“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.” – Benjamin Franklin
The ladies of Pink Ink have tasked me with revealing six – count ‘em, six – secrets about myself.
Honestly, I think with a trace of panic, it’ll be a struggle to come up with even one secret, much less six. I’m just not that interesting. Or mysterious. I don’t hang out with rock stars, like Portia, or live in an exciting place (Perth, Australia) like Rebecca, or ride a sexy, sporty bike like Samantha. I’m b-o-r-i-n-g. People here in Washington DC wear suits ALL THE TIME, for crying out loud. It’s a very buttoned-up town.
But I gave it some thought, and racked my tiny brain, and here’s what I came up with:
- I like it hot. Food, I mean (come on, now – minds out of the gutter). Sriracha, Tabasco, jalapenos, oh my! There’s almost nothing that isn’t improved by a nice dash of heat (except, maybe, breakfast cereal). I always order my Five Guys burger with ketchup, mustard, pickles…and fresh sliced jalapeno. Mustard on my sandwich? Gotta be spicy brown, of course. No plain yellow French’s for me. My favorite cocktail? A habanera margarita. Ay yi yi! Even chocolate tastes better with a dash of chile pepper and a bit of hot-hot-hot. And while I flatter myself that I like it spicy because I’m a discerning foodie, in reality, I know it’s really because my taste buds are shot.
- I wasn’t popular in high school. I never hung out with the cheerleaders, or the drama club (they were crazy, but fun), or even the math nerds (they were smart, but…well, nerdy). I was just me – quiet, awkward, nose in a book, face perpetually obscured behind a curtain of hair. (In photos back then, I was all long hair and bell-bottomed jeans. I looked like Cousin It.) I had my small circle of friends, and I had a steady boyfriend; and for me, that was enough. We broke up during my senior year, and so I didn’t go to the prom. But by then, I was into David Bowie and Led Zeppelin and regarded high school proms with scorn, anyway.
- Which brings me to another secret – I can’t dance. I’m hopeless. You’ve seen Elaine on Seinfeld? I’m worse. I’m the physical embodiment of Tourette’s syndrome when I dance. That doesn’t mean, if I’m fuelled by enough quantities of alcohol, that I won’t dance, however. So consider yourself warned.
- I hate my feet – they’re ballerina feet (ironic, considering I can’t dance and I’m not a ballerina). Have you ever seen a dancer’s feet? They’re shocking, ugly-stepsister feet – hideous and misshapen. They’re working feet. Mine are just…ugly. So you won’t see me sporting strappy sandals or tripping around in sky-high Louboutins. Nope, I’ll leave all of that fashionable stuff to Natalie Dashwood.
- I’ve always had a major, major crush on British boys, both from the past (Peter Cook, Robert Plant, Paul and John and George – sorry, Ringo) and the present (Colin Firth, Henry Cavil, Hugh Dancy, Hugh Laurie, Hugh Grant…hmm, there’s a lot of ‘Hughs’ on that list, isn’t there?). Whether it’s Paul McCartney’s soulful eyes or Colin Firth’s mesmerizing, damp-shirt-clad chest, there’s just something about an English guy… *shakes self out of daze* Sorry. Back to the list.
- Finally, my last secret – Gordon Ramsey (a Scot) was the inspiration for Prada and Prejudice. His battle with a pampered Italian princess who managed a failing restaurant in Boca Raton, Florida, gave me the idea for – what else? – a pampered British princess who butts heads with an opinionated Scotsman named Rhys. So thanks for that, Gordon.
There you are – my six secrets. (I told you I was boring.)