Love After Lockup

A woman learns a lot from her mother. Definitely true in my case. My mom has enriched my life by exposing me to the beliefs, values, and norms of others so I may become a citizen of the world.

You might remember maternal wisdom nuggets like this and this. I owe it all to my mother’s guiding light (which happens to be invisible like that of the infrared beam cast from a remote control onto a television.)

The holidays bring us together and provide the perfect foundation (her bed) for us to reconnect (watch tv) and expose me to new and enriching opportunities (reality tv.)

And because this citizen of the world is a selfless governess of cultural evangelism, I am here to educate you on one of the most amazing reality phenomena you are surely not witnessing.

Ladies and gentlemen, have you heard the good news about Love After Lockup? Here, take a pamphlet.

Love After Lockup introduces several couples in various stages of their journey from confinement to consummation. In some cases they knew each other prior to the big lockup, but most cases a sexy mugshot was all it took to put pen to paper (and usually credit card to commissary) and find love after lock up.

First up was Brittany and Marcelino. It was Brittany’s release day after 2 years in the slammer for some dumb, old robbery charges. P’shaw. That was nothing compared to the 5 years she spent in la slammarita for drugs and shit. Marcelino was an earnest gentleman who’s main goal was to, “erase her past tumountants” and give the woman he’s only ever seen through plexiglass a better life. It’s a sweet goal and one maybe better served on a shelter dog, but whatever. Parolees before puppies, bitches. Marcelino and Brittany are ready to take their relationship to the “in-person” stage and we are here for it.

Marcelino waited outside the jail for 7 seconds, muttering about her whereabouts. WHERE IS SHE, MAN??? She should have been here by now. Clearly THE MAN is trying to f*ck over his girl. He’s been waiting a year for this moment. To enhance the drama, the producers encouraged Marcelino to turn his back on the prison so he totally misses Brittany’s exit and her first breath of sweet, sweet freedom.

“BABY!” She yelled, because she was unsure which of her correspondents had come to pick her up.

She threw her arms and a tall kitchen garbage bag full of commissary purchases around his neck. They awkwardly embraced like two people who have not ever spoken without the use of a telephone. Upon disentanglement, she handed him several pieces of paper that included the rules and regulations for her release.

Don’t do drugs.

Don’t kill anyone.

Don’t steal shit that’s not yours.

Do check in with your patrol officer.

“Don’t have any FUN!” Marcelino yelled, clearly unaware of why people go to prison in the first place. To him Brittany is Rudolph and the American Prison System was all of the other reindeer.

As they drove away, he stuck his middle finger out the driver’s side window and encouraged her to do the same.

“Uhh, ha, okay,” she said, pointing a timid middle digit toward the dashboard.

“NO!” Marcelino yelled. “OUT THE WINDOW! To them! To the people who won’t let you have any fun!”

Brittany agreed, reluctantly, because “do not flip off the jail as you drive away” was #14 on her rules and regulations.

Brittany asked Marcelino to take her to the desert because she need a “moment of alone time.” Rightfully so, she wanted to take in the silence and clear her head. He pulled over on the side of a busy road where she proceed to walk 8 feet from the car. Ahhhhh, namaste! Serenity now!

Where can a girl get a little peace, quiet, and huff some exhaust?

Marcelino takes “a moment” literally because within seconds he’s on her, talking loudly about how great silence is and how much she must have missed this. I feel ya, Brittany. Good luck.

Next we met Lizzie and Scott.

Definitely here for the right reasons.
Sorry, ladies, this one is taken. For now.

Approximately 1 hour after Scott picked Lizzie up from prison, she was filling a plastic garbage can at a gas station mini mart because, “she hasn’t been to a store in so long” and Scott promised her “anything she wanted.” What she wanted was junk food, Yoohoo’s, and scratch off lottery tickets. Fill it up, my pretty prison princess! Since they began their correspondence THREE YEARS AGO, Scott had given Lizzie $92,000. Yes. That much. He is now broke and afraid to tell her. Terrible timing!

Lizzie’s fantastic first freedom day continued at the local Comfort Inn. There Lizzie, her embarrassed, awkward daughter, Scott’s embarrassed awkward son, and Scott checked into to two rooms (on Scott of course!) so they can chill out, relax, and reconnect. Boys in one room, girls in the other, because Lizzie didn’t believe in premarital sex. I mean, she did. Definitely before prison and even sometimes in prison, but not now that she’s out of prison. She was born again! Saved! Found Jesus in a pile of chicken gravy. Not sure Scott got the memo, but I’m sure he’s totally cool with it.

First thing Lizzie did in her comped mini-suite was spontaneously stage a mother-daughter jumpfest on the king sized bed. Her daughter was like, “Eh…there’s cameras here and so is that sad, squirrely dude you swindled out of $92,000, and being a teenager is hard enough without my friends seeing me jump on a Comfort Inn mattress with my ex-con mom.” But clearly Lizzie puts the CON in convincing because in seconds they’re squealing and holding hands and realizing jumping on mattresses isn’t really that much fun. Pooped, the girls fall into the bed, which Scott takes as a sign that he should join them.

“Ahhh, what the actual f*ck?! You ain’t Jesus!”

Lizzie didn’t really have much in the wardrobe department, so she tasked her daughter with going to the Forever 21 outlet and buying a bunch of clothes 3 sizes too small. Her first ensemble was a painful bikini that pumped her internal organs through various folds and tucks of flesh like royal icing through a pastry bag.

And this is why you should never sleep on hotel bedspreads.

Lizzie trotted down the hallway in her swimsuit and platform flip-flops to wash the stench of incarceration off her body and be baptized in the glory of chlorine and Giardia.

Meanwhile, we saw a sad Scotty pace around the parking lot, afraid things have changed now that Lizzie was a free woman. So this is what $92,000 and a ride home from prison got you? It was like she was ignoring him or something. Like she only wanted him to buy her gas station food and pay for a hotel room so she could hang out with the daughter whose formative years were spent with a mother behind bars. Lizzie didn’t even know he was broke yet! She had no business treating him like this!

And this is why you shouldn’t swim in hotel pools.

After 9 hours in the pool, Lizzie noticed Scott wasn’t there. She found him sulking in the parking lot and berated him for being alone.

“Are you mad at me,” he asked her.

“No.”

“Your body language says you are.”

“Well, you’re a goddamn fragile egg! Why are you trying to mess up my prison release day? You know this shit only happens once a year!”

“Welp,” a forlorn looking Scott said, “It’s not going to work out.”

Y’all are gonna need a shot of penicillin before I tell you about Matt and Caitlyn. We met our heroine on Matt’s release day. This should have been a happy occasion, but instead she’s in an empty parking lot, sobbing in her car because for SOME INEXPLICABLE REASON Matt wasn’t at the designated meeting spot. I’m still not sure why and honestly it doesn’t matter because some seriously crazy, gross shit went down (that’s a hint) when these 2 ass clowns finally do meet.

A cop told Caitlyn to follow his windowless, white van to an even emptier parking lot where Matt will allegedly be deposited. Because she’s never seen a Lifetime movie she unquestionably agreed and peeled away, still shaking and sobbing.

Someday my prisoner prince will come.

Caitlyn and Matt are the real deal. She saw his photo online and decided he was hot and that was that. They started a correspondence and he proposed over the phone. She felt confident in their relationship, but sometimes worried about how comfortable Matt felt in prison. It’s his happy place, okay?

But wait. What’s that? A van? With someone in the back? OMG, can it be????

SHIT! I forgot my plastic garbage can. How my gonna shop at the Hess Mart?

Matt jumped out of the van and it was all cupped ass cheeks and open mouth kisses from then on.

Yeah, I made my mom pause the TV so I could take a picture of it. I did it for YOU!

Matt said it had been 3 years since he had sex and as reliable and attached as he was to his hand, he’s kind of tired of it.

“I’m ready for Caitlyn.” Gosh that’s romantic!

As they were walking to her car, Caitlyn came to the realization that she’s never seen Matt’s penis. Also romantic!

“You’re gonna have to show that to me,” she said. “I need to inspect you.”

Used to taking orders and pulling down his pants, Matt obliged. He smiled out the passenger side window and Caitlyn shrieked.

This is why you shouldn't swim in hotel pools.
Inspector ding-a-ling is pleased, no?

They drive away to a nice, cozy clearing on the side of the road where they hump on a pile garbage and roadkill.

Our last couple isn’t actually a couple. No, not because they have common sense, values, or self-esteem. Because they’re actually a trio, silly!

Michael had a baby with Sarah. According to Michael they are no longer together. Megan fell in love with Michael while he was in jail. These long-distance jaillovebirds have been “together” for a year and a half. Megan knows about Michael’s baby mama, but she’s not worried. She knows he will always be honest and try really hard not to cheat on her. Megan was planning on flying out to be there for Michael’s release day. Oh, and loose her virginity because “It’s about time.” Megan was so excited!

Meanwhile…

Megan wasn’t the only one excited! Or more specifically excited to pick Michael up from prison. Sarah didn’t know about Megan. Oh, and she’s married to Michael. Oopsie! Michael is not detail oriented.

While Megan was printing her boarding pass, Michael called to say she shouldn’t come.

“Nah, it’s cool. I got a ride. Plus I gotta deal with some baby mama shit and see my kid and stuff.”

Megan was all “WTF! I bought a new pair of leggings for the plane! Why you telling me this shit now???”

Michael promised he had something “real special” planned for them instead. Megan wished Michael told her this before her shelled out three paychecks on a nonrefundable plane ticket. Now she’s questioning their whole relationship. Was he being shady? And she’s still a virgin. She found a restroom and cried in a bathroom stall.

The verdict: Is it possible to find love after lockup? I have no idea because that’s where this episode ended. Is it possible to love Love After Lockup? Yes, I’m afraid it is. It’s been days and I can’t stop thinking about these Godforsaken people. Did Scott ever tell Lizzie he’s broke? Did Brittany ever get any time alone? Did Matt and Caitlyn get eaten by a bear while humping in a rest area garbage can? Is the bear okay???

This show had remarkable similarities to The Bachelor, which is probably why I liked it. Deep down I’m a sucker for hopeful romantics. All they really want is love. And $92,000 worth of nacho cheese and beef sticks. And isn’t that something we can all relate to?

Fasting Bitch Face

I’m fasting.

No food.

NO FOOD.

For 24 hours!

I’m a goddamn adult, people! No one can tell me not to eat but me! So why did I tell myself not to eat?

Good question. I really don’t know why people fast. Perhaps I should Google that? My trailer thought it would be a good idea because I kept complaining about the 11 pounds I gained since summer. (On Weight Watchers*. I gained 11 pounds as a Weight Watchers member. A Weight Watchers member with a personal trainer.) Also, it’s cleansing. And apparently I need that.

Tomorrow I’m firing my trainer.

But first I must get through today without turning into this guy. No offense, Fred.

Mother of Fred.

This would be really hard. I’m an eater. I live for food. I grew up getting praised for how much food I could pack away. My appetite was the stuff of legend. You thought the relatives were there for the turkey and camaraderie? Oh no, they were there to see “Moo Moo” eat an entire box of Rice-a-Roni and seven pork chops before polishing off an entire box of Entenmann’s donuts.

THESE!!!! I could eat all of these!

If there is anything nine hours of not eating has taught me it’s how much I love eating. But alas, today I had nothing to look forward to.

“Well, I guess I’ll just go to sleep as soon as I come home from work,” I told Bart.

“Really?” he asked. “You can’t think of one thing worth staying up for that doesn’t involve food?”

I thought about it. Hallmark holiday movies? ASMR videos? those weird kombucha beverages my trainer told me to drink in lieu of actual food? NO! I HAD NOTHING!

At 10:08 PM last night I bid adieu to food by channeling the very hungry caterpillar and eating a granola bar, a bowl of honey wheat pretzels sticks, two string cheeses, a handful of Quinn’s Halloween candy (you snooze, you loose, kid), chocolate Teddy Grahams, and a bagel with whipped cream cheese. I figured this was like a marathon runners carbo-loading before the big race, right?

At 10:45 PM, I stared long and hard at the pantry, committing to memory the beauty it held within. Goodbye, Trader Joe’s Cheese Puffs, farewell, yogurt covered raisin, godspeed, caramel corn. I didn’t even know you.

How would I ever get through the day? Like this:

6:10 AM: The only time I’m not hungry is when I wake up. I eat my breakfast when I get to work about 2 hours later. But this morning I was absolutely ravenous. So I drank twice as much black coffee hoping it would fill the Egg McMuffin shaped void in my gut.

8:00 AM: I’M SHAKING!

8:45AM: Shit’s starting to get real. OMG, I thought. I won’t even get to enjoy a last meal before I die. I texted my friend to take my mind off of it.

Me: i’m fasting. my trainer told me to do it. and i’m only allowed to drink kombucha drinks. and i’m dying. for real. this is the end of me. i will be murdered by visions of fried ravioli and cheese sticks. i will miss you. will you check on Zini once in a while?

Friend: Of course I’ll check on Zini! You had a good run …

Me: I’d say I’m a walking HR nightmare right now, but I’m not because I’m too weak to walk. But I’m getting meaner by the minute. Why can’t adults pick their feet up when they walk??? Stop shuffling! I can’t take the sound of shuffling! It’s like a reverse ASMR video. Imma gonna cut a’ bitch, i swear!

Friend: …

Me: omg i’m dyyyyyyinnnnnngggg. why do i love food so much?

Friend: How long has it been since you ate?

Me: Counting sleep? TEN HOURS!

Friend: Oh for f*ck’s sake…

Me: I can feel my skin sinking into my cheekbones. i’m decomposing!!!

Friend: Bet you look amazing! Like the Crypt Keeper!

Me: goodbye cruel world.

10:12 AM: I finished my first kombucha drink. And guess what! I was totally full and satisfied!

STILL MISERABLE, THANK YOU!

Of course I wasn’t full or satisfied! I consumed 25 liquid calories! I was STARVING! Alone! Naked and Afraid! (On the inside anyway.)

11:23 AM: Facebook is in my head, man. Why are they serving me cheese fondue ads????

11:24 AM: Nope. Not cheese fondue. That’s an ad for Estroven. But still– F#@K Off, Facebook!

11:41 AM: WHEN DOES THE CLEAN FEELING KICK IN???

11:52 AM: I should be getting all excited for my lunch. Instead I cry at my desk. Yummmmmm…salty tears. Reminds me of chocolate covered pretzels…No! GET BEHIND ME, SATAN!

12:01 PM: Ginger flavored kombucha. Wow. So good.

ME! I would be that billionaire.

12:06 PM: Uh oh. Co-worker dropped his lunch of floor. Bahahahahahaha!!!!

12:07 PM: Feel bad for laughing at co-worker. I’m a terrible person. What good is a clean digestive track if my heart is so sullied?

12:14 PM: Friend posts photo of kid’s fifth birthday party. OMG WHAT WOULD I DO FOR A TINY CUP OF APPLESAUCE.

1:28 PM: Catch Bart eating homemade snickerdoodle. Act like he was caught with a prostitute. Shove him into the printer and tell him not to come home tonight.

1:44 PM: Do NOT feel cleansed. Not even a little.

1:58 PM: Is my watch getting looser????? Are my rings about to fall off???? Should I get a sandwich or go bathing suit shopping?

2:00 PM to 5:00 PM: Record Dragon Talk all afternoon. Manage to segue all conversation back to food. Sip kombucha and eat a pack of gum. Feel bad.

6:45 PM: Return home shaky but safely. Did you know there is trace amounts of alcohol in these kombucha drinks? Probably shouldn’t have had 6 in a row. Jesus god why does our house smell so good????

6:46 PM: Bart and Quinn flee the kitchen. I overhear Quinn ask Bart if mommy is sick.

“Yes,” Bart told him.

7:14 PM: I open my last bottle of juice.

7:16 PM: Drank juice.

7: 23 PM: Is that a cleansing feeling? Nope. Just have to pee.

7:49 PM: Occupy mind by cleaning out the cabinet above the refrigerator. Found 3 full size Snickers bars! Realize I live with monsters. WHO DID THIS???

8:24 PM: Quinn and I practice sight words with flash cards.

I

CAN

SEE

MOMMY

GOING

MAD

Imagine eating those yummy, pulpy flashcards. If I eat non-food, am I still fasting?

9:07 PM: Make black bean and corn salad for lunch tomorrow. Is this what is feels like to watch your 7th grade crush dance to Almost Paradise with you best friend? (Yes. Yes, it is.)

9:12 PM: Close my eyes mid-blink and have a flashback about Friendly’s ice cream sundaes.

I mean…

I MEAN GOD DAMN! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN SUCH A SIGHT???

9:43 PM: Get ready for bed. Toothpaste is delicious! Brush teeth for 20 minutes. No need to rinse!

10:03 PM: Thought about going to bed, but stayed up pinning things to my Holiday Appetizer board. Watch your back, brie and cranberry crostini.

10:38 PM: Resigned. I am hungry and sad. This is my life now.

10:38 PM: Reminded myself this was not in fact my life now. I had a whole house full of food. Not eating today was a choice. A poor choice, but a choice none-the-less. Thought about people who were hungry not by choice. Thought about our compost bin filled with the lunch Quinn didn’t feel like eating.

10:38 PM: Felt like a big, superficial assface.

10:38 PM: Definitely don’t feel cleansed.

11:44 PM: Read entire issue of Us Weekly before falling asleep. Never noticed how miserable and sad skinny celebrities looked.

6:13 AM: Woke up surprised I didn’t chew through my pillow case. All limbs still in tact. Bart still breathing. Oddly, not hungry.

6:40 AM: Packed up 95% of our canned goods.

8:03 AM: Dropped canned goods at local food bank on way to work.

8:05 AM: Cleansed.

*Okay, so maybe “on Weight Watchers” is pushing it. While I attended meetings and tracked on Wednesdays and Thursdays, I might have been eating 85 points a day and maybe forgetting to track alcohol. Maybe.

 

 

 

Meet Fred

Hello.

This is Fred.

Eat a sandwich, man! 

Fred is a skeleton.

Fred lives with us now.

Fred is a friend of the family.

He used to live at Target, where I took Quinn to buy (more) Halloween decorations. Halloween, as it turns out, is the new Christmas when it comes to decorating our house which means Christmas is the new “holy-shit-its-balls-out-bananas-up-in-this-illuminated-like-Vegas-on-acid-gingerbread-abode.” I can’t wait!

Anyway, we saw Fred, who at the time was just an unknown plastic skeleton heaped in a pile of other unknowns. He was meant to be an outside decoration. Maybe sitting on chair, bony hand raised in salutation, or maybe crouched on a tree ready to lunge at the school kids who walk by. (Which will do wonders for our newly minted kindergartener’s social game. “You want to play with the kid whose mom dropped a plastic skeleton on your ass? Umm, no.”)

But, nope. That was not to be Fred’s fate. Quinn yanked him off the shelf and no sooner was a friendship borne.

“I love him,” Quinn said.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Love is love. Put him in the cart.”

“He’s almost the same size as me.”

“Eh, your body types are similar, but you’ve got a good four inches on him.”

“I’m going to carry him,” Quinn said, putting Fred’s arms around his neck. “Let’s go Fred!”

Yes, beat feet, Beetlejuice! I had purple lights and giant plushy spiders and maybe a pair of upended Frankenstein boots buy. Let’s go, kids!

Quinn carried his skeletal friend around Target. They held hands, put their arms around each other’s shoulders, pushed all of our groceries, Halloween decorations, and $582 worth of subliminally selected merchandise I didn’t know I needed, but now can’t live with out, aside so I could push them in the cart like they were two-bit councilmen up for re-election in small town Forth of July parade.

“What’s this guy’s name?” I asked.

“Fred,” Quinn said. “Definitely Fred.”

While I loaded the bags into the trunk Quinn buckled Fred into the backseat.

Do you meet the weight requirements to use a lap belt, Fred?

“Fred wants McDonald’s,” Quinn said. “He’s never had it before.”

“Oh, unfortunately Fred doesn’t have a stomach so I’m afraid it would just fall out.” Which, come to think of it, is what happens to people with stomachs who eat  McDonald’s.

Chill out, funny animal. That was barely a burn. Unlike the feeling your butt gets after you eat– okay, okay.

When we got home, Quinn brought Fred inside, straight past the porch chair I imagined him sitting on, past his acquaintance whose body parts we planted on the lawn, past the Happy Meal Bart must have picked up for his lunch while he was out running errands.

“This is my room,” I heard him say. “This is your room too. This is my box of action figures. This is where we keep the Legos. You can sleep right…here.”

They hung out together the rest of the day. They Face-timed my parents, watched three episodes of Peppa Pig, even took a bath together. Fred hit the 25% off mass market Halloween decoration lottery with this kid. That floppy mess of plastic was practically beaming when he got out of the bath more likely because Quinn washed him with my luxury, salon-grade, for color-treated hair mask. But whatever.

Oh yes, Fred may have been dead but he was living the life.

Until the incident.

“MOMMMMMMMMMY!”

Never good. Nope. Never. That’s when my fight or flight instinct takes over and I run for the front door.

“You have to help Fred!!!”

Oh, it’s Fred! Fred I can handle. No offense, Fred, but at least there won’t be blood.

Quinn ran down the hall with Fred in one hand and Fred’s right arm in his other hand.

“It just came off!” Quinn said, handing me Fred’s appendage.

Well, now it’s a back scratcher!

“I can fix it!”

First rule of parenting 101: Never say “I can fix it” before you’ve properly assessed this damage. Fred’s arm was toast. It was a clean break ripped right out of the socket. I saw my future and it involved another trip to the seasonal section of Target. And maybe a chevron throw pillow. And an acacia wood server. And an artificial succulent in a brass pot. And a bed for Puppy. And new booties for me. And a bathing suit for Quinn in case Bart ever enrolls him in swimming lessons. Goddamnit, Fred! Couldn’t you keep your hands to yourself?

Before I could say “get your shoes on” Quinn had Fred propped up on a kitchen chair.

“Know what’s scarier than a skeleton?” he asked. “A ONE ARMED SKELETON! Fred’s the coolest!”

Wow. Good attitude, kid. Not today, acacia wood platter. (But definitely another day. You’re gorgeous.)

The next day Quinn introduced his buddy Maddex to Fred. I heard “Cool” and then “MOMMMMMMMMMMMMY!”

Both boys ran down the hall brandishing one of Fred’s arms.

“Now we each get a skeleton hand!”

Then they ran off to slap each other with their new hands.

Hello.

Meet Fred.

Know what’s scarier than a one armed skeleton? Waaaaaaay freakin’ scarier.

He’s had a rough 24 hours.

Fred can’t itch his nose or eat a bowl of cereal.

Fred needs rest.

Also, someone should have told Mommy that Fred was resting on the couch before she sat down.

Excuse me, is that your severed femur in my butt?

Uh oh, Fred.

Know what’s scarier than a skeleton with no arms?

Hello, Diabetes!

The child and I have arrived in upstate NY for a little Grandparent action. If you are the only grandchild to the World’s Most Adoring Grandparents in the History of Grandparents you are in for the BEST VACATION EVER because you get to:

  • Swear on all things holy that you will NEVER eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich your mother offered to pack for you only to DEMAND a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the super expensive vegetarian kiosk at SeaTac airport.
  • NOT eat the peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the overpriced vegetarian kiosk at SeaTac airport because there is one person on board with a peanut allergy and they happen to be sitting next to US.
  • Spend 3 hours and 34 minutes of the 3 hour and 51 minute flight to Detroit telling your already anxious mother how much you want to GET OFF THE PLANE AND JUST BE THERE ALREADY!
  • Refuse to put your shoes on to use the airplane bathroom because clearly a LAVATORY isn’t covered in pee and feces.

Apologies for the future traveler in Seat 32A. We couldn’t take these with us. I’m sure you understand.

  • Insist on killing time in Detroit by riding up and down a random escalator but wholeheartedly REFUSE to pee.
  • Forget that cool Storm Trooper roller bag you love so much and laboriously packed a purple marker, Peppa Pig keychain, 4 Goldfish crackers, and a fart (or so you claim) in 6 times before making your mother just f*$#ing carry it.
  • Refuse all the food options presented to you because YOU ARE NOT HUNGRY.
  • Definitely NOT eat the chicken tenders and fries from Popeye’s we waited 16 minutes for because YOU ARE NOT HUNGRY. Ask for chicken tenders and fries from Wendy’s as you board your connection.
  • Double over in pain on the jetway because your stomach hurts so bad DEFINITELY NOT because you are hungry.
  • Cry on the connecting flight because you are in fact SO HUNGRY. Make your mom unfasten her seatbelt and stand up before reaching a comfortable cruising altitude–in turbulence–to get the 4 Goldfish crackers from your stupid, G*#D@&%M Storm Trooper roller bag.
  • Spill your water all over your mom’s Us Weekly.
  • Complain because you are thirsty and have no water.
  • Get off the plane, ditch your mom and all the bags you promised to help carry, and run down the hallway into the arms of your beloved grandpa. Make 2 TSA agents and another grandpa cry in the process.
  • Eat 4 cookies before we even get our luggage.
  • Negotiate a trip to your favorite toy store (Five Below) before we’ve even paid for parking.
  • Bring 6 more cookies into Grandma Juju’s bed and make her buy 3 episodes of Peppa Pig from Amazon.
  • Discover “Gekky’s Magical Vending Machine” (a.k.a. “the “Snack Closet”) and consume 3 packs of M&Ms, a Kinder egg, 74 cheese puffs, 4 mini blueberry muffins, a pack of Butterscotch Krimpets (or rather, just peel the delicious frosting off their heads and leave the spongy carcasses for your mother), and a bag of Raisinetes. Because fruit.

Behind Door #3–Type 2 Diabetes!

  • Make your grandparents blast We Will Rock You at 12:30AM so you can show them what you learned in drum class.
  • Download one more episode of Peppa Pig.
  • Finally agree to go to bed with the promise of early pool time tomorrow.
  • Fall asleep watching SpongeBob cartoons and whatever inappropriate show probably came of after because your mom fell asleep an hour before you.
  • NOT stay on your side of the bed in favor of shoving your mom so far over she woke up with her forehead on the nightstand.
  • Get up at 8:15 EST (that’s 5:15 your time, dear child), say, “Bye, Mom” as you head downstairs to get in bed with the Grands, place an order for a waffle and glass of chocolate milk, and watch Peppa Pig.

The grandparents say, “He’s better than advertised.” The child claims to want to stay here for “100 days and forever.” The mother got to be alone in a T.J. Maxx for 42 minutes. It was been quoted by multiple sources that this is fact the world’s greatest vacation.

Jesus and the Mean Mommy

I’m disciplining my child!

This may not seem like news, or rather something that should be implemented 4 and 3/4 years after said child’s birth, but it’s happening. It is swift and merciless  and makes me feel like a fantastic mother!

But why now, you ask? Great question.

The other day in the heat of some old-school disciplinary action, I was looming over the child, threatening to suspend our weekly Saturday Target outings unless he put on some pants and stopped trying to feed the dog Legos, when the child looked up, shook his head, and said, “Jesus, you’re mean.”

I’m sorry, wha?

Seriously, kid. I was mean, but where’d you hear about Jesus?

“Repeat that?” I asked him calmly.

Jeeee-zuuuuu–sssss, yeeeeerrrrrr meaaaaaaan,” he said real slow because his mom was deep in middle age and kind of slow herself.

“Wait. You think I’m mean?” I asked. “Or Jesus is mean?”

So much to unpack here.

You are.”

“Well, that’s fine. You can call me mean, but you can’t just go around saying Jesus, okay? Great. Good chat, kid.”

“Why?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

“Why?”

“Because it could offend people.”

“But why?” Quinn asked again. “What’s a Jesus?”

I totally got this, Duck. Back off.

“Well,  let’s see,” I started. “Jesus was…uh…a guy who some people believe was a really good person who did some really good things and saying his name like that is disrespectful.”

Nailed it! (You can totally crib that for your own kids.)

This might come as a shock given my very articulate and educated description of Jesus, but I’m not religious. I believe I’m what an online dating site would call spiritual but not religious. Religion to me should be crafted like an la carte menu. Believe in something from column A, dabble is something from column B, and dessert. Just try to do the right thing, don’t suck, watch out for karma, earn good juju, put it out to the Universe, come back as a friendly ghost, learn from past lives…that kind of thing.

My parents made my brother and I go to church, Sunday school, get confirmed, have a first communion, cash a bunch of checks from relatives, and eventually only go to church on major holidays like Easter and Christmas Eve. Neither my mom or my dad goes to church now and while they definitely have their beliefs, they’re not what I would call religious. That is until something seemingly innocuous like not getting married in a church or having the cleric from your D&D  game act as your officiant or NOT BAPTIZING THEIR GRANDCHILD causes them to burst into spontaneous religion.

The baptism…good lord.

This is how it was apparently supposed to go down:

  • Quinn exits my body
  • We immediately rush him to the shores of the holy river and cleanse that helpless child of all that icky original sin (And here I thought it was cradle cap.)

I guess we were just too selfish and preoccupied with all those trips to see lactation consultants and occupational therapists and car seat experts to grant our poor son guaranteed admission inside the pearly gates. I mean, what a life, right? Who wants to give that up? But whatever. When we went home to visit eleven months later, my parents got a friendly priest to do a baptism on a Thursday afternoon and I got Quinn a lovely blue seersucker suit. RITUAL COMPLETE!

After he called me mean (which I admit, I found hysterical), I told my own mom (whom was called much, much worse by her own offspring. Sorry, Mommy) the story.

“YOU TOLD HIM JESUS WAS SOME GUY?” she yelled.

“I’m not sure exactly what I said. But that’s not the funny part. It was the context–”

“Jesus wasn’t just some guy! TEACH HIM ABOUT JESUS!”

“Uhh, okay? But he’s four and just starting to wipe his own butt so maybe I’ll hold off on the Things to Know About Jesus talk.”

“He needs to start learning now! He needs a basis! Can I send him books?”

I already knew how this ended. There would be books. So. Many. Books. But I reminded her again of his age. Sometimes Peppa Pig goes over his head so I’m pretty sure the Old Testament might be a titch advanced, but okay. I’ll try to get her books into the rotation. We read to him every night before bed. Were these stories that much different than Thomas the Tank Engine getting schooled in responsibility or Wonder Woman putting some tiger thieves behind bars?

God bless Amazon Prime. Two days later The Miracles of Jesus and The Big Book of Bible Stories were on the porch.

“Juju got you some new books,” I said, trying to build up the excitement. “About Jesus. That…uh, guy I was telling you about. Shall we read them?

“Nah. I want to read The Duck Who Played Kazoo.”

“Okay,” I said. “Another time.” It is really hard to compete with a kazoo playing duck.

The next night I brought up the Jesus books again.

“Hey, want to hear about a super cool miracle?”

“Nope,” he said matter of factly. “Not reading those. I want to read Teen Titans.”

“You know,” I said, unsure of why I was working this so hard, “Jesus was kind of a super hero. I mean, he apparently had some pretty rad powers. He could walk on water. Turn water into wine. Communicate with animals.” (Actually I don’t know if that last one is true. I might be getting him confused with the druid in my D&D game.)

But this kid wasn’t buying the loaves or the fishes.

“Nope.”

Oh well. I tried.

While Bart read Teen Titans, I cozied up with one of the Jesus books and read about Noah and the great flood. It was one of the stories I actually remembered because it was about animals boarding a giant boat by way of a rainbow gangplank. Pretty much the stuff all my favorite stories were made of.

Or so I thought.

Jesus god.

What in the actual hell?

Here’s a slightly paraphrased version of Noah’s Ark from Quinn’s new Jesus book:

God said, “I hate all the people and they must be eliminated. I can totally do better next time! People are  stupid and violent. I’m over it, ‘k?”

Noah said, “Sure God. I get it. What can I do to help? I also hate people.”

God said, “Get 2 of each animal (male and female because duh. Hubba hubba), your family, all the food you can store, and get on your boat. I’ll, uh, let you know when things are finished here.”

Then God wipes out ALL THE PEOPLE AND ANIMALS! NOT A BIRD OR A BUNNY OR LITTLE BOY WAS LEFT! Goodbye stupid, violent people! The slate has been wiped clean! Good riddance! Noah sat on his ark for 601 million years before God remembered him out there and finally told him–by way of a bird holding a stick in its beak– that it was safe to come home. Order was restored. People got stupid again.

The end.

That one’s gonna be a hard no. Definitely not right before bed.

Where was the peace and love and animal procreation? THERE WAS NO RAINBOW! How did I not know God was eliminating every stupid, violent living thing? Who is reading these books to children?!

Well, it’s a good thing my parents had us both baptized because neither of us was getting into heaven on our test scores.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bachelor, Week 5: I Can’t Even

If you’re coming here for your Bachelor recaps, you’re in the wrong place.

I know.

Shocking.

No, it’s me. Really. And I’m fine, promise. I want to watch The Bachelor and recap it in all its sad, desperate, tropey, predictable glory, but come on! I need a little help here! Could this season be more boring? Could Arie be more hateable, arrogant, boring, and whiny? Are any of us surprised? Sigh…not really.

Anyway, this whole season has been boring. I don’t even get around to watching the episodes until days after they air. I now fully believe that Krystal is a paid actor. ABC must have known they were in for a dud of a season so they hired someone with the worst voice ever to create unrealistic drama, steal the villain crown right off of Chelsea’s head, and grate on the nerves of EVERYONE IN THE WORLD TO INFINITY.

Just…please…have you considered community theater?

Krystal, I appreciate the effort, I really do, but even I’m not buying it and I am willing to suspend my disbelief for even the New Jersey Housewives.

I watched half of last night’s episode and was seriously not compelled to write a damn thing except, “Wow, I should try bowling sometime” and “Bekkah does a pretty good imitation of Krystal.” Even Krystal’s big, dumb tantrum didn’t move me.

So I leave you with this image because it really sums up how dumb this season is. Also, watching it with captions on is opening a whole new portal into hell. Especially when the captions say things, IN A HIGH PITCHED VOICE or IN A NORMAL VOICE. 

This here is Tia. She’s besties with Raven, the runner-up from Nick’s season. You might remember Raven as the gothy southern girl who almost took  her boyfriend out with her stiletto. So, yeah, they breed ’em real special in Arkansas. Weiner, Arkansas to be exact.

Anyway, this here is moments after she she professed her almost love for Arie. So romantic, right?

“I’ve been waiting for you to push me off something. Anything. Like this balcony would do. Please. A broken pelvis would be more fun than you, Arie.”

I mean, I just can’t.

But I will.

Sigh…

 

The Bachelor: I Can’t Even Come Up with a Title for This Drivel

When I was about 6, I followed my brother into a House of Mirrors at an amusement park. He ditched me about 1.3 seconds later citing some bullshit like, “Oh, I didn’t see you behind me.” Really, dear brother?  You couldn’t see me in a HOUSE OF MIRRORS?

I have a terrible sense of direction. If I tell you, “Oh that really good pizza place we liked is right over there!” it’s not. It’s probably not in the same town. Also, if you try giving me directions and say something stupid like “It’s just north of the freeway” I’m going to punch you in the neck. North is  up, jackass. Give me some good old-fashioned rights and lefts, okay?

So imagine young Shelly (who often gets lost on an airplane trying to find her seat after a visit to the lavatory) alone in a carnival torture house designed to confuse young children and separate them from their families. Now imagine having to see your horrified little face reflected back 1000x into infinity.

I had an awkward phase, okay?

But I’m no dummy. Continued movement would have been futile. It didn’t have 2,945 back issues of Tiger Beat or a Mickey Mouse telephone, but that house of mirrors was my new home. So I plopped down right there and accepted my fate. God, I missed Pepsi and elephant ears.

Four days minutes later, the teenaged ticket-taker told me to get up and walked me seven feet to the exit.

Admittedly, I probably don’t look in a mirror as often as I should, which results in showing up to places with toothpaste dribbled down the front of my shirt or mascara only on one eye. Shit happens. But I’m pretty sure that’s because I’m too lazy to look straight ahead and not permanently scarred from a childhood carnival experience.

Poor Annaliese (“Which one is that?” you ask. “THE BLONDE ONE!” I tell you.) clearly doesn’t have the fortitude to move on from hers.*

Arie, as you know, is our Bachelor (yawn) who happens to be a race car driver (yeah, yeah, Arie, we are soooooooooooooo impressed) and isn’t this guy:

STILL NOT OVER IT. 

He enjoys showing off his race car driver moves any chance he gets. (Yawn again.) Have you ever wondered how the show comes up with all those clever group dates? Of course you have. Here’s what happens: The producers look over the questionnaires filled out by contestants and look for responses to the WHAT ARE YOU MOST TRAUMATIZED BY? (FEEL FREE TO USE AN ADDITIONAL SHEET OF PAPER) question.

Woe is Annaliese, because this group date had the girls participating in a demolition derby which unearthed her very painful past. You see, when Annaliese was a child some asshat (probably a loving adult!) took her to a carnival (PROBABLY TO HAVE FUN!) and let her ride the bumper cars. GET THIS– OTHER CARS HIT HER CAR! What the what? Who does that??? Watching all those derby cars get all creamed and stuff was just too much for Annaliese to bear. So she had to stand on the sidelines, shaking and sobbing and accepting fake, mannequin-armed hugs from the other girls while her sweaty tears plowed through all that expensive BB cream. And if THAT scene weren’t dramatic enough, the producers reached deep into their bag of “cheap ploys to make it clear we are totally giving up this season” satchel to give us a very special reenactment.

“We’ve got nothing left this season, kids! Unless someone is afraid of bees or thunder? Can I get some gluten intolerance up in here? CAN SOMEONE PLEASE RECREATE A BAD ALLERGIC REACTION?

You guys, that is not just a reenactment, but it came with creepy carnival music!

You guys, that is not just a reenactment, THAT IS A SEPIA-TONED REENACTMENT.

It’s like our blurry, pixelated faces were there too!

I AM FEELING HER PAIN! It is DEEP IN MY GUT! Oh no wait, that is just laughter.

Arie tried to be empathetic, telling her she could sit this one out if she really needed to, but if she did decide to participate he’d totally protect her. Maybe later he’d even rub his dumb pillow lips all over her sad, wet face.

“So wait, you’re afraid of bumper cars. Did I ever tell you I’m a race car driver? Like a real one? Cuz I am! Also my lips are like two, big airbags. You’re totally safe with me…uh…Lauren?”

And now I’m traumatized because I can’t tell if The Bachelor was seriously trying to get us past the dyed roots and into this woman’s head or if they’re all saying, “F.U. Arie! Your season blows! Let’s just trash the place and burn it down!”

Please God let it be the latter! (EDITOR’S NOTE: It’s totally the latter. I’ve seen the latest episode.)

But, wait.

Are they making fun of themselves? 

You’re better than this, Bachelor! And by “better” I mean, worse! So much worse! Don’t let me down!

Even the other girls thought this whole trauma thing was ridiculous. I mean being afraid of swimming pigs, sobriety, or yeast infections is totes normal but bumper cars? Come on, girl!  Jenna thought she could knock some sense into Annaliese by repeatedly ramming into her when Ol’ Pillow Lips wasn’t looking, which kind of worked. Annaliese seemed rather aggressive for someone who couldn’t handle a little light jostling in a heavily padded carnival toy car, but whatevs. I’m no shrink.

What else happened? Let’s see:

Krystal–my god– is cray cray and super annoying. For someone who claims to make a living  making others, “feel their best feels”, she sure likes making other woman feel angry. It’s pretty much guaranteed that whatever words spoken in her drunk, husky baby voice are going to suck. Even though she already had a rose, she stole Arie away TWICE during the cocktail party. One of those times was right out of Bibiana’s vice grip, seconds before she would have choked Arie out. Dammit, Krystal!

No, bitch, you need to check yourself before I rip those wicked biceps right off your stupidly toned body!

Bibiana cracked, threatened to leave, gave up, sat back down, yelled at Krystal, got up to leave, didn’t talk to Arie, finally talked to Arie, took a Valium, drank a bunch of vodka, bit the head off a bat, drank more vodka, and calmly accepted rose #18 out of 18 from Arie.

Angry Anonymous Blonde #4, #12, and #16 were sent home. Angry Anonymous Blonde #4 didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Arie, which made Arie sad. No one gets out of here without a stiff hug and an extra heaping of televised humiliation.

“Hey, sorry about dumping you. I honestly can’t tell all these blonde girls named Lauren apart and it’s hurting my head.”

“I’m not sad about you dumping me. I’m sad that I have to leave all this free alcohol behind.”

I hear that, Angry Anonymous Blonde #4. Surely the girls are pouring one out in your name.

*You can’t make this shit up. It can and will get worse, I promise.

 

The Bachelor: Lost Limbs…and Shit

I watched 45 minutes of The Bachelor while on the treadmill and really I should loose 84 pounds by the time this train wreck of a season is over. It’s…so…hard…to…look…away. But I did. But only because I was so excited TELL YOU WHAT HAPPENED IN THE FIRST 3 MINUTES!

First, yes, something AMAZING happens later in the show that I haven’t “officially” gotten to yet, but I totally YouTubed because I heard how good it was. (When your male co-workers seek you out to talk about something that happened on The Bachelor, that is some good TV right there.) And it was. But in the worst possible way. It’s almost like The Bachelor is making fun of itself. Like they’re all, “Well. We’ve pretty much sunk to as low as we can go. Our bachelor is super boring and a solid NYC/LA 5 (Scottsdale 7.5), and no one is going to forgive us for not casting that other guy. Might as well bust out the sepia-toned reenactments to illustrate just how wicked dumb our cast is.”

Who me?

Yes, Peter, you. It should have been you. WE GET IT!

Whatevs.

BUT WE ARE NOT THERE YET.

We are here.

A lovely sunny morning. The girls are half drunk on champagne and rosé all day when Chris Harrison arrived. He gave them this ominous message:

One of you will be Arie’s wife.

There was an audible gasp like they just heard, “4 out of 6 of you will become Restylane-intolerant.” It was almost like a threat, like Chris knew they’d rather grow hermit crab claws and pull out their own eyelash extensions than have to accept Arie’s thoughtfully chosen Neil Lane sparkler. They’re not here for him! They’re here to audition for the next season of The Bachelorette! But Chris reminded them how real this is. If he had to suffer through this season, so did they. Remember your purpose, ladies! You are nothing more than Jabba’s palace dancers in ankle booties and slouchy sweaters. NOW DANCE!

Oh, fine.

Chris left them with a date card. The girls went ballistic, side-eyeing the shit out of each other and smacking the fresh mimosa off their lips like storm-addled waves hitting the shores of Desperation Island. The first one-on-one date of the season went to Becca K who was whisked off on a motorcycle.

A motorcycle! Egads!

Motorcycles are great because they spark conversational gold like this awesome exchange between Chelsea (villain) and two other girls who are probably named Lauren.

CHELSEA: I’m jealous.

MAYBE LAUREN 1: Yeah.

CHELSEA: I really like the feeling of being behind something that is bigger than me. Like…holding on and stuff.

MAYBE LAUREN 1: Yeah.

MAYBE LAUREN 2: I’m like, totally scared of motorcycles. My dad had a really bad motorcycle accident and I know people who have like lost limbs and things like that.

Like, LIMBS, you guys. This is some serious shit.

MAYBE LAUREN 1: Huh.

MAYBE LAUREN 2: If I was on that date, I would have to like, had to tell him…

MAYBE LAUREN 1: It’s good…it’s good that you weren’t.

CHELSEA leans close to MAYBE LAUREN 2 and bit her head off.

End Scene

Ladies and gentlemen, this is what true empathy looks like. Also what six bottles of rosé before 9AM looks like.

Meanwhile… Arie and Becca K ride off to a mysterious mansion where they meet Scooby Doo and some meddling kids. Not really. But they did run into an awful lot of shellfish. Like an ungodly amount.

What in the name of Long John Silver is going on here?

It was dangling from pedestals three feet in the air. It was clinging to the Carrara marble countertop. It was a bizzaro Hansel and Gretel under the sea. I mean, what kind of budget are working with here, ABC?

Seriously a LOT of shellfish! Was it someone’s birthday or something? Did Uber Eats totally screw up the order? Is craft services super high?

It was festooned across Arie’s chin and eventually his lap because no way was he letting that shit go to waste. He’s the God damn Bachelor, America! Not that God damn Peter guy! He may not get the girl, but he’s eating the shit out of some shellfish.

If you think the location of the date was rather random– a really nice house overlooking the water– the actual date activities will really jumble your brain. All 26 pounds of Rachel Zoe popped out from behind a clothing rack (we know she ain’t here for the shellfish)

“Surprise!” Arie said. “That’s Rachel Zoe. She’s going to style you!”

Becca made like she was going in for a hug, but really she was blinking out distress signals.

I DON’T WANT TO BE ALONE HERE WITH HIM. STOP. HE HAS CRABS. LOTS AND LOTS OF CRABS. STOP.

But alas, she stuck around and tried on 136 evening gowns and surprise again! She got to keep them all thanks to Arie. (But really ABC. And Rachel. But okay, Arie, small victory for you.)

I realized this was ABC’s weak attempt to make us like Arie. Like he’s such a gentleman! A true Prince Charming! He’s not here because he’s a D-list fame whore from Scottsdale. He really cares about these girls! He wants to make them feel special! It’s all about the girls. Instead I feel sad because I wonder how tough times have gotten for Rachel Zoe. I used to really like her show.

But I digress.

And then when they were enjoying some champs by the sea some random dude in sunglasses and a suite waddles up to them. NOT WEIRD AT ALL.

“Neil Lane sends his regards,” he said, handing Arie a briefcase.

Oh good! ABC is cutting this season short! It’s the final rose ceremony! Oh, it’s not? Sigh…Not a ring. Just everything else: Earrings, bracelets, a necklace to go with the free outfit she’ll don later that night. Arie kept telling her she deserved it. He really wanted to spoil her. He’s really grossing me out. But man, Becca K is pretty much guaranteed to walk off this show with something of value. FINALLY!

Becca almost got bludgeoned with empty chardonnay bottles when she returned to the lady house. Bitch, do not walk through these doors in your inappropriate sparkling shoes (Louboutins! Also a freebie!) with your shopping bags full of Rachel Zoe promotional consideration. DO NOT. Bibiana (who–how did I miss this before–is clearly this season’s mujer loca), got super emotional looking at those shoes because where she comes from that is clearly a sign of impending marriage. Why don’t they all just go home now?

The date continued in the evening with a fake dinner where Becca talked about her late father (sad) and Arie talked about race cars (of course.) Then Arie mashed his “pillow lips” up against her face while they mumbled about how much they liked kissing each other while they were kissing each other.

BUT THAT WASN’T THE REALLY GOOD PART!

There was another one-on-one date with Krystal where Arie took her back to his hometown of Scottsdale because he forgot to feed his cats and might have left his curling iron on. They watched home videos, looked through his color-coded closet, drove past the Pizza Hut where he worked before getting the call from ABC to be the next bachelor. Oh, and they dropped by to meet his sad, Dutch family.

After meeting Arie’s brother and sister-in-law, Arie’s mom and Krystal had this fun exchange:

MOM: They just got married.

KRYSTAL: Oh, that’s nice!

MOM: They are nice normal people who met in a nice, normal way.

KRYSTAL: So great!

MOM: Not on TV.

KRYSTAL: I get it, nice Dutch lady.

MOM: They got married in the Netherlands. Not on a TV show.

KRYSTAL: Look bitch, I don’t like your son anyway. None of us do so there’s not going to be a freakin’ wedding– televised or otherwise. Bye now!

That is also where I had to say buh bye because my legs were getting all liquidy and someone had to pick the child up from pre-school. I can’t wait to tell you about the REALLY GOOD* thing that happened!

*That, ladies and gentlemen, is a cliffhanger made all the more intense by the fact I’m writing this THREE days after the episode aired. Don’t you dare Google it! Wait for me! I’ll be back!

So I Watched The Bachelor. A Little.

Okay, fine, I started watching the new season of The Bachelor but only because it was my first day back on the treadmill in 729 days and I needed a good distraction.

Here’s what I know so far:

  • Ari likes blondes
  • Oops, I mean, “Arie”
  • There are so many race car puns
  • I still don’t like him
  • I don’t think Chris Harrison likes him (“Wow, you haven’t managed to have a relationship in five years, huh? Wow, wow, wow. So here we are.”)
  • Even the girls were struggling to think of good things to say about him (“He…um…has such a full head of hair!”)

As for the cast, well you’ve got your spray tans and baby voices and nervous chardonnay drinkers. And clearly casting couldn’t find enough delusional fame whores to date Ari (sorry, ARIE) so they cast the same girl three times.

Head tilt left, head tilt left, head tilt right. There! Now they’ll never know it’s the same girl! 

And of course the usual tropes are immediately obvious:

The “I’m not here to make friends” award goes to:

“Hair down, boobs out, bitches.”

Interesting facts about Chelsea: she also fills the “single mom” trope. (Let’s pour one out for that poor kid) and she bears an uncanny resemblance to one of the best villains of all time: Olivia!

Girl, let me tell you exactly how this shit ends: Alone, on an island, sweating in your mom jeans.

The only thing Chelsea likes about women is talking shit about them. Chelsea is going to love living in a house with 28 other women–especially when they all get on the same cycle.

The “Lovable Weirdo” award goes to:

Dead things, dead things, yay for dead things!

She has a tiny guitar she used to serenade a dead seal. That’s right– Kendall likes dead things. As in taxidermy. She collects it, what? Relationships end (for her a year was her longest) but dead things last forever! Can’t argue with that! Kendall is my top pick!

The “Overcompensating Entrance” award goes to:

Wow, these girls were really leaning into the whole race card driver thing. One girl even made a god awful “pit stop” joke after making Ari (GOD DAMMIT ARIE) smell her B.O. BEKAH, the nanny from Fresno, rode in on a cherry red Mustang, only to be bested by Maquel (that’s right, bitches, MA-QUEL) who showed up in an actual race car. I mean, come on BEKAH! Why you gotta be half-assing it on day 1?! Also spell your name right! Also girls with short hair never go far on this show. YOU KNOW THAT! Does a nanny not pull in enough coin to spring for some damn hair extensions???

Does this helmet make my daddy issues look big? Because lemme tell you– they’re HUGE!

The “Have you never seen this show?” award goes to:

Hey, Valerie? So this is a reality show called, The Bachelor where we pick a bunch of spray tanned, bouncy haired girls with little self-esteem, but lots of cut out dresses to all compete for one man’s affections. There are a lot of girls– really pretty girls– here because THAT’S THE WHOLE FREAKIN’ PREMISE OF THE SHOW, YOU DUMMY!

So many girls! This must be where Wonder Woman lives!

The “Why can’t I find love” award goes to:

Okay, so they could all pretty much get this coveted award, but I’m going with Maquel because she flat out whinnied, “Why can’t I find love?” (Or some strain of that B.S.) during her intro montage.

Maquel photographs newlyweds so she can steal their stupid, selfish souls and keep them in bell jars in her closet.

She’s a photographer who loves to shoot (like literally shoot!) engaged couples so she can make them feel bad for finding each other while she’s still single. SO RUDE! Hey Maquel, do you know why you can’t find love? Because you’re TWENTY-THREE! Cool your freakin’ jets. No love until you can legally rent a car, okay? Speaking of which, Alamo should not have let you drive that race car off the lot!!! Hope you had a co-signer!

The “Lauren” award goes to:

How many Laurens can you stuff in a limo? There’s always at least 2 per season, but there was a bumper crop this year because we got 4.

So I’ll be Double, you be Double and you guys can be Toil and Trouble. Yay! Image credit: PAUL HEBERT VIA GETTY IMAGES

The non-Laurens could hardly believe it. What was this, some kind of nomenclature sorcery?

And that’s what I know 43 minutes into the show. Will I keep watching? Am I already hooked? Can I quit this stupid show?

Oh fine. More later.

Breaking up with The Bachelor (NOT REALLY, JUST SORT OF KIDDING! STAND DOWN!)

You guys, The Bachelor started tonight! It’s been on for 55 minutes and I’m all meh, whatever on this season. No, I did not make a New Years resolution to stop watching garbage and get some GD culture. Nope, I didn’t have to sell all three of our TVs to buy my son 8,385 Star Wars toys and what was apparently the ONLY Sasha Banks action figure IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. (It had to be otherwise I cannot justify the price. It had to be, okay?) No, someone did not dare me to not watch MY MOST FAVORITE TV SHOW IN THE WORLD! I’m just not, okay?

But let’s be honest. I’m going to watch it. Eventually. The Earth will not spin off its axis. Just chill.

But I’m not committing to blogging about this season. I know! SAD! I know you (Jenn) looked forward to my recaps 5-7 days after the episode aired. Want to write a letter of complaint? Address it to this guy:

Me? WhadidIdo? I was like totally cool and relevant like 5 years ago! Wasn’t I?

He’s kind of gross, right? Like makes you feel like you need to pull your collar up a little closer to your neck an maybe Purell your eyeballs.

Sorry, Ari, I’m just not that into you.

It’s not me, it’s you.

It’s your hair.

And that weirdo half-smile like you didn’t know it was time to take a photo even though you’re staring RIGHT INTO THE BELLY OF A CAMERA!

And the fact that I didn’t like you 5 years ago when you were vying for dum dum Emily (whom I also did not like) and she surprised dumped you and she was all like, “I don’t know! It’s so hard to choose between two sketchy weirdos but I think the other guy has rich parents and maybe even a real job” and you were all like, “yeah, no, totally cool. Don’t explain. I’ll be the Bachelor 4 3/4 years after everyone forgets about me. Later!”

But I wish she picked you and you lived happily ever after so we weren’t stuck looking at your hair and hearing about how you’re a race car driver (like that’s a THING!) for the next 16 weeks.

Also, Ryder from the Paw Patrol called and wants his hair style back!

Ryder also is known to hang out with a bunch of bitches. Well, okay, one– Skye. And sometimes Everest.

Look, Ari! He too is a race car driver! Maybe we’ll see him as the Bachelor in 2037!

Vrrooooom vrrooooom! When I grow up I’m going to find at least one of my future wives on TV too!

Also, I’m kind of bitter just like the rest of Bachelor Nation.

Why? Why?

Seriously?

Did you not watch the last season of The Bachelorette?! Everyone worth their spray tan, gel manicures, and sew-in hair extensions (and hello! That is ALL OF US!) know Peter should have been the next Bachelor! I mean come on! A nice mid-west boy, sweet family, can hang with a baby on a kitchen floor, and might be the most beautiful man in the world NEXT TO MY HUSBAND OF COURSE!

Am I right?

But seriously, did we all not love Peter? Like love him so much we kind of wanted to yell BACK OFF, HO every time Rachel pulled him aside for a little one on one time?

I said, AM I RIGHT?

And sure, maybe Mike Fleiss and every producer who has ever manipulated a grown-ass adult into crying in the back of a limo hated the fact that darling Peter couldn’t, wouldn’t propose to a woman he met SIX WEEKS AGO because, “this shit is cray!” (I’m paraphrasing, but that’s basically what he said) even though he really liked her and was totally willing to, you know, date her in the real world and see if they could fall in love without the Northern Lights and helicopters and maintaining a steady buzz for 63 days straight.

But God dammit, Rachel. You were NOT leaving this show without a proposal. This was not a reality show so much as a game show. You would take home the prize and maybe a fancy Bosch dishwasher and trip to Sedona. You were getting your ring! One that promised marriage! And babies! And would make your father come out of hiding and show his sad, embarrassed face on national TV! So you went with the sure thing– the creepy, hairy Miami dude even though your family was skeeved out by him and HE DID NOT GET ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR WITH A BABY!

OMG WHAT IS UP WITH THIS HAIRSTYLE?

Bryan’s all like, “Uhhhhhh I love you so much! I’ve loved you in all my past lives! I’m gonna propose to you as soon as I get out of the limo!” Rachel, you cried your fake eyelashes right off your face when Peter said he wasn’t 100% sure he could propose the NEXT DAY! I didn’t even know that was possible, but there they were right on the floor of his hotel room like caterpillars murdered by mascara. Clearly you were into the guy! Like waaaaaaaay in!  But whatevs. That’s cool. 13 minutes later you’re on a mountaintop saying yes to Miami Lice when he got down on one knee with a tacky Neil Lane sparkler. Even Neil Lane was all like “Whoa! This guy? Not the super hot trainer dude?”

So yeah, even though we all wanted Peter (but secretly not really because it’s just better for all of us if the guy stays single) you cannot call bullshit on a show’s entire premise and get to be the next star of said bullshitty show. That’s showbiz!

BUT STILL!

Yeah, okay, this might be too much even for me, but ratings! Hello, ABC!

Okay, fine! I’ll watch this season, but only because I have friends who watch it too and I don’t want to let them down. Also FOMO. But I’m not dedicating my life, my life, to recapping the season.

Unless I feel like it.

But that’s unlikely.

But it could happen.

You never know.

Bah ha ha ha! I ALWAYS watch reality TV! That’s funny, Sean. Enjoyed your season, btw!