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.

 

secret 5 of 100

I once gave a student an A on an assignment because I was embarrassed.

For a brief stint I taught high school English. (Yeah yeah, I'm the worst speller. I put commas all over the place, and my grammar smacks...exactly why I don't teach English any longer.)
When I was pregnant, I taught senior English in Hawaii and I happened to have a drool problem. You would think these two facts don't necessarily go hand in hand, but you'll soon see that you are wrong.
When I was preggers with Ted-O, I would wake up in a puddle (or lake) of drool. I drooled when I ate, and spat when I talked. Frankly, it was gross.
One afternoon my students were completing a worksheet. I walked through the classroom glancing over their shoulders and monitoring their work like a good teacher. When I came to Bob (not his actual name, but for privacy reasons I have to censor something now and then) I leaned over his shoulder to look at his work. I could see he was struggling with a problem half way down the page. I pointed at the question and explained it in further detail. As I was finishing up my expert explanation, showing my prowess as a high school teacher, a massive glob of saliva-tinged loogie plopped down and landed right in the middle of his paper.
He jerked back, his face screwed into a sickened expression.
Frozen in my own horrified stupor, it took me a moment to process that the gooey yellowish blob on his assignment just came from my mouth. My own freaking mouth!
"Eww, Miss," Bob started to say.
I snatched his paper away faster than I could spit again. "You just earned an A."
He blinked at me and back to the spot where his marred paper no longer lay. "Right on. You can spit on me any day."
"Keep quiet Bob," I hissed, "Or I just might."

Keeping my word, I marked an A in my grade book. And Bob never brought up the loogie-attack ever again. But now you know that I'm the type of teacher that spits on students' work!

Secret 4 of 100

My first grade my teacher, Mrs. Vial, a horribly old woman with wretched, decaying breath and hair that resembled a white mushroom, hated me. She hated my wiggly body and constant chatter. She hated me so much she gave me recess detention. While all the other kids frolicked and played out on the school grounds I was stuck in her stuffy classroom, inhaling her horrid, dragon breath.
Towards the end of the play period, Mrs. Vial told me to stay inside while she gathered the class. Then she left. I remained in my seat until I couldn't take it any longer. I'm not sure what possessed me to go to the back of the room where all the students' brown lunch bags were lined up and clearly named. But I found myself back there, right in front of Lila McCormnack's bag. Maybe it was because she gloated that her mother had packed a massive bag of Skittles in her lunch. My mom only packed healthy gross things like a whole wheat sandwich, a banana, and carrot sticks. Bleh. For all I knew, Lila could've been Mrs. Vial's offspring because she was an equally detestable girl. But there I was, thinking about Lila's Skittles.
I knew at any moment the class would be returning. No doubt Lila, the first-grade cow that she was, would say something snide about my recess banishment. So in a moment of needing to rebel and fight back, I tore open Lila's lunch sack, ripped open the Skittles bag, and shoved my hand in to withdraw as many little sweets my fingers could possibly hold. With the same fervor, I munched and chomped and chewed those  skittles with guilty glee as I returned to my seat.

Moments later, the class returned. No one noticed the torn lunch bag, or the skittle dribble on my cheek. And when the folly was discovered at lunch, I promptly denied having any part of the Skittle snatching. Though I'm sure Mrs. Vial didn't believe me because I received detention after school and at recess for the next week. But to this day, I never admitted my guilt.

But I'm turning over a new leaf. I'm no longer stealing Skittles from first graders....(disclaimer: this doesn't apply to my own kids during the month of October). There you have it. My secret is I was a Skittle thief.

Secret 3 of 100

3:100 thumbs up

I hitch-hiked on the North Shore of Hawaii. It was an unpleasant experience and not one that I would suggest anyone try. First, you never know who's going to stop. It could be a total stinker of a person...and then what? You have to share a small vehicular space with someone that smells so bad your nose hairs singe. Pee-You! I'm not saying that happened to me. It was the opposite in fact. A super nice man picked up me and my friends, and then drove us to where we were going...somewhere he actually worked. He took us right back to BYU-Hawaii. He told us that we should be safer and just pay the .75 cents to ride the bus. (Yeah, I'm cheap.) But he also explained to us the dangers. And he said enough to scare me witless. So no more thumbing a ride for me.

But that never stopped me from using a buddy pass.

Mark and I used a buddy pass to head over to Hawaii for my Grandma's funeral and an awesome wedding shoot. Unfortunately last night when we went to the airport and saw the backed up system of people trying to fly standby, we realized we couldn't buddy pass it back to Utah. So with a lot of prayer we were able to find an affordable one-way ticket home. So good bye Hawaii...we'll see when we venture into the buddy pass world again.

Aloha, erin

secret 2 of 100.

When I was fourteen I was arrested.

It involved my best friend, two older boys, one stolen van, and possibly a little Mary Jane (if you know what I mean...but since this is a family blog I'm not going to elaborate.)

Nuff' said.

Have a great Thursday. Obey the law.

secret 1 of 100.

Today I'm starting down a new path in life. And by the title of this post, I'm sure you're wondering if that's the secret. The first of a hundred that I'll share on this blog. The answer to your silent inquiry is no. That's not the secret. However, it should be noted that I'm starting something new. I've always used this blog as my spewing ground, shooting into cyber-space whatever comes to mind with little to no focus. If we've met in person, you've probably already noticed that to be an everyday occurrence when we're conversing. What can I say? Go ADD.
But today I'm focusing. I'm hankering down and truly committing to something. I'm committing to one-hundred little somethings. One hundred truths about myself or those around me that you probably don't know. Why? Because at heart I love gossip as much as the next. No, that's not entirely why. I don't even know why except that I have secrets, boy do I have secrets, and I want to share! I may not even share a secret a week, but eventually I'll share all one hundred. And when that day comes...well, it'll come and you'll know one hundred secrets. So, um, yeah. I guess that's about it.

1:100 Gas Girl
When Mark walked me to the door after our first date, I totally farted. Not once, but twice. And yes, it was loud. He had said something funny, and as I laughed, I just couldn't hold in the gas that was pressing on my insides with unbelievable paining pressure. The laugh caused me to relax enough to, well, let it all out. Not knowing if he heard, but certain he must've, I turned the door knob and slipped inside without saying another word. I didn't give a rat's but cheek if he thought my departure was abrupt because I was more concerned that he'd never want to take out the gas girl again. Mortified, I shook my head and after a few seconds erupted into a fit of laughter. Because even though part of me wanted to sink into a hole in the earth, a bigger part of me considered the scene from another angle. Particularly the one of any one of my neighbor's. 


Obviously Mark asked me out again. And after that first date he never made any indication that he heard the world's worst faux pax to be made on a first date. So I kept that secret closest to my heart for years into our marriage. And when I finally broke down and told him, he had no clue what I was talking about. Or so he said. 


I haven't shared this story with many others for fear that they might look at me differently. If that's the case, than so be it. Because now you know secret 1 of 100.