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My parents had a very clear and immediate way of letting me know when I was wasting my breath. Whenever I got myself in a jam, and as I look back those times were numerous, I would begin to prepare my explanation of exactly how and why the event had occurred. And, more importantly, why it was not my fault. But by the time that I was caught, there was really no need in trying to convince them of my innocence. My dad was a cop. Needless to say he had been around the block a time or two and knew all of the normal excuses. But, his investigative abilities paled in comparison to my mother’s ability to break a case. My mom was a hairdresser for over forty years. She was not only a whiz with the blow-dryer and curling iron but her time behind the chair, listening to the stories and antics of everyone else’s kids had made her an expert in recognizing one lame excuse after another. She was a virtual vault of tired and worn out excuses, as well as the complete list of justifications and actions that were presented when one really didn’t have any.

Long story short, I was toast. I never had a chance; not from the moment that the first useless words left the surface of my quivering lips. But I always made the gallant effort. Usually after 30 seconds or so of my mindless blubbering, my mom and dad would jump in with that 4 word decree that put me on notice that my “trial” was over. No more pleas of not guilty, no more extenuating circumstances, no more nothing. It was a statement made in a clear and articulately enunciated manner that slammed the door shut to any further deliberations. My mom would look at me, with an expression that really need no words to follow, but follow they did - always! She would slowly and methodically utter the words, “spare me the details.”

It was every bit as much of the same silver spikes that Dracula tried his best to avoid for hundreds of years. It was the silver bullet of all silver bullets. Once the words were spoken, it was as if God himself had slammed down the gavel to end the proceedings. My miserable attempt at mercy, albeit unwarranted apparently, had come to an abrupt conclusion. Spare me the details,” she would say. It was always best at that point that I did. Simply put, enough said.

I think about these comedies of errors on my part more now than ever. I cannot recall what it was that led me to believe that I could actually convince my parents that it was not my fault that led me to do whatever it was that I had done. But, I actually believed that sooner or later I would pull off a defense that would make Perry Mason look like an amateur. Unfortunately, I did not.

After 30 years in a profession that has allowed me to personally observe similar attempts at innocence, that go well beyond my youthful transgressions, it is amazing that these reactive tactics remain basically unchanged. You would think that someone would come up with a better way to defend that which has no defense. I have sat in one courtroom after another and one interview room after another as a person who is as guilty as the day is long attempts to divert that guilt to someone else or at least make their best case as to why it was not their fault. Maybe it was a bad childhood, an abusive relationship, or misplaced trust that led them to their proverbial door of judgment. It was this or it was that, but there is one thing for sure. It was not their fault. I have had to bite my lip on so many occasions as the desire to jump up and say spare me the details, surged through my body.

I really don’t understand the whole channeling issue but I am sure that on these occasions I could definitely pull it off. My mom and dad would have ended these half hearted attempts to proclaim innocence long before we now do. Somewhere shortly after their first denial, it would be appropriate to just stamp “spare me the details” on their paperwork and move on to the next convoluted story that had as much chance as the previous one.

Obviously some of the peripheral facts and issues are true. We all carry baggage that is unflattering. Bad parents, bad friends, bad relationships, and bad choices. Even bad luck can factor in to some of our eventual outcomes. At the end of the day after all the denials, crying, finger pointing and the attempts to transfer responsibility it all comes back to us. Unless we were kidnapped by aliens whereby we were injected with a chip that caused us to act in a manner that was beyond our control, it always comes back to us. There is not an excuse in the world that will change that. Anything from apparent ignorance to the Stockholm Syndrome has the same result.

Sooner or later we must accept our own responsibility. Admittedly, it takes some of us longer than others to do so. And once you have heard the immortal words, “spare me the details,” this should serve as a signal that your time has arrived. Once you hear them, there is not an excuse, a reason or a lie that will save you. Take it from someone who has sat on both sides of the issue on more occasions than I care to admit. “Please, spare us the details.” And then get on with the rest of your life. There is something about accepting responsibility for our own lives that offers a breath of fresh air to a life that has carried a stench that was at best unpleasant.