shameful little secrets

As I was perusing the br...well, the "undergarments" available online through Victoria's Semi-Annual Sale, I had a brain spasm and clicked on the clothing section. I then immediately saw several items that I compulsively dumped into a Victoria's Secret wishlist: among the gems I covet are an all-in-one romper, a glittery cashmere shirt, and a tie-dyed green maxi dress. This admission causes me deep shame because I've always looked at VS catalogs and thought that the clothing was inspired by the company's closest approximation of what a romance novel heroine would wear. My estimation has not changed.

So, what am I? Simply put: a country bumpkin with really bad taste in clothing. I always joke around with my girl/friends that I secretly am attracted to the brightest fuchsia lipstick, the gaudiest prints, the worst cuts just because. It's like my bad taste is ingrained. Genetic. And it shows itself in the way that I style my hair. I can fight this urge to look like a Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire extra who's been dismissed from the set for her bad taste in acid-washed denim overalls: most of the time I pick funky, semi-timeless articles of clothing--but my hair and I are always at war, and in the end, both of us lose.

(I would offer photos as proof, but I have no wish to subject you to several pictures of myself with a side part wherein my forehead has become a ravenous optical beast and chewed up the entire frame of the photo. That is the horror of the side part curly hair. Fine, I relent. The ravenous forehead:



P.S.-The cutie in the orange shirt is my cousin Sarah.

Meanwhile, the middle part curly hair looks great. Why did it take me 32 years to figure this out?




The middle part straight hair [I will spare you that picture] unleashes the square block that is my wide forehead and rectangular jaw; this look infers that I can split rocks with my teeth--I have split a hard plastic mouthguard with those very teeth while suffering from bruxism, but that's fodder for another entry. Guess how often I wear my hair like this when it's straight? All the time. And what am I, twelve? Does my forehead actually need this much blogger/mental space?)

That, my dears, is shameful little secret one: yes, I am a Fresh Prince of Bel-Aire extra reject.

The second shameful little secret is that I've wasted approximately 80 hours of the past two weeks watching the complete Farscape series.




This is why I am a true nerd: I am two discs away from completing the series, and I have actually cut down on my watching in order to stretch the pleasure of indulging in space opera out. And unlike my secret attraction for horrible prints and fuchsia lipstick, I am not at all ashamed of my love for Farscape; the show is frelling awesome. I have two niggling questions that have been bugging me, though: why, in moments of panicked crisis, just as the latest Peacekeeper marauder or Scarren deathship or the latest episode's hostile aliens in enemy spaceship approach Moya (the living spaceship the Farscape good guys live on), someone in the crew suggests, "Starburst, Moya!" And Pilot, in at least 75% of these instances, says, "Moya can't starburst, she doesn't have enough power" or "Moya can't starburst because she's too weak from the damage from the pulse cannons" or "Moya can't starburst because there's a leaking toilet in the bathroom!" And second, why are a lot of the aliens the crew encounters simply human actors with bad haircuts, bad hygiene, and a few tattoos? If that's all it takes to be an alien, I know plenty. (Shit, I might be one.)

Besides that, the show is all awesome. I love the Jim Henson company and think that it can do no wrong. And who isn't in love with John Crichton and Aeryn Sun, or in love with their love, or whatever? I actually cried while watching a few episodes; yes, their love is that heartbreaking. And there, there's my last shameful little secret I will share with you tonight.