My dad used to tell me that he wasn’t conceited because if he was conceited, he couldn’t be perfect. I never thought my dad was conceited — at least not when I knew him, but I suspected there was a time in his life that he may have been, um, perfect. My mom claims that when they were first married, my dad spent more time looking at himself in the mirror and getting ready to go out than my mom took.

And at the age of 38, I am finally willing to admit that I have a character flaw. I may even concede that I have more than one character flaw, but I would argue that the flaws are closely related, and therefore, should really be considered singular. (Nods head.)

I am honest.

I know, it is shocking. It can really be a burden sometimes. If I buy something, and I get too much in change, I immediately return the excess money no matter the amount. I will walk from my vehicle back into the store and wait patiently for many minutes even if the amount is less than a dollar. I never consider doing anything different.

I’ve returned wallets and purses intact. I’ve noticed a $50 bill on the ground and chased down the person I had just seen standing there to return it to them. Plus, it took me YEARS before I realized that the $50 bill I “returned” might not have really belonged to the person I handed it to. And I hope that isn’t true.

You can see how this can be a problem, right?

Last week, my husband witnessed a couple of moments of honesty that just left him shaking his head wondering who in the heck he had married.

It started at a parent-teacher conference. I had talked to the band teacher who actually teaches 3 of my 4 children. The teacher reported my oldest child had missed two evening practices, which resulted in a C- grade in band. My other child had an A in band because she hadn’t missed any practices. (My first reaction to hearing my oldest had missed two practices? That my daughter had lied to me. Again.) But this was actually the middle school conference, and I had a day or two to realize my high school daughter hadn’t missed band.

I realized one of the practices my oldest had supposedly missed was actually one that my oldest daughter had taken an excuse note to for her sister because she was sick, and I didn’t want her sister marching in the rain and cold. I had personally driven my oldest daughter to every band activity including two optional activities. And for at least two of those night practices, I had sat in my car in the parking lot and read a book. I realized my oldest daughter couldn’t have skipped any of the practices, and she had been there.

The band teacher mentioned progress reports were sent home, and I needed to sign them, and I could just write a note about any errors on the progress report. The band teacher specifically said that she told the kids that ALL mistakes needed to be noted including the ones that were in her favor instead of the student’s.

So that night, when I signed progress reports, I noted the oldest had attended the practices. And on the younger daughter’s progress report, I noted she had actually missed one due to illness and had a note from me. My youngest daughter was NOT happy. I was jeopardizing her A. My husband agreed with her. Why would I write it?

Because I’m honest. Damn it.

The next day, hubby and I were shopping. We were actually looking for a specific type of beer that is only available at this time of year. I had gone to three stores the day before without luck, so we headed to Wal-mart. Hubby found 3 six-packs of Samuel Adams Octoberfest on the shelf, and he grabbed all three. I picked up a couple of more items, and we checked out. My items were put in a bag, but hubby carried the beer without it being in a bag. He headed for the exit, and I followed with the receipt in my hand.

In the entrance area, there were a lot of people and a lot of carts. I slowed down as my husband navigated the carts and made his way to the exit. I practically stopped. The greeter normally checks receipts when items aren’t in bags, and the greeter was busy backing up a motorized shopping cart in order to plug it into the wall. Without even thinking, I was waiting to show my receipt for the unbagged beer even though there was no way the greeter was going to be able to get to us anytime soon.

By now, my husband was at the outer door, and he turned around and called my name. I finally moved forward and out the door without having my receipt checked. My husband wanted to know why I was walking so slow, and I started to explain. He couldn’t believe it. We had paid for the beer and weren’t doing anything wrong, and we didn’t need to wait to have our receipt checked.

OK, in addition to being honest, I also follow the rules to the letter. It apparently is annoying.

And as we pulled out of Wal-mart’s parking lot, my husband looked at me as if he didn’t quite know who I was. I reminded him that although he has managed to tarnish some of my behavior in the last 20 years, I was a goody-two-shoes when he met me, and I’m not that far away now (at least in public).

He actually said he didn’t realize how honest I am although at that moment his definition of honest probably was closer to PITA than its true definition. It was not a good thing. The receipt incident on top of the progress report incident was just too much.

And then he was off. He started criticizing my behavior from an incident that had happened more than a year ago. Seriously. We’d been at a party with very close friends of ours. The husband was a lifelong friend of my husband’s. The wife was also a long-time friend of my husband’s, but I had also developed a close friendship with her, and although her husband and I aren’t really friends, we liked each other.

At the party, there were three women I didn’t know. The women were flirting with my friend’s husband. I noticed. The husband wasn’t doing anything wrong other than enjoying the flirting. But the women…. I distinctly got the idea that they were doing more than just harmless flirting. The vibe from them was wrong. It was the whispers between the women that really made me question what was going on. I didn’t say anything, but I made it a point to go back to that area more frequently and stay longer. My husband was there too, and he was staying in the area. I mentioned to him something was wrong about the women. He agreed, but he also said my friend’s husband was not doing anything wrong. I believed that then, and I still do today.

The women, however, I swear were up to no good, and I did NOT like it. At one point, my friend had asked me to get her husband to help with something, so I went to tell him. As I relayed his wife’s message, one of the women made a comment that basically encouraged him to ignore his wife’s request. I shot the woman a dirty look and told her to mind her own business. (Later, the woman would claim I tried to start a fight with her, which is laughable.)

I wasn’t the only one getting weird vibes from the women. Specifically, I felt like two of the women were plotting to hook up a third woman with the husband. The third woman was the daughter of one of the two conspiring women. (I know it is complicated. Sorry.) Still, the incident wasn’t serious enough for me to say anything to my friend. Her husband wasn’t doing anything wrong or out of the ordinary. Plus, he wasn’t giving off any weird vibes. He was enjoying being flirted with, but really who doesn’t? And the behavior that was bothering me the most wasn’t the flirting. It was the conspiring – the whispers and glances and giggles and plotting between the two women.

When I overheard the younger woman vehemently object to talking to my friend (the wife) about something totally innocent, it confirmed my suspicions. Quickly, it became obvious that I wasn’t the only one at the party who thought the women were up to no good. I walked in on a conversation already in progress where another woman was telling my friend (the wife) about her suspicions. I joined the conversation basically stating that I had the same misgivings. I explained what I felt was going on.

Later, after the party, the wife and husband argued about it. The next day, the husband called my husband to complain about me. The husband was mad at my husband because of my behavior. My husband got an ear-full of complaints, and my husband does not like being yelled at or argued with, plus he was upset that his long-time friend was upset with him because of me. I’m sure I was called a lot of things during that phone call, but the only one shared with me was that I was a “cock blocker.” Although several women at the party said they had picked up a weird vibe from the women, it seemed I was the one the husband blamed for making something out of nothing. And it really was nothing on the part of the husband.

So last week, more than a year later, confronted with two back to back incidents of my horrible honesty, my husband was looking at my behavior at that party in a new light and trying to figure out how he had the bad luck to marry someone who is horribly honest, oh, and a cock blocker too. Poor guy.

My husband complained that I interfere in other people’s business, and I reminded him that I was a reporter for 20 years, and it was my job to interfere in other people’s business. He reminded me I’m no longer a reporter. True, but the habits are ingrained.

As for the cock blocker moniker…. I accept it just like I accept that I am honest. I even have a perfect example that proves it is true.

My husband and I were at a local bar. Most of the people there were regulars who we knew because they lived in our small town where everyone knows each other and can usually recite generations of relatives that they also know. It was late, and we were sitting at a table where I had a view of the bar.

Standing at the bar was a couple that I knew and liked. She had cancer, and her hair had just started to grow back after chemo. Earlier in the evening, I had heard the sad news that her cancer may have returned. The couple was standing with their backs to each other. It reminded me of that movie moment where the good guys are surrounded, and they turn their backs on the only person they can trust. Back to back, the good guys fight the bad guys who quickly surround them.

The couple was drunk. They were probably well past full capacity for alcohol, but they still managed to buy and drink more. Her husband stood to her left, and their backs touched. She talked animatedly to the person to her right. She was deep in conversation. In the way of most drunks, what she was saying was very very important, and she was immersed in the conversation.

To the left of the husband was a woman. This woman was also drunk. I didn’t know the woman, but my husband knew her, and he helped me place her in the community by mentioning her brother who I did know. As I watched, the woman on the left and the husband started kissing. It wasn’t a casual kiss. It was make-out session kissing. His wife stood directly behind him, the couple’s backs still touched, and the wife was clueless.

I was shocked, and I couldn’t just sit there and watch. I stood up and walked up to the bar. I deliberately inserted myself between the husband and the woman, and I stood there. I was in full cock-blocker mode, and I was good at it. I stayed there and eventually people shuffled around. The drunk wife started talking to me, and she put her arm around the woman who minutes earlier had been making out with her husband.

The drunk wife started talking to me about the woman, who she pulled in close. “I love this woman,” the drunk wife said. “She is my best friend.” And the woman, who was also quite drunk and apparently has short-term memory loss, joined in claiming she loved the drunk wife. “She’s my best friend,” the woman told me. “I’d do anything for her.”

I looked the woman straight in the eye. “I saw just how good a friend you are,” I said giving her the stink eye.

It wasn’t much later that the drunk wife’s son showed up to take his parents home. They were both stumbling drunk. I had continued to stand at the bar until the couple left. About an hour later, I saw the husband in the bar again. He must have returned although I would have guessed he was too drunk to do anything but pass out. I caught just a glimpse of him. He was on his way out the door, and the woman — his wife’s (supposedly) best friend — left with him.

I never told his wife.

Before this incident, I would smile and say hi as I saw the husband as we passed each other at the post office or the local store. My opinion of him changed that night, however, and I now fail to say hello, and I usually throw a dirty look his way. He might not even remember his behavior, but I do. And my only regret is that I wasn’t able to say anything to him when he walked out the door with that woman.

The third time is supposed to be the charm, and on the way home from Wal-mart last week, a third time was presenting itself. As my husband questioned where this goody-two-shoes of a wife came from, we followed a pick up truck. It became obvious that the driver was drunk, and it wasn’t even 6 p.m. yet. My husband had noticed it first and commented on it. I have to admit, I was relieved. The drunk driver gave my husband a reason to stop complaining about my unfailing honesty. He slowed down allowing a lot of room between the truck and us. I was seriously considering grabbing my cell phone and reporting the driver. My husband knew what I was thinking, and I hesitated.

After the progress report and the receipt incident, could I risk a third honest behavior? Would it risk my relationship? Or would this be a time when my husband would agree it had to be done?

We had watched repeatedly as the driver crossed the yellow line as well as going off the side of the road. I held my breath as the truck went off the road as vehicles passed by from the other direction. The driver was a menace. As our road approached, I memorized the license plate of the truck in front of us. If the truck had continued to go straight, I would have called it in. But the truck slowed just before our road, and turned where we were turning. We don’t have cell phone coverage on our road, so I couldn’t make the call. I still thought of calling it in when we arrived at home.

Within moments, we watched the truck pull into a neighbor’s driveway, and we realized who must be driving. A neighbor who has been struggling.

“I hope someone keeps him there tonight,” my husband said as we drove by, and I let the license plate numbers slip from my mind. I wouldn’t be making the call after all.

I am honest. I am a goody-two-shoes. I have a long memory. I interfere. I am even a cock-blocker. And my husband? He is a bad influence on me. Frankly, I need a bad influence once in a while. I need to remember that things aren’t always black and white.

And these are character flaws I can live with.

***

In California, there are a lot of parents right now who might be ashamed and shocked to learn of their children’s behavior last Saturday night. But one girl overheard something and reported it to authorities, and although I don’t know who she is, I am so very proud of her. It might not have been easy to do, but someone needed to do it.