A winner. A SECRET. A birthday.

1.

Holla' ya'll! We have a WINNER for the head shot contest.

Congratulations Leigh Covington! 

(I'll be contacting you to set up your shooting time. Start digging through your closet for awesome outfits. Or go to Nordstroms. Nordy's is my fav.)

2. 

My secret: I once got a fake ID so I could go clubbing. Sorry Mom, I've failed you. Truth is, the ID was a lame card stock knockoff and the security guy at the club could totally tell. He let me in anyway, but told me to stay away from the bar and out of trouble. I was good with that because all I wanted to do was DANCE. (Cue Abba, Dancing Queen).

3. 

My boys had their birthday's last week. I had them almost exactly two years apart. So basically for one week in March I'm an insane shooting, baking, birthday-planning Momma. 

Secret 25 of 100

There's something about nice, simple fractions that makes me want to celebrate today! A quarter of my life's secrets are now exposed for all the Internet to see. Ur . . . that doesn't sound as exciting as I first imagined it would. But I'm not a quitter. 

So here goes SECRET number TWENTY FIVE. 

One summer, a cute golden-hared boy asked me out on a group date. Thrilled, I spent hours trying on every combination of shorts and summer tops that I owned. By the time Golden-boy came to pick me up, my room looked like it was the epicenter for a 8.1 earthquake, and I still wasn't totally ready. 

Ugh. I didn't want to leave Golden waiting. So I rushed out the door.

We went out to dinner (with our group), and then a movie (with our group). But while the other couples were fun, I really just wanted to hang out with Golden--without our group. 

After the movie, someone suggested a bonfire nearby. So Golden and I piled into ONE car with our entire group. At first I was bugged. But then, I realized being squashed up next to Golden with our limbs tangled in a tight space wasn't all that bad. Nope, I didn't mind the group thing at all by then.

We arrived at the destination, and slowly people started exiting the car, until Golden and I were the only two left. 

He leaned in close, the warmth of his breath brushing my cheek. "Erin," he said.

"Yes?" My heart fluttered to a frenzy. If I turned just an inch, his lips would be close enough to kiss.

"Um, I think my leg is velcro-ed to yours."

I pulled back, blinked a couple times. "What?"

He ran his hand over my exposed shin. So un-romantic. "Don't you shave? I swear my leg hairs were sticking to yours. They're like the straight end of the velcro . . . "

At this point I tuned him out as he explained his ridiculous velcro theory in which my straight leg hairs and his curly leg hairs might dangerously stick together. 

Seriously? I sat there, lost for words, and utterly mortified.

In my pre-date prep-frenzy, I had forgotten to shave. And I'm not talking days. I'm talking, I just got home from a week long camp. 

And Golden didn't waste a moment. He was out of that car and sharing his findings with our entire group before I could say, "holy hairy legs."

Needless to say, I didn't go out with Golden again. 

Do you have any shaving secrets you want to share?

Secret 24 of 100

I'm a geek. 

I know, surprising right? Here's the thing. I feel like I just hit puberty--in the geekiest way possible.

Evidence? Here it is: 

1. I've noticed a strange smell. As in body odor smell coming from my pits! Shocking, I know. I've never worn deodorant. Even after a sweat-drenching workout, my pits don't stink. That is, up till a few months ago they didn't. But things are changing. And by "things" I mean my hormones, because every now and then my underarms smell. 

2. Zits. In high school I had three. I remember them well because they were traumatic. But as of late, it seems like three zits have become my forehead's standard. Ewwww! It's so gross. Can you recommend a good face wash? Apparently my bar soap and water just aren't cutting it. 

3. I'm a brace-face. At first I was stoked about the idea of straightening my teeth and fixing my bite. I'm still stoked, but I'm not loving how un-awesome I look. Every time I look in the mirror I repeat, "This too shall pass."

4. My confidence is shaken. Usually I feel pretty good about who I am. But last night I spent an hour on the phone with crit-partner Jessie listening to her positive affirmations. Next to Stuart Smalley, Jessie is the best. 

Should we ever meet, make sure you keep my geekiness a secret . . . at least when we're talking face to face. Then I'll really feel like I've returned to high school

Secret 22 of 100

I'm the cat lady.

Well, I'm not actually the cat lady.
 (I'm not talking about the woman that had all that plastic surgery to look like a cat. I'm talking about the crazy lady that lives in your town and rescues a thousand flea-infested cats a year). 

My secret is I have a tendency to be an animal-rescue, cat-hording operation type of gal. I like to blame it on my bleeding heart, which to be honest, doesn't really bleed that much because I could give a rat's butt cheek about reptiles, amphibians, fish, talking birds, and bad drivers. But, I do have a soft spot in my heart for dogs and cats and other nice furry animals. When I was younger I wanted to be a Zoo Keeper because then I could have as many animals as I wanted. (That dream lasted until the day I saw an elephant poop. Do I still want to be a Zoo Keeper? Nah, not so much.)

Confession: Every time I drive past the animal shelter, I have an internal battle on whether I should stop or not.
If I could, I would alway stop. But then for sure I would be the cat lady with 1001 cats. That didn't work out so well for the last lady in my town that went that route, so I temper my desire to help out the less fortunate fur-friends and I've settle furbsession with my two dogs and one cat.

Are you an animal lover too?

Secret 21 of 100

I have seasonal BLUES. 

I bet you thought I was going to say something funny. Well, I'm not. 

Why? Because I've lost my juice. Some time after Christmas, when Santa went back to the North Pole, he took my happy with him. And lately I'm as useful as a salted slug. (You know what happens to them, right? They shrivel up and die.) I kind of feel like I'm going through a slow shriveling process. But maybe I'm just confusing that with bedsores. If there weren't four little reasons and one big one, I would be content to spend the day in bed, watching shows, and buying ridiculous pieces of costume jewelry from the Home Shopping Network.

Basically, I don't like the winter. The cold makes me cringe and I pray every day could be 60 or warmer. 

I'm not entirely sure if it's the cold or the shorter days, but I know that when we lived in Hawaii I felt like a normal Erin all year round. Now I feel like 1/8 Erin and in the summer I'm 100% Erin. 

This secret is the reason I haven't posted. I'm down. I'm blue. And my dog died. 

BUT...

I've decided those days are over. Yes, it's time for a comeback. I was rejuvenated at a recent writer's conference where I met tons of other writers. So I'm back, ya'll. I'm ready to beat those winter blues. 

 Question of the Day: Do you get the winter blues? And if so, how do you beat the crap out of them? 

Pictures Credit: http://www.zmescience.com, http://healthvigil.blogspot.com/2010/12/seasonal-affective-disorder-how-to-beat.html, http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/w/winter_blues.asp

Secret 20 of 100

When I was 8 I didn't get a Barbie for Christmas. 

The parents that I thought loved me, didn't bring Diva from Barbie and the Rockers, the Barbie I had asked for over and over and over again. 

No, they bought me Skipper--Barbie's lame-A friend. 

Can you imagine the utter despair and heartache I felt? The disappointment? The near-end-of-the-world-ness?

That wrenching feeling still haunts my heart even now. 

I smiled to hide the frown. (Lie) 

I shed no tears. (Bigger LIE) 

And not once did I speak of the pain in my heart. (Truth. I didn't complain once. I spilled my grievances until those parents caved.) My sadness must've been apparent despite how I tried to hide my disappointment.  

Imagine my surprise when my mom said, "I know your birthday is in a few days, but would you like your present now?"

The tears vanished. "Yes. Now!" I demanded smiled.

Mom returned with a massive box. 

I'll admit I wasn't thrilled. Clearly it wasn't Diva. But as I peeled away the layers of wrapping paper, I saw that the present was even better. My parents loved me after all! They gave me the three-story barbie mansion, complete with the pink convertible car for Barbie and Ken. Life was good. A mansion was better than Diva. I was happy. 

And now my secret is: I always want my birthday presents early. I wan't them NOW! 

Not on the day of my actual birthday. That would be late. 

And since I'm spilling secrets, I might as well tell you that I convinced my mom to hand over my presents yesterday. That's right, folks. One white-haired woman down, the rest of you all to go. So if you have a present for me, I WANT IT NOW! 

secret 19 of 100

I used to chew gum--

I found on the ground . . .

That had already been chewed.

Yep. That's the horrible, nasty, no-good, rotten secret of the day. Thus, why I haven't posted until late afternoon. Here's hoping nobody reads this one. But I had to get it off my chest. It's not that bad, is it? I was like four years old. And when my Mom or Dad, or really, really, really annoying sisters found me out I tried desperately to lie about it.

"I, um, got it from a, uh, friend. Yeah, a friend."

Not.

That never worked. I had to spit it out, wash out my mouth, and promise not to do it again.
Eventually I out grew that nasty little habit. (I know you all out there have some of your own nasty little habits, so tread lightly in the "ewwww" comment department.) But here's the thing. I've recently decided that my ABC gum-resuage program isn't all bad. Well the chewing-someone-elese's-gum is totally bad, but the re-usage part is good because it taught me to be thrifty and frugal and make use out of someone else's throw away. That's good, right?

So there you have it: my secret is I'm thrifty.

secret 18 of 100.

The secret: I cut my hair. 

 Five inches to be exact. 

See, I'm not like my sister Nikki who grows so much hair she can practically donate twelve inches a month to locks of love. No that's not me. 

I cut my hair because it's terribly thin.

After I had my first kiddo, I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism. Which basically boils down to the fact that now I have thin hair and gain weight just looking at food. Once I even told a stylist at a salon that I had cancer because she kept commenting on how much thinner my hair was compared to other poly-girls. So now the only person who cuts my hair is my amazing friend Tammy because she just cuts and doesn't tell me that I bring shame to all the polynesian women of the world. 

The longer my hair grows, the stragglier it looks. And lately it's been looking awful.

As much as I would love to look like the gal from Splash when I walk out of the shower, that dream isn't in the cards for me. 

I figured Tammy was busy with Christmas stuff, so I just hacked it myself. I'm impatient and impulsive and balding. What can I say?

Now you know my real secret. If there was one part about myself I could change, it would be my hair. P.s. If you ever mention to me that my hair looks thin I might have to use my sweet bow staff skills on your butt.


What about you? Anything you would change if you could?

secret 17 of 100 . . . and updates

I'm a sneak. 

(That's the secret.)  

(But there's a little more to it.)

When I really want to write a lot, I have to get out of my house. My favorite haunt is the back-right corner of the local library beside the YA section where the chairs are soft and the windows have a picturesque view. Seriously, it's perfect. Just writing this makes me want to head for the stacks. But no worries, I'm a finisher. So let's get this thing done.

So the thing is when I'm writing, there's something else I have to have--and not just want, but really, truly, honest-to-Betsy need! 

A Coke Zero. (I'm a huge DC fan, but when it comes to writing there's something in the ZERO that get's my writing juices flowing. And when I say flowing I mean like 11K words a day.)

So the problem? 

No food or drink is allowed in the library. 

Thus the secret: I'm a sneak. 

UPDATE: I took last week off to gorge my body on food. Yeah, yeah, you probably already figured that out. Hope you had a great Thanksgiving too . . . that is, if you celebrate the holiday. But if you're like Iain from England, I hope you just had another great week of regular week stuff. 

QUESTIONS: I'm curious, where do you write best? Also, we're all sneaks sometimes, right? When are you super sneaky? And if you're really not sneaky, what did you do last week

 

secret 16 of 100.

My secret is all about my friend today.
I have this unbelievable, amazing friend who's funny and caring and smart and determined. And I can't imagine how my life would be without her. Three years ago we decided to start out on a trek together in writing. We took a class together, we started a writer's group, we attended conferences . . . and we wrote and wrote and wrote . . .

And I knew this day was coming. She trusted me not to say a thing even though it was bursting out of me in every way. But I did it, I kept my lips sealed until the day I could finally say:

My secret is: my FRIEND is going to be published. 

(Click the link to find out who I'm talking about!)

secret 15 of 100

My secret is when I was fifteen I acquired the nickname "Whiskers" for about a year.

Back then, I sometimes felt like this applied to me:

One particular morning, after a late night hanging with friends, I had the hardest time waking up. Shocking, I know. When I managed to get up and walk into the bathroom, I looked like DEATH. Kind of like my example pic.
No time to shower, I hurried and washed my face, put on some makeup . . . and when that didn't help the look much, I curled my hair.

While curling my bangs, the iron slipped from tired fingers and landed on my cheek. Basically, curling iron plus tired me, meant complete and total humiliation. I went to school that day with a 1 inch curling iron barrel roll across my right cheek. Nothing I did with my hair hid that hideous purple-brown mark.

My snarky history teacher had to say something. "Erin, whoever you've been making out with needs to shave, because that's a nasty whisker burn."

People laughed. I wanted to die.

Hence, the nickname whiskers.

secret 14 of 100

Sometimes the crap hits the fan. (Not the secret, just fact of life.)

For me, this happened last week. My awesome hubby got laid off. (Also not the secret, at least not mine.)

That's part of why I was MIA for days. Frankly, that stress plus a few of my own insecurities led me into a bit of a downward spiral. It took quite a few nudges from some great writing buddies to see the bright side of things.
It was during a conversation with Jessie from B-Word that I remembered an old motto of mine.
When I was eleven, I was pudgy, kids made fun of me, and I lived on an Air Force Base in California. Back then, each home had a plaque with the resident's name and rank posted on an exterior wall.
After a bad day at school, I needed some escape. I went on a bike ride with my sister and friend. I loved to read last names. Two blocks from my home, a name plaque made me stop in my tracks.

Crap.

Yep, that's right. The last name of the unfortunate family was Crap. Right then and there I adopted a new motto. Life could be worse, I could be a Crap.
That motto got me through a particularly sucky year of middle school. My sister and I came up with lots of Crap jokes, and just passing by the house left me gasping in laughter. Now that I think about it, it's kind of horrible for me to make fun of people as unfortunate as the Craps.
So I suppose you could say my secret is: I sometimes lift myself by poking fun of others.
Or on a more positive note, my secret could be: I'm doing great this week because at least I'm not a Crap!

Secret 13 of 100

There's something creepy about the number 13, so I figure why not creep y'all out. It is, after all, Halloween. No better time for creeping and stalking, is what I always say.

My secret is I was a stalker. 

No, not in the funny I read your blog and look at all your pictures on fb ten times a day. (Although I do that too.)
When I say stalker I'm talking I-wore-black-and-followed-a-boy-around-town kind of way.

Yeah, I get that the following stalking techniques may come across a little creepy:

1. I watched said boy from behind cracked blinds to see when he was coming and going from his home. (A good stalker knows when and where her Stalkee will be at all times. Stalking Tip #12, from Erin's Book of Stalking).

2. After taking note of his schedule, I mysteriously popped up in same places he was, and when confronted about it, I blinked at him and said, "You're kind of creeping me out. Are you following me?" (Always turn the tables on the Stalkee. Stalking Tip #29, from Erin's Book of Stalking).

3. I may or may not have followed said boy three cars behind while he took another (might I add hussy) girl on a date. This charge I can't confirm or deny. (Stalking is creepy when it's illegal. So try to make your stalking look like innocent interest instead of law-breaking activity. Stalking Tip #29, from Erin's Book of Stalking)

The point is, I was a stalker. I admit it, and I'm not afraid to say it. Because without my suave stalking techniques I wouldn't be married to that boy now.

All those out there that stalk, say aye!

secret 12 of 100

Last night Mark and I returned from visiting my sis in Washington at midnight. (No, that's not the secret).
This morning when I woke up I felt like a giant piece of crap--sore throat, achy, fever. (Again, not the secret).
Because my brain's a little fuzzy the only secret to come to mind is so mortifying I cringe even now as I'm on the verge of sharing it. But I can't sit in front of the computer any longer to think of another good secret. So don't say I didn't warn you. This is a mother of a secret.

Secret 12 of 100:

I played violin in the school orchestra. I wasn't very good. But the summer between sophomore and junior year, when all my friends were dating, I spent my lonely hours practicing.

Junior year, my marked improvement earned me a spot at second stand. And my partner became Illusive hot boy--a guy that wore a leather coat and reminded me of James Dean.

The day of our first concert of the year I felt like a giant piece of crap. (Much like I do now). But I went anyway, taking my place beside Illusive hot boy.
The concert started. I played well. In between songs Illusive complimented me. He was flirting with me! I giggled, managed something witty back . . . and then I sneezed.

And then time seemed to freeze. The seconds of post-sneeze silence spanned an eternity. Illusive looked at me with widened eyes. What was wrong? It took my foggy brain another second to follow the path his eyes took. I looked from I-hot boy to the spot on my violin that had trapped his attention.

Oh. Dear. Mother!

There on the curved, honey wood of my violin sat the most vile, slimy, loogie I'd ever seen. And judging from the timing, I'm guessing it flew out of my mouth mid-sneeze.
In that moment I wanted to die. Especially because the conductor tapped the stand, lifted his arms and started a new song .
I didn't have time to wipe it off. Oh the horror. I had to play an entire new song before I had a chance to free myself of that forsaken excrement.

And after I did, using my sleeve with as much pride as I could muster, Illusive never quite looked at me the same. Then again, I couldn't bring myself to look at him. So I guess that makes me even.
But there you have it. My secret is I'm a loogie sneezer when I'm sick. 

secret 11 of 100

I own 46 pairs of shoes. (An all time low for me.)

After falling victim to a terrible shoe storm in my closet, my husband made the rule that I could only own as many shoes as years old I am.

First, I'm not 44. I won't be for quite some time.
Second, I used to be pretty good about following the rule . . . by bending it a little. I separated my winter shoes from summer. Depending on the season, I kept only my age amount of shoes in the closet. But last month I had a yard sale and purged myself of fifteen pairs of shoes. (Yes, that means I had over 60 pairs.) So now that my 44 are feeling small in number I decided to put them all in the closet. To heck with the rule.
Third, I'm feeling the itch for more shoes. Have you seen all the boots this season? Ugh. I'm dying. What's another couple pairs of boots?

I admit, I'm a little bit of a shoe addict. But not bad, right? What's 44 pairs? I'm pretty sure there's a lot of you out there that probably own twice that. And if that's the case then it wouldn't matter if I add a few more pairs to the closet. I NEED shoes!

Do you have a shoe addiction too? If not (though I can't imagine why not) I want to know what's the one thing you hoard in your home. I've decided that these new shoes I want so badly can be my reward once I finish my WIP. I'm super close, ya'll. And then we can party with my new boots!

secret 10 of 100

My mom is really my biological mom. 

Seventh grade was a beastly year for me. I was chubby and I lived in Hawaii where all the kids at my school were brown or haole (Hawaiian slang for a white person. Take for instance my mom.) Since I shied away from confrontation like my kids hide when it's time to clean the bathroom, I was also teased a lot. I hated that. 

One day during math, I felt feverish. My teacher sent me to wait in the office for my mom.

When she arrived the brown girl beside me asked,"Eh, who dat? Your auntie?" 

This particular girl was the queen beast of seventh grade, and I didn't care for her. She teased me on a regular basis. I didn't want her making fun of me for having such a ghost-white mom. 

So I said, "No. She's my step-mom." 

And she believed me.  

I admit I was spineless. Not claiming my mother was a terrible thing to do. So I'm setting the record straight. My secret, one I've carried for so many years is that haole woman in the photo with me and my sisters is really, truly, my mom. 

Have you ever lied about something big in your life to save face? Or told a little lie? Any lie at all?
Don't leave me hanging. I want to hear your little secret too.

secret 9 of 100

I once lied to a boy.

Tis true. Shocking, no?

Eleventh grade was big for me. Younger than most of my classmates, I finally turned sixteen halfway through junior year. Which meant, I could finally date. Thank the Good Lord!
There was a boy I had my eye on. Tall, athletic, well known, funny (most of the time), and so sweet it made my heart swell just thinking of him.
We shared a few classes. I was on cheer (um...solely by the grace of the cheer coach. Not by talent.) And tall-boy was a basketball player. Whenever possible I would find times to talk with him, try my hand at flirting, and I'd hope and pray Tall-boy would ask me out.

It seemed like eternity passed and Tall-boy hadn't asked me out.
Until one day, he called me on the phone.
Holy freaking moly! He called.
"Hello, Tall-boy," I said into the phone, trying to sound the picture of casualness. But really, "Freaky" and "breathy" pretty much sum it up.

"Hey, Erin. My friend and I are going mountain biking this weekend. I was just wondering if you've ever gone before."

Ok, so was this him asking me out? Or was he just testing the water to see if we were even compatibable. By George! If I wasn't compatible before, I was then. I knew he was quite athletic, and though I was a cheerleader that meant nothing in way of other athletic areas. But there was no way in Hades I would miss an opportunity with Tall-boy. If he wanted a mountain biking chick, then I was the girl for him.
 
"Of course," I totally and utterly and shamelessly lied into that phone. "I go all the time. I LOVE mountain biking." Or not.
I'd ridden a bike before, it couldn't be that different than riding a cruiser around town. Just add a little mountain, right?

Wrong. So very wrong.

Tall-boy picked me up early in the morning on Saturday. We went with another couple. After driving up into the mountains, we started our bike ride on a very secluded mountain trail. And when I say "mountain trail", I mean vertical ups and downs. As in the most hell-acious bike ride of my life.

Thirty minutes into the ride, my legs felt like jello and I seriously doubted I would ever pee normally again.

An hour later, I wanted to die.

After two hours of biking torture, I thought I was paralyzed because I could no longer feel my limbs.

Three hours later, I hit a tree.
Maybe it was because I mis-judged how fast I was coming down the mountain, or because I was shaking so badly I couldn't see the boulder in the path, but when my bike hit the rock, I didn't even realize I was in the air until the tree stopped my forward momentum. I knew right them, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I never should've lied.

Lucky for me, Tall-boy and his friend had gone on, leaving me and Other-girl to follow. She helped me up, dusted off my ridiculously muddy body, and got me back onto my bike.

An eternity later we ended the trail. I could barely walk, I looked as if I hadn't showered in months, and I'd lost all ability to form complete sentences. To this day, I never told Tall-boy the truth. Though he probably figured it out.

What I did learn is that lying about mountain biking is BAD. So very bad.

secret 8 of 100

I'm afraid of Goldfish.

Not the snack you find on aisle 10 at Walmart.  I'm talking about the squishy, slimy, living fish that swim around in the mucky tanks at Walmart...or any other pet store.

Honestly, I have an irrational fear of finding a belly up goldfish. The fear is so great and gripping that I avoid the pet corner of the Walmart at all costs. If you own goldfish, I probably avoid your house like the plague.
Maybe once a year I'll find myself in the general vicinity of the goldfish tanks at Walmart. My throat closes, my stomach churns, my eyes water, and my gag reflex kicks into gear. I can't even walk down the very aisle because of the paralysis that will seize my limbs. Sweat beads will form on my brown, and my breathing will grow shallow.

Ugh. They're horrid little creatures that should be banned, I say. Banned!

You see, on my fifteenth birthday, my mom and sisters gave me five goldfish. Margo, Margo, Margo, Margo and Margo. Great name, right?
I loved them and cherished my Margos and fed them ALL the time. Then, come spring, I had to go away on a short trip. Before I left for those couple days I was distraught with worry that my fishy friends would starve. So being a loving pet-caretaker, I dumped a plethora of fish food in their bowl so they could have a final feast before I left.

When I returned all five Margos were dead. White bloated bellies to the sky, in a swamp of brackish water.
(I just threw up in my mouth. I don't even know if I can finish this post).

Anyway. My mom made ME flush each fish down the drain. Sympathetic much? I think not. After watching them go, and then cleaning up the mucky dead-fish tank, I swear the stank of dead Margo-fish clung to me like a special-Erin aroma for days. I couldn't get it out of my nostrils.

So you see why I can't stand fish. That is my secret. Goldfish make me vomit.

secret 7 of 100

I am a hermit. 

I know you're rolling your eyes at this secret, but it's true. Kind of.

I think if I'm classifying the type of hermit I am, I would be a bear-like hermit. Because there are times in my life I hibernate and times when I'm out foraging (so to speak). It's not that I'm rubbing my nose on the dirt searching for food or anything, I just go through periods of super social-ness and times when I'm the complete opposite. Like, live in my cave house and don't open the windows type of opposite.

(I like to think that if I really am like a bear, I might be cuddly like this one. Add a Diet Coke.)

When I'm social I like to:
1. Go to the Olive Garden. This is, without a doubt, my favorite restaurant. You may hate it. (Especially if you're a certain hairy friend of mine). But know that I love it. LOVE it!
2. Buy shoes. Anywhere. Anytime. Anywhere. I LOVE me some shoes!
3. Go to the Water Garden Cinema. It may not be your first movie theater choice, but it's mine because there are almost always empty seats, the popcorn is cheap, and everybody knows my name. Maybe they should change the theater name to Cheers. (I'm just kidding about the last line. I don't know if they know my name.)


When I'm hibernating, I like to: 
1. Go to the Pleasant Grove Library. This is one of my favorite places on earth because every one here does know my name...so maybe they should be called Cheers. I love that they order my books. And even when I don't want to go anywhere else, I'll go here to get my book and read.
2. Read. I usually love to do this after I do #1. But I guess that's kind of a "duh" answer.
3. Write. Notice that reading comes first on this list. I think that's because at heart I'm a reader first. But when I'm not reading, I do try to write a little of my own fiction.

Does that make me sound completely crazy? Or do you get what I'm saying?

secret 6 of 100

When Mark asked me to marry him (for the second time...the first is another story all together) I said yes. Obviously. But my secret is I wasn't entirely sure I should say yes. In fact, I almost wondered if I should say no. His family and my family were gathered around and it was Christmas Eve and I couldn't help but be caught up in the romance of it all. You know I'm such a Love-nut. And I loved him more than anyone or anything.

But the next day when I woke up to stare at that shiny diamond attached to my left ring-finger, I wondered if I made the right choice. It's not that I didn't want to marry the man. I just wondered if he really was "the one". My stomach clenched that I possibly said "yes" a little to hastily. I'd answered before I'd prayed about it...before the earth quaked beneath my feet because he was, indeed, "the one."

If I was wrong, how would I turn around and tell my family that I'd made a mistake? A small greedy part of me wondered if I would have to give back the sparkly diamond? Dang it all.

That morning I rolled out of bed on to my knees and prayed. I prayed so fervently to God that he would let me know Mark was meant for me. And you know what happened? A whole lot of nothing! Days passed, and I prayed and prayed again. I would pray silently while we were together and loudly when we were apart. I loved him so much and I wanted him to be mine. But I also wanted that earth-shattering confirmation that YES he was the one.
Time passed and before I knew it, it was my wedding day. That morning as I put on my make-up and curled my hair, I said one last prayer. I told God that if Mark was the wrong one then he better stop me from going through with the wedding because I loved Mark more than life itself and I wanted him and no one else.

Well, you know what happened? In the middle of the ceremony I got my answer. Mark's gaze met mine and in that moment I could see all the times that I'd received an answer to my prayer. All the times I knew we were perfect for each other. All the times God had really answered my prayers.

He was mine and I was a happy girl...even if I didn't know he was "the one" when I said yes.