Is that a potato chip on your face?

I had just arrived at my Mom's house the other day, and promptly took a seat at the kitchen table, ready to tie on the proverbial feedbag. My Mom was busy making lunch and eating Sour Cream and Onion chips, and had her back to me. I was in the process of telling her about a recent trip to the Rack with Aaron.

"Well, we were looking for jeans, which is never fun for anyone, and -"

"WHAT is that on your face?!" my Mom interjected as she turned to me, cheese sandwich plate aloft in her hand.

"Huh? Where?" I asked, confused at what could have befallen me between that moment and my last mirror check in the car rearview 30 seconds ago.

"There!" She pointed to the lower portion of my face, adding, "Is that a piece of potato chip?"

"What? No! On my chin? No, it's not a potato chip," I spat, "It's a zit! Thanks for noticing."

She tried to backpeddle, but only succeeded in digging herself in deeper. She said something about how it was just how the light was hitting it - like that makes it better. Like, oh, that ginormous pimple that resembles a piece of snackfood that is melded to your chin? I can only see it when the light illuminates it a certain way. You know, like daylight? But in the dark? You're golden. Can't see it at all.

This whole exchange made me feel like I should put a bag over my head. (Maybe an empty chip bag would work?)

Later, my Mom said my giant blemish looked like a mole, but I didn't believe her. It was too late to try to make me feel better. The damage was done.

I mean, if you can't rely on your Mom to tell you bold-faced lies right out of the gate, what can you rely on?