I am hopelessly addicted to Project Runway. Hopelessly.
It's quite laughable, really, as my outfit of choice is usually jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and a ponytail. Even Tim Gunn couldn't "make it work". Still, I enjoy the hell out of it. And Tim Gunn? I want him to be my gay Yoda. I like the bitchiness of Michael Kors, and I love the black t-shirt uniform. But he cannot measure up to a man in a suit with a red and white gingham button-down shirt. Ever.
The amateur psychologist in me says that my obsession might all stem from my first-ever failing grade in Home Economics. Mrs. B, my teacher and StuCo advisor, pushed me to my very limits. Oh, bless her heart. I do not understand how she dealt with my 15 year-old drama. I started strong with a blue walrus pillow (which is still in my childhood bedroom, thank you), but the slow coast to Flunksville kicked off with an apron. Oh, that mother-effin' apron. Black and white toille with a black edging. Damn you, edging. Damn you. By the time we moved on to a very happenin' set of jams, I was on red-alert nervous breakdown watch. Seams? Patterns? That little wheelie, marking thing? I have to cut the fabric so that the crazy yellow flowers match up? POCKETS?? It kind of gives me the cold sweats to think about, and it's been 20 years. I think I cried myself to sleep for a straight week.
In true fashion, however, my mom pulled out her sewing machine (What? You have a sewing machine?), gave me a 10 minute tutorial, and TA-DAH, a slightly janky pair of Hawaiian print jams appeared. No pockets, but I was just happy to survive.
(This is totally my mom, by the way. Full of ninja-like skills that she has absolutely no interest in pursuing further. *sigh*)
The fact that I was only slightly more adept at the cooking semester might be the birth place of my addiction to "Top Chef". And the fact that I've never been within a hundred miles of any border might explain my dreams of competing on the "Amazing Race". It doesn't seem like a good thing that all of my t.v. favorites just reality versions of all my past-life failures.
Except "Hoarders". Which is somehow a creepy flash forward fall-apart. *shudder*
I have yet to diagnose my inordinate fear of Nina Garcia, however. Maybe next week's episode.