Step on up, step on up! Confess your guilty pleasure today! What are you hiding? Come on. Tell. You bad, bad democrat you. We all knew you were really a closeted repub!
The rules are simple. Say your sin, say your secret, BUT, here's the best part: No responsibility is to be taken.....EVER! No one will be held accountable, no grudges held! Feel free to point the finger of blame!
Me first... (because it's always all about me)
One, two, three... Here we go!
- I don't read serious books very much. I try, I try. My shelves are full of them, but.... Nora Roberts beckons! And Dean Koontz and James Patterson and John Grisham. But mostly I heed the siren call of Janet Evanovich. Stephanie Plum is real I tell you! Real! So is Granny Mazur and Ranger and Joe! New Jersey stinks and I never, ever want to go there! Never! Janet told me so! For this I blame....um...my first grade teacher. Who taught me to read. Yes, that's the ticket, it's all her fault.
- I like casinos. Penny slots. Can't get enough of them! Every birthday, every anniversary, every other month or so, any reason will do. For this I blame.... my mother! Yes, it's all her fault. Once, when I was still mostly a casino virgin, I was talking to her about our casino experience and she grinned a great big chesire cat grin, reached into her purse and pulled out a two inch stack of casino membership cards and fanned them out like a professional. Thanks mom!
- I used to like.... da, da, da, da... Nascar! What am I saying? I used to freakin' love Nascar! For this I blame... Bristol, Tennesee. I lived in Johnson City, it was handy and what can I say? It rubbed off. Sunday in and Sunday out, there I was. Vegged out in front of the teevee. I even went so far as to actually attend a race or three. But then, my husband killed Dale Earnhardt and the bloom on that particular rose started to wither. Well, to be fair, he didn't actually kill Dale Earnhardt, he just wished he would get a broken leg and be out for the season. Didn't work out too well and my husband feels really bad about it. I swear. I tried to stick it out anyway, but then I found out my favorite driver, Bobby Labonte liked George Bush and he shot a beaver. So now I'm cured of my Nascar disease (mostly) and I promise that on most days I hardly remember at all the Jimmie Johnson and Jeff Gordon are my mortal enemies!