippets of malarkey just to see how far I could take the tale. Nine times out of ten, I was encouraged to spin the tale out further beyond what I could have readily imagined.
Oh how I wish I had a record of the stories I told. Looking back, I’m sure not a single one of them made sense and my siblings only tolerated my shenanigans because I was the baby of the family. My childhood was fantasy wrapped in delusion filled to the brim with malarkey.
Today, I still tell wild stories full of malarkey. Just ask the girls about the orangutans that I blame for everything. Or Scott. Poor Scott. Last night while we sat at dinner, a thunderstorm rolled overhead with flashes of lightening and great booms of thunder that shook the windows in their frames. As we ate, I bemoaned the fact that we left my newly purchased bags of soil – the ones for the raised garden bed I’m building – out on the lawn. Unprotected. Scott and the girls looked at me incredulously.
“It’s dirt,” Scott said.
“Yeah,” I sighed, “But it’s my dirt now and I should take better care of it.”
“What are you going to do once you put it in the garden?” He asked.
I looked at him like he was the crazy one, “Put umbrellas over it, obviously.”
Like I said. Malarkey.
Malarkey is a noun from the 1930s that means nonsense.