Not true in our case. My son fell in love with the blonde nurse in the hospital seconds after he was born. And then he fell for my blonde co-worker. Oh, and then there’s Ingrid, his adorable blonde classmate.
I’m a brunette in case you forgot.
But I’m right up there in his affections.
Or at least parts of me are.
Last night Quinn and I were playing his version of volleyball. He stands on one side of the room, I sit on my ass about 6 feet away. He tells me I’m “the net” and I toss a rubber ball to him. He tries to hit it back. I catch it and “serve” it to him. This goes on until he says he wants to be “the net” and switches sides with me. (I’m still not sure what it means to be “the net” as it appears to be very similar to “not being the net” and also nothing like a real net.)
I don’t suck at this game and it’s one of the few non-violent games he’s into lately so I readily play whenever he asks. Plus I enjoy sitting down.
Last night while tossing the old rubber ball back and forth we had this conversation:
QUINN: You’ve got some moves!
ME: (Grateful he noticed!) You like my moves? Why thank you!
QUINN: No, your boobs! I like your boobs!
ME: Oh. Umm.
QUINN: I’M GOING TO MARRY THOSE BOOBS!
ME: Oh my god… BART!
People, this is a kid who was so breast-feeding challenged he literally cried at the site of my boobs. And now he wants to marry them? Umm, no. They have feelings, kid. They remember. Show some remorse for goodness sake.
I can not take my future. Can’t we go back to the “penis and butthole” days? (Great name for a tavern, no? Or maybe some buddy cops?)
If you’re looking for me I’ll be the one wearing 4 sports bras and a suit of armor.
Now that you know how to write a Hallmark Channel Holiday movie, you will need a snappy title.
The title is VERY important as many people who tune into the Hallmark Channel during the holidays are very likely to judge your movie based on this. Oh, we’ll still watch your movie. Just with a preconceived opinion, which will either be validated in the first three minutes or pushed aside in favor of an even better opinion.
Even though your Hallmark Channel Holiday movie is already a hit, a title is still important. Picture the ad in Us Weekly with the two romantic stars of your movie framed out in the silhouette of a heart or Christmas ornament, eyes gazing upwards as puffs of fake snow fall on the shoulders of their emerald green peacoats as they dot fresh baked gingerbread cookies with plump, sugary gumdrops.
Next decide which shade of red and green you want your romantic leads to wear. Turtlenecks, cowl necks, scarves, aforementioned peacoats, and mock turtlenecks are strongly encouraged.
Now picture your title underneath that very special image. Scrawling it in icing or Christmas lights and bracketed with sprigs of holly is a nice touch, but not necessary.
Feeling pressure? Don’t! My foolproof system will have you knocking out heartwarming titles faster than a coked up elf stuffs sugar plums. Simply select one word from each column below and sprinkle in a few ornamental prepositions as needed like cranberries in the punch bowl and wa-lah! 4.7 million viewers!
Will it be A Family Holiday? Or Merry Marry Mix-Up? Does it matter? They’re both instant classics!
Pact Wish Star Love Happiness North Pole Mix-Up
A Jingle Wonderland? Snowy Mistletoe Happiness? See? They practically write themselves!
Time for nesting and nestling in with friends old and new. But especially new because let’s face it–some of the old ones are getting a bit played out.
It’s when I don my best leisurewear and kick back on the sofa with my new friends and demand entertainment.
Tell me your vapid tales of one-night stands and surprise pregnancies!
Spin me a yarn about how hard it is to make friends when you’re famous and a millionaire in the second largest U.S. city!
Plan me the most complicated DIY dinner party and invite lots of celebrity potheads! Yes! BRING ME THE GREEN FIENDS!
Fall television is no joke, people. I mean Entertainment Weekly dedicates a whole issue to it. Everyone’s got an opinion on who the growers and soon-to-be no showers will be. Who’s going to make it? Who will be dumped before your DVR even learns their names? Which shows is Kris Jenner executive producing and therefore dooming civilization to eternal syndication long after the shark has been jumped?
I can’t get enough of this. This must be how fantasy sports players feel right before the draft.
Not sure where to look for a DVR download? Sure, you could go to E! News if you want a comprehensive round-up of the new shows. (And maybe answer a poll about which new cast member has the dumbest hair.) Or visit my virtual soulmate, The Ashley if you only care about the important stuff like reality TV. If you’re suffering from childhood abandonment issues which have resulted in an inability to develop long-term meaningful relationships and don’t want to waste time getting attached to a show that’ll get cut quicker than Taylor dumped rehab-bound Selena, you should go with the experts and see which shows have the best odds of being renewed. And yes, real-live experts are spending time thinking about this stuff, which delights me to no end. I guess you could say Fall TV is like betting on the Super Bowl for lazy, judgey couch potatoes. Or maybe more like putting a wager on how long it will take to sing the national anthem during the Super Bowl. Whatevs. It’s cool.
Of course if you’re really serious about your TV watching and want to narrow it down to the best of the best, you could go with your most trusted source– me!
Ladies and gentlemen, get your sweats and start your DVRs and tell your real friends you’ll see them in the Spring. You’re going to be very busy.
Martha and Snoop’s Potluck Dinner Party: Not a joke, people. Executive produced by bunny kisses and unicorn dreams, this is exactly why we have televisions. The Mother of DIY Living and the Doggfather of ganga and random political endorsements are joining forces to bring us the most anticipated show of the season. In this glorious new series, the unlikely duo hosts dinner parties for celebrity friends. Who knew you could roll a joint with hospital corners? Oh yes, definitely a good thing.
Hollywood & Football: Is this how the NFL is trying to reach more women? Fine. You had me at Hollywood & Football. Here we’ll follow six LA Rams and their significant others as they make the incredibly hard transition from life in the middle of America to life on the West-coast of America. How will they speak the language? Will they understand currency conversions? Will they have to eat kale?! This terrifying unscripted docu-series (READ: Not a reality show!) takes us behind the scenes of rich, pretty people trying to find their way off the 405 and into the nearest Ralph’s Grocery.
Project Grizzly:Aw man, this is gonna be tearjerker. After bear trainer Jeff Watson realizes it’s not cool to keep bears as pets, he decides to set them free. Only problem, his big ass bears have been living like parakeets and don’t really know the first thing about being bears in the wild. So teach them he must. Yes, that’s right. A man teaches bears how to be bears. Who doesn’t love a make-over show?
Leave it to Lifetime TELEVISION FOR WOMEN to come out with not one, but TWO quality new shows I will surely be binge-watching with my mommy. Thank you, Lifetime TELEVISION FOR WOMEN! I can always count on you for some good old-fashioned female bonding.
Lifetime describes these two new shows as, “documenting the action-packed journey of what happens when a woman becomes unexpectedly pregnant.”
Why yes, Lifetime TELEVISION FOR WOMEN. Spot on! I would also describe pregnancy–unexpected or otherwise–as “action-packed.” I remember my own action-packed pregnancy having to remember to take all those extra vitamins and get out of bed to pee in the middle of the night– in the dark! Bart was all like, “Slow your roll, Mario. That bathroom ain’t going nowhere!” Lifetime TELEVISION FOR WOMEN really gets women.
But I digress.
First we have30-Something Grandma and yep, that title is really letting it all hang out there. Need I say more? Nope, but I will. 30-Something Grandma is a docu-series (READ AGAIN: Not a reality show!) following three moms and their teenage daughters who are about to become first-time mommies themselves. Spoiler alert! One grandma has to postpone a trip to Mexico. Save the drama for teenaged mamas’ mamas!
Knocked Up is all class, baby. This series follows the journey of three once carefree, single ladies who were having a grand ol’ time being unattached and irresponsible until “one night of fun” finds them up the duff. Spoiler Alert! They all have to make lifestyle changes!
Window Warriors: I love Carson Kressley so if he’s going to sign up to judge a two-bit, over-done, no-one-cares reality show, it’s my job to watch it. Especially when it’s none of those things! Excuse me while I continue counting down the seconds. This competition show pits the, “country’s most talented window merchandising designers” against one another to create elaborate window displays. Yep, window displays. Expect lots of product placement and manufactured drama.
Scandal Made Me Famous: Nope, sorry, this is not the unauthorized Kerry Washington biography. She was totally famous before that Scandal. This is real scandal. Like murdering-your-children or cutting-off-your-husband’s-private-parts scandal. You know, heart-warming stuff like that. Relive the tales that turned the likes of Lorena Bobbitt and Amy Fisher into pithy New York Post headlines. This is the stuff sick days were made of. Start practicing your fake cough now.
Timber Creek Lodge: Thank you, Bravo. In the vein of Ladies of London and Southern Charm, this is another notch in the “Please God don’t let anyone know I’m watching this” belt. Beautiful settings, slutty, gorgeous staffers, and spoiled, over-the-top clients make this basically Below Deck in a ski chalet. And yes, we do need more Below Deck.
Ghosts in the Hood:These real-life ghostbusters investigate paranormal activity in LA neighborhoods other ghost hunting teams won’t touch. Why? I dunno know. Because ghosts aren’t real? Pa’shaw! This squad of ghosties includes a “verified medium,” a technician, and a comedian so you know they’re LA legit. Woooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh!
The Bachelor: Doesn’t matter the time of year, it’s always Bachelor season as far as I’m concerned. Yes, ladies and gentleman, it’s true. The only man who has appeared on The Bachelor franchise more than Chris Harrison himself gets another shot at love. Can I get bro hug and a spray tan for Nick Viall?
They made us love him on BiP as he worked hard to shirk his loser in love reputation and became a charming, endearing, almost rational romantic sage. He was kind to the dumb twins, stood up to that enormous asshat, Josh who bested him yet again for a female’s attention, and tried really hard to pretend he didn’t know he was going to the be the next Bachelor and fake some chemistry with that Jenn girl. This season promises lots of tears and emotional breakdowns–from Nick himself. I’m already glued to my TV.
I know, we’re all sick of hearing about this election. Is it over already? (And depending on who wins, it may truly be over, but I digress. Sort of.)
While Michelle Obama’s popularity is finally catching up to that of her biceps, others aren’t faring so well. I would be hard-pressed to vote for the Biggest Futhermucker of this election season what with so many great candidates. I mean, there’s the obvious choice. And then there’s the second obvious choice. And then there’s the “yep, yep, for sure, of course” choice. But then there’s the one dude that has nothing to do with nothing and can’t seem to go away. He really, really wants to win this election.
So let’s let him.
It’s Chachi, ladies and gentlemen!
Oh, you know! Fonzie’s annoying little cousin who hunted poor Joanie like a drug-sniffing dog at Burning Man and later became a sweater vest-wearing manny for the Pembroke family and BFFs with the doofus from Eight is Enough.
Yes, that guy! I know, right?
So maybe you missed Chachi’s big debut at the RNC and you’re wondering what the hell this D-list D-bag has to do with the election. He’s a big Trump supporter as it turns out and he’s not afraid to show it. Good thing too, because outside of his fame-whorey children and a sour, sullen, clearly blackmailed and tortured Ted Cruz, The Donald didn’t have many people willing to take the microphone for him. But not Chachi. Oh no, not him. Chachi was all like, “YES I WILL SPEAK ON YOUR BEHALF! Finally someone who will free me from the shackles of civility, common sense, intelligence, dignity, and fear of getting shanked in the throat by a band of pesky feminists. I mean, ew! Don’t you have something to shave or something?”
So Chachi got up on stage and said some stupid shit and was probably hoping it would all lead to a walk on role in the seventh Baywatch sequel or a turn on Dancing with the Stars but instead everyone was all, “OMG did you freakin see Chachi on stage? WTF is that guy doing there? Is he also one of The Donald’s children? Give us Tiffany Trump. Next!”
But man, Chachi really loves The Donald and D-list fame, so he’s willing to go to bat for both. And clearly The Donald will take anything he can get.
I’m not going to rehash the disgusting conversation between disgusting Billy Bush and The Donald where The Big D declared his wealth and power and orange skin and yellow cotton candy hair piece granted him full visitation rights over a woman’s body. Does she want to be touched groped by The Donald? Who freakin’ cares! Money! Power! Spray tan!
But I will rehash Chachi’s remarks on the above topic because considering the source, you may have missed it. Even though almost everyone seems to have come out against The Donald’s comments including real, honest to god athletes who spend quite a bit of time in locker rooms and unequivocally state that is not in fact what men talk about, Chachi has decided to come to The Donald’s defense once again and set the record straight. This time blasting women for having the gall to be “offended.”
“I like Trump because Trump is not a politician. He talks like a guy, and ladies out there, this is what guys talk about when you’re not around. So if you’re offended by it, grow up, OK?” – Chachi
Okay, genius. There’s a lot of gold in them hills. Let’s mine it, shall we?
So let me get this straight. You like Trump because he’s not a politician. You like a man running for the highest elected office in the nation because he’s not a politician. M’kay. That’s on par with liking a pair of pants because they’re shoes. I actually don’t mind my elected officials being, you know, versed in politics.
He talks like a guy. No, douche-nugget. He talks like an entitled, misogynistic, selfish, narcissist pig. (Sorry, pigs.) Even the worst guys I know don’t talk like that.
Grow up. You want me to grow up? Really, Chachi? You think immaturity is what makes, “grab them by the p*ssy offensive? You think it’s naive to be horrified by someone bragging about sexual assault? I’m a “them,” Chachi. And I’m sorry but I would be offended if someone felt they could just reach on over and have a little tug. I don’t it when people take food off my plate, Chachi so yeah, I’d probably be offended.
But wait, that’s not all! In closing he had this to say:
“And by the way, this is what you guys talk about over white wine when you have your brunches. This is the way the world works. It’s not a big thing.” – Also Chachi
Okay, assface, nope. It is a big thing. It’s called “rape culture.” Google it. I’m not denying my “guys” (READ: girls) don’t talk about sex. Of course we do. Men do too. No one is denying that, assnut! The problem isn’t sex. It’s sexual assault. To most people, there is a difference. Maybe not to you, Chachi and that’s pretty obvious. It’s also pretty, damn sad.
…over white wine when you have your brunches… Oh for christ’s sake, man, I can’t take it. White wine at my brunches? You really have no clue at all about women, do you? Mimosas, you turd! Or maybe a French 75. White wine is for lunch!
This is the way the world works. I’m sorry to say, Chachi, but this is not in fact how the world works. Or rather, not how it should work. It’s the world you want to live in. It’s the culture you want to foster. But sorry, nope. No eff’ing way. No world where my son grows up will “work like this” and I’m not alone. It takes a village. Not a village idiot.
It’s not a big thing. No? It’s not, Chachi? Good eff’ing luck out there. Please do us a favor and go back to filling out your Celebrity Rehab application or signing head shots for “Has-Been Asshats Con 2017.” You’re not doing anyone, except maybe Hilary, any favors. I hate to break it to you (lies. I would love to), but no one loves you anymore. And I assure you, you are not in charge.
Uh, yeah there is. If you’re Evan. Or Carly’s mouth if the poor thing was unfortunate enough to have lip-locked with this bozo.
I’m all caught up now. Just in time for tonight’s episode. Bart and I split a bottle of wine and watched every second of Bachelor in Paradise on the DVR. It may have been the wine talking, but Bart said he enjoyed it. It was like an anthropological social experiment. Like watching real life, hyper-speed dating only without anything remotely close to real life. The less wine in the bottle, the more he liked it so yeah…might have been the wine talking.
But come on? What’s not to like? You have this guy, Evan, an “erectile dysfunction specialist” who’s a single dad who left his kids twice to seek love on TV. After Evan and Carly kissed (because they were the only two not kissing someone and the producers made them) she went back to her room and threw up in her minibar (which I’m assuming was empty due to her uncontrollable urge to burn away the sting of a floppy-tongued, spit-soakedsmooch) and he went back to his room and dreamed of all the horrible things his children would one day scream at the woman WHO IS NOT THEIR REAL MOM! Oh, and he stroked his dad bod. Gently. Soft dad bod caresses from a soft dad. As one does in paradise. Remember?
Awesome. Now that we had that little refresher.
Some other shit happened, mostly to Evan.
After he flitted all over the island looking for Carly and she ran out of hiding places, she came to the very adult conclusion to dump his sad ass. He handled it really well.
Carly was very concerned about his well-being so naturally she asked the always empathetic (emphasis on pathetic) Daniel if he was doing ok. Daniel didn’t understand the question.
Aw, no worries, Daniel. Paradise was well aware of how Dr. Flacido Domingo was doing.
He totally rallied, don’t worry. He mustered up enough strength to keep his whispy, pencil thin goatee looking extra pre-pubuscent and gave his pores a nice soaking with some Sea Breeze astringent and hot, salty tears.
And then he was all like, “F it! I’m in paradise, bitches! And by “bitches” I mean you, face towel!” And the face towel was all like, “Oh, no you didn’t just throw me!” and totally threw it back. “OUCH, face towel!” Evan wailed. And cried. Again.
Paradise it not for pussies.
And speaking of pussies, Nick is all upset because the guy who bested him for a short-term, highly-publisized engagement and subsequent break up to Bachelorette Andi showed up and stole his girl AGAIN! Come on, Nick! How many times can you be humiliated on one television franchise?! Even Tom must have told Jerry to suck it eventually. And he was getting paid for that frying-pan-over-the-head shit!
What else happened?
There was a weird clown. I think. Maybe I dreamed that.
The men all appear to have slightly deformed nipples.
One of the twins got drunk on half a beer and cried because she really, really wanted the other girls to braid her hair.
There were about seventeen empty cabanas on the beach, but three couples decided to make-out on the same one. Because this is paradise?
I think some roses were handed out. Someone might have gone home? Or maybe not yet? Hmm…I can’t remember. Might be the wine talking.
I could only stand 1:26 minutes of Bachelor in Paradise tonight and that’s a real problem, friends. It’s a double episode week. That’s FOUR hours of quality television I’m woefully behind on. You don’t just go binge-watching half-naked, drunk strangers get bit by crabs while they poop their pants and make-out in hot tubs. You’ve got to train for this stuff, people. This ain’t House of Cards or Orange is the New Black. This is paradise, baby. Novices, go home.
Fortunately, I am the Simone Biles of reality TV watching and therefore don’t need to watch full episodes to recap them. I can zero right in on the nugget that boils down the essence and makes TV, great TV.
Read on and be amazed.
First, some highlights:
Chad actually left paradise. We were mislead into thinking he would return and incite panic and fear in Evan and his red t-shirt collection, but alas. Blink and you almost miss him shoving bologna slices and shots of Fireball into his meat hole while lamenting his future in the back of the reject Escalade. “What am I going to do now?” He questioned. “I can’t be the Bachelor now. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?!”
New girl showed up and packed a steamer truck of crazy. I guess you can just drop into paradise whenever you feel like it? I remember Leah from Ben’s season. She was quiet and unassuming until she wasn’t. Then she was bat shit crazy and let loose a monsoon of delusion she was clearly harboring for at least 6, possibly 7, past lives. It was awesome.
Leah was sad to hear Chad got the boot seconds before she got there. She was sure they’d be a match because they both like protein and she spent the last few months injecting the same fillers found in his lunch meat into her lips. Who needs dumb, old pheromones?
Twins were not impressed with Leah’s new lips.
Carly ran out of guys so she had to hang out with Evan. She said she wanted a man to act like a man so he put his head on her shoulder and sighed. You know, like a man.
Carly and Evan kissed. She declared said kiss to be the grossest, most disgusting thing to happen in paradise since Chad’s 1st Annual Crab & Crap show.
Evan was instantly in love and spent the rest of the night gently caressing his tummy and dreaming about cake tasting and pleated tuxedo shirts. You know, like a man.
Roses were handed out.
A couple of crabs humped.
That’s all fine and good, but here’s the real essence-capturing nugget. I call this moment, “When Crazy Met Stupid.”
In a desperate attempt to garner a rose, Crazy Train Leah and dumb, misogynist Canadian Daniel had a lovely, little chat that went something like this:
Crazy: I don’t want people to think–
Dumb: That you’re some crazy girl?
Crazy: I’m not crazy. I’m very normal. I have lots of layers.
Dumb: Like an onion.
Dumb: Are you going to make me cry?
Crazy: (Emphatically) No.
Dumb: Okay, so not like an onion.
Crazy: I have layers like an onion, but I might cry because I’m the onion. (SUBTEXT: STFU, Daniel and get a clue! This is about ME. It will always be about me! Give me your eff’ing rose so I can shove it up your dumb, maple syrup loving ass!)
Dumb: So you’re like an orange… with one layer.
Crazy ponders this.
Crazy Leah and Jubilee were dismissed.
They cried in the back of black SUVs. Again.
There. Now you’re caught up on the first hour and twenty-six minutes of Monday’s episode and only had to shed .000000000000078 of brain matter to grasp it.
Only two hours and thirty-six minutes left in Paradise for this week. Belly up to the bar, but for the love of god don’t eat the free pretzels and wash your hands after touching everything!
Five minutes, I said. I’ll just watch for five minutes.
What’s the harm? The Bachelorette ended and I was missing Chris Harrison. I was curious, I admit. I never watched this show. FIVE MINUTES, I said.
Look, I never promised you quality television recaps, but even I may have sunk to the lowest of the stinkiest, most manuer-ish of compost piles. Last night I fell victim to some fabulous ABC PR person’s wily ways and watched maybe the dumbest, grossest, saddest show on all of television. And yes, I mean that in the most flattering way.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I please direct your DVRs to this piece of broadcasting gold:
That’s right. The Bachelor goes to paradise and there ain’t enough Airbus A380’s in the world to store the baggage these romanic rejects are packing.
First, a small digression. WTF is up with single parents who gush over their small children and tout how being a parent is the most important thing they’ve ever done, blah blah blah only to ditch their little obligations for months at a time to be some soulless producer’s bonus-generating puppet. We’ve got two single parents on BiP, friends. And mind you this is both of their second times at the shitshow. (Shitshow = not-so-subtle foreshadowing, btw.) Is flaunting your cameltoe and posturing with a belligerent, steroid-dropping, raw potato eating, angry gorilla man really your best parenting game? I mean, I will run, RUN, to Target anytime Bart says “I got this” but I’m usually back in a couple of hours. Or at least that same day. And Single Mom Amanda has a daughter who is only two. TWO! And Mommy’s been on reality TV looking for love TWICE in her lifetime! COME ON. Ever hear of Tinder?
Also, Single Mom Amanda clearly shares a wardrobe with her four year-old. Put on some damn pants and cover those ass cheeks, MOM.
But I digress. Sort of. Actually not really because ass cheeks and steroids is kind of the lifeline of this show. In a nutshell, you take fifteen Bachelor/Bachelorette cast-offs, throw them into some resort on a tropical beach, supply them with an always open open bar (and adorable bartender who sees the exchange of more contanimated bodily fluids than the lab technican at a college campus health center) and you promise them a second chance at finding love.
Here’s the dumb-ass fame whores you’ll meet:
Amanda– Aforementioned single mom who still has her baby voice and love of levitating, shoulder less blouses.
Evan– Aforementioned single dad, erectile dysfunction specialist, wimpy-wimpy-whiner-pants who is still bitching about the red t-shirt that gorilla man Chad tore in a fit of steroid-induced rage.
Chad– Aforementioned gorilla man, roid-rager, and clearly THE STAR OF THE WHOLE DAMN FRANCHISE!
Lace– The Female Chad minus the roids. Crazy like a fox. A drunk fox. A constantly drunk fox.
Nick– Two-time runner up on previous Bachelorette seasons. Did you read that correctly? TWO TIME RUNNER UP. Give it up, man! GIVE IT UP!
The Twins: Bumpy and Bimminy? Itsy and Bitsy? Twin 1 and Twin 2? Whatevs. They’re back and possibly even dumber than before.
Grant: Guy who says he feels bad for anyone who gets stuck with the crazy girl and immediately starts flirting with the crazy girl.
Jubilee: War vet who realized she had a bad case of Resting Bitch Face after watching herself on The Bachelor. Tries hard to smile now, which may the most positive outcome this show has ever had.
Jared: Guy all the girls seem to like. I don’t get it. Not at all. What is with the forward-combed hairstyle? What is he hiding in the temple region of his forehead? Am I only one who sees this uncanny resemblance?
Daniel: Possibly more offensive than Chad and the worst Canadian import since Carly Rae Jepsen. Compares himself to herpes and refers to women as “sweet fruit.”
Carly: Not Carly the bad Canadian mentioned above. Weird layers in her hair. Reeks of instability. Probably fun to drink with.
Vinnie: Bland and unattractive on The Bachelorette and, well, points for consistency, I guess.
Sarah: Most normal cast mate and I really wish she would just go home.
Izzy: Might have been seen locking lips with Bland Vinnie. I don’t know. I don’t care.
I’m still not actually sure how this show works, but no matter. I’m not watching it because for the sportsmanship. I’m watching it for this:
That’s gorilla man Chad getting all Lindsay Lohan-y in the sand. And that’s a crab by his head that crawled out of his pants and is trying to get as far from paradise as possible. There are a lot of crabs in paradise as Chad pointed out upon exiting (Oh. Did I spoil something?) before telling them all to “F*ck off.” They’re crabs, Chad. And the producers brought them here as a giant metaphor for this whole entire season.
So I guess there is supposed to be some kind of format to this show. People go on dates. They get jealous. They fight. They give out roses. They think they’re falling in love. Dates appear to involve a shit ton of party supplies and horrific, mood-killing clowns who mimic sexual intercourse with gyrating hips and a well-placed horn.
Jubilee got the magical date card and asked Heckle to join her at a tiny bistro table and pretend to eat a meal surrounded by drippy, glittery, low-hung pinatas. Because why? Because nothing says, “Let’s romance” like a roomful of paper mache chili peppers filled with Sweet Tarts and Frooties.
Shit was just weird. Let’s talk about Chad.
So, all the ladies were encouraged by producers to pontificate about the “real Chad” and make wild hypotheses like, “I bet we will like him” and “But he’s really hot. How bad can he be?” There is no way anyone with enough brain matter to find their way out of an airport would find anything about this guy attractive. Unless of course you’re Lace whom as we already know from MOTHER ROSE BEST was seventy-three shades of crazy. Oh wait! She’s not crazy anymore according to Dr. Lace. After seeing herself on The Bachelor she realized she had some issues:
Drinks too much
Jealous as f*ck
Secure as an ice cube facade twelve inches from the equator
She claimed to have worked out all the crazy which was evident by the at-home footage of her cradling a stemless wine glass and professing her love for its contents. Also agreeing to be on this show really points to totally lucid, sane, upstanding citizen.
Naturally Chad and Lace were drawn to each other like a dying geranium to a beam of sunlight. Within seconds these two idiots were making out in the hot tub, which lead to lots of splashing, more drinking, and slurred profanities as each one tried to drown the other and eat their head. Eventually Chad was gross enough even for Lace who declared him to be the reincarnation of the “Old Lace.” (Thirty minutes prior she called him “a king” and wanted to treat him as such so what does she know?)
Chad no likey rejection.
Frustrated, he stomped away, ate thirty-five pounds of deli meat, and eventually passed out in the crab infested sand and proceeded to shit himself.
A minute for that to sink in.
What’s that? You didn’t read that right?
I said, PROCEEDED TO SHIT HIMSELF.
A grown up!
My toddler doesn’t even do that anymore!
The next morning host, Chris Harrison called out the litany of bad things Chad did in his schammered state like:
Called Lace a bitch and threatened to leave her duct-tied under a bus
Threatened to kill all of the castmates and their families
Made fun of Sarah who was born with half of an arm missing
Tried to throw a few punches at his former buddy, Daniel
Told the resort workers to “suck a dick”
Chad denied it all and couldn’t understand why everyone was so upset? Chris Harrison can tolerate–even encourage– a lot of crap, but not when it’s spilling out of the pockets of your cargo shorts. Chad was asked to pack his knives and go. (Wait. Wrong show but it actually works here. Sorry, Padma.)
Naturally this enraged Chad because WTF does Chris Harrison know. He didn’t know what went down the previous night because he was too busy hanging out in his hotel robe drinking mimosas. Chris was all like, “Ew, Chad! No one drinks mimosas at night! Now get the f*ck off my island!”
But this is reality television, my friends, and producers do not let this kind of gold go easily. Yes, no one truly in their right mind is going to look for love on a reality show, but people like Chad come around as often as Comet Hale-Bopp (and incites as much insanity.) Like his exit on The Bachelorette, this is going to be long, drawn out, creepy, dramatic, and prone to evil whistling. You have to tune in next week to see what happens. You have to. Don’t make me do this alone.
Pack your bags, anti-itching cream, penicillin, and Chad-Away spray because we’re going in. Paradise, here I come.
Phonophobia: Fear of loud sounds, including voices–including your own–especially Shelly Mazzanoble’s.
Does anyone like hearing their voice? I cannot stand it. (True confession: Even though I co-host the Dungeons & Dragons podcast, I can’t listen to a single one, which sucks because we’ve had some really great guests on there. And I tend to do a great imitation of Bert from Sesame Street that I’m pretty sure would blow my own mind.) I also don’t love seeing myself because in my mind I’m waaaaaaaaaaaay better looking than that goofy, wildly gesturing, large-eyed creature with the grating voice before me.
If you also can’t stand my voice or the sight of me perhaps you should stop reading now. If you think you can stomach it, below is the link to my performance as part of this year’s Listen to your Mother Seattle show. (And if I had any technical skills I’d be able to change the frozen image below so that it’s not one of me looking like I’m mid cat-call to some poor significant other in the front row who’s covertly watching a MMA fight on his phone throughout the show. Not covert enough, Bucko! LISTEN TO MY GRATING VOICE!)
Here’s what people are saying about my performance!
“Wow. You said pussy and nipple in like the first 7 seconds. Wow.”
“So, I’m still not sure. Do you like being a mom?”
“I love your necklace.”
So, you know. Those are pretty enticing reasons to watch this.
The show was tremendous fun and the cast– wow, oh wow. They were all truly stellar. I encourage you to listen to all of their stories. I think you’ll love their words as well as their voices. My necklace is pretty badass too.
My baby boy is three today! How did this happen? Well, kind of like this (give or take a few momentous occasions.)
10/23/12: Pregnancy test is positive. Stress eat a wheel of brie and 3 pounds of raw cookie dough
10/24/12: Am certain it’s a girl. Settle on a name.
2/19/13: Mom finally concedes and buys little red dress for future granddaughter.
2/20/13: Find out from ultrasound it’s a boy.
2/20/13: Mom returns dress.
7/10/13: Sent to hospital without lunch for induction. Really pissed about missing lunch.
7/10/13: Really pissed no one will give me one of the infamous hospital chocolate milkshakes. What the hell am I paying for here?
7/11/13: Happily trade milkshake for epidural. Really, really love epidural. Ask for a glass of wine.
7/11/13: 9:09 PM. Anesthesiologist says, “Congratulations! You’re not pregnant anymore.” Think that’s a really weird thing to say.
7/11/13: 9:10 PM. Immediately fill with dread and anxiety. OMG, there’s a baby here! We’re really doing this!
7/11/13: 9:12 PM. Miss being pregnant. Still love epidural. Ask for a milkshake.
7/11/13: 9:22 PM. Hold Quinn as he stares at me with big, blue eyes. Both agree to try not to kill each other.
8/11/13: Call boss and ask if I can come back to work early.
8/15/13: Would love to dress Quinn in cute onsies, but scared of actually touching him. Wonder if anyone would notice he only wears ponchos.
9/23/13: Kid is really cute, but wonder when those maternal instincts are supposed to kick in.
10/22/13: Eagerly anticipate returning to work. How relaxing will that be!
10/23/13: Return to work and cry the whole way to daycare.
10/24/13: Wonder why babies get really, really adorable the day after maternity leave ends.
10/25/13-7/10/16: Blur, blur, blur
7/11/16: Wake up to three year-old son jumping through streamers and asking who hung up all the Paw Patrol decorations. Says, “Awwww. That’s nice!” when we tell him the Birthday Fairy came.
7/11/16: Cannot imagine life without this adorable, funny, kind, polite, friendly, smart, entertaining, genius* child in our lives. Would not trade a minute of being his mom—not even for all the chocolate milkshakes and epidurals in the world.