I spuddle.

Guess what today is?   That’s right, mes petites internets, it’s the season premiere of The Bachelorette.   And I am LIVE BLOGGING this life-changing event.    OK, fine, it’s not “life-changing”, per se.   And it’s not live, either, it’s on PVR.   But I am blogging it while I watch, which has to be the definition of LIVE BLOGGING, no?   I would have watched the show the very minute it aired, maybe, but I was keeping the kids up late in an effort to make them sleep past 5:47 in the morning.   And then while I was tucking in The Bun,  I got myself all freaked out because I became convinced that the wind in the trees was actually a madman in the closet breathing in an annoyingly loud way or maybe passing gas, although why would he be hiding in the closet?   If you’re a madman, you pretty much just barge in and start being mad, you don’t lurk around in the closet where I keep my skirts which I obviously don’t wear very often because I haven’t opened the closet since I realized that subsequent to furnishing the room, the door didn’t open.

I managed to get The Bun to go to sleep in spite of the fact I was all, “WHAT WAS THAT?” every ten seconds which just goes to show that we should get a dog because then I wouldn’t think that all random sounds were the farts of crazy people in the closet.  I would think they were the farts of the dog.  And it also shows that an entire day spent shopping at garden centres in the rain really does wear kids out just as effectively as, say, doing something they actually WANT to do.    Then I poured myself a glass of dark pink wine (See Ya Later Ranch “Nelly”, in case you’re taking notes), got myself some cookies. (They have Omega 3!   And I’m allergic to fish so I never eat Omega 3!   So eating the cookies was really just as good as a work out!   And a vitamin!   And a fish!)  And settled in to begin blogging.

It was part way through the heinously uncomfortable montage featuring Jillian walking jauntily around Vancouver in various belted jackets and then randomly washing a huge purple car while wearing high heels with what appeared to be a power-washer when I remembered that the first episode of any Bachelor/Bachelorette show is so grotesquely cringe-worthy that I spend much of the time that it’s on staring at the floor and/or Googling outdoor carpets that might disguise some of the hideousness of our rotting back deck.    I found one at Canadian Tire, where I cannot shop, because ten years ago (or perhaps more, who keeps count? – I like to keep the rage alive), I took my van in for a tune up and the mechanic dumped the oil out to do an oil change and did not refill it, causing my engine to seize.   He admitted that he made the mistake but Canadian Tire refused to fix my car until I threatened legal action.   Then they said they’d put in a rebuilt engine if I paid half and then they doubled the price.   Uh, no thank you.   It all culminated with the owner calling me the C-word.   Yes, he did.   Yes, I cried, because that is what I do during stressful confrontations.   I don’t know why I bring this up.    I really do like that carpet.   I may buy it from a different franchise.    Never again will I shop at the franchise where the owner called me the C-word and made me cry, not to mention the seized engine.   Never.   It’s officially boycotted.   I’m sure they’ve missed the last decade of my spending.  I see they now own a number of other stores and some kind of bank.    Well, that will teach them for messing with me.   Clearly, they are suffering.

Believe me, that anecdote is a lot less discomfiting then actually watching the Introduction To Jillian aspect of this show.   It’s just SO MUCH uncomfortable awkwardness.   It’s like being pummelled in the face with every awkward moment that has ever occurred in the long History of Awkward.   And this year, I can truthfully report that the whole painful opening sequence is as untouchable in its painful awkwardness as any in history.   But it finally passes and we are introduced to a random handful of bachelors and their mothers in small segments that suggest that these people will be sticking around.    They all look the same to me, and except for the one whose mother stuffed a chocolate cupcake in her mouth in a rather grotesque way, I can’t remember any of them specifically.   Oh, OK, I remember the lawyer awkwardly yelling “HELLO!” to a woman on the sidewalk.   If this is his normal path to dating,  I can see why he thinks this show will change his life.

I absolutely cannot make eye contact with the screen during the next segment where the twenty-five bachelors arrive and make their awkward, stalker-esque introductions while standing too close and making Jillian look like she wants to leap up one of the fake palm trees (like a monkey on the lam!) for her own safety.    They all have the demeanor of men with sweaty palms and too much cologne and possibly stale, nervous breath and criminal records, or at the very least, several bodies buried in their basements.  (Although actually Jillian is maybe to blame at least partially for their escalating anxiety by wearing what looks like a Vegas-style wedding dress, handily reminding them in one glance that if they “win”, they must MARRY her.   Or else face the wrath of a nation.   See also:  Jason Mesnick.)    Do they run criminal checks on these people?   Because the ones that I saw from behind my laptop looked a few eager sniffs away from actually dropping down and humping her leg like a Jack Russell on a really nice living room throw cushion that you made YOURSELF for your mum as a gift with the intention that people would use them for extra seating softness and not as, in fact, a blow-up doll for a horny dog.

I’ve just looked up at the screen and there are now thirty bachelors.   If someone was paying me to do this, I would rewind and see why, but I prefer to dwell in the mystery of this moment and find that I’m watching commercials instead of fast-forwarding to the show itself.    I don’t know why.   I also need to pee but am too lazy to get up and do that, so I’ll just drink more Nelly instead.    Nelly could be the single worst name for a wine of all time.   Seriously.   What comes to mind when you say “Nelly”?   That’s right, Little House on the Prairie.   What that has to do with wine, I have no idea.

Back to the show.   I can’t help but wonder how many of these thirty guys — who all look like they spend so much quality time posing doing bicep curls on their Bowflex that they couldn’t possibly have time for an actual relationship –  are vying for second or third place such that they might themselves become The Bachelor.   As a group, the whole “I signed up for the show just for you!” line sounds about as sincere as when you tell someone you love their haircut only because you can’t stop staring at how horrendous it looks.    Not that she is horrendous but she is a bit surprisingly average.    I like her, don’t get me wrong.   She seems like a fun person, in all the ways that I am not, i.e. up for a swift rapelling adventure down the side of a steep building.   She is also, I’m relieved to note, obviously taking some kind of mood-calming medication and is much less jumpy and nervous than she was on The Bachelor wherein her voice cracked so often she was the human equivalent of that crackle-finish they apply to new furniture to make it look old, a look which I actually like in the right room but find really annoying if there is too much of it.

So far I believe the front-runners are Jake the pilot, Juan, Kiptyn (I was going to make a comment about that name, but really, do I need to?), Jesse, country western singer guy and this Ed, who I’ve just seen and think she seems nervous around, so probably she likes him.    Who under the age of 87 is named Ed?   I think I’ve never met an Ed who is not a horse or at least horse-like in appearance or really old.   Surely there are exceptions, and indeed, there is one on my screen right now.

Oh my great holey jeebus on a man-trike, who have we here?   A FOOT FETISHIST.   In a velvet jacket.   For reals.   Awesome.   I missed his name, but does it really matter?   Feet + Velvet = TV gold.   Jillian believes he is “easy and relaxed”.    When does she get to see this footage?   She is really taunting him by putting her feet in the pool like that, it’s the foot fetishist’s equivalent of a stripper rubbing herself down with oil and then leaping on your face.    She is going to die when she watches this back.    On the other hand, the show opened with Jillian trying on shoes and dancing around in some sort of bizarre homage to Mary Tyler Moore, so perhaps she would like having her feet licked.    One can never know.   If not,  can she get some kind of instant restraining order, courtesy of NBC (or whatever network this is)?   I certainly hope we get to find out.   Nothing says “fabulous reality TV” faster than an unwanted toe nibble.   Which makes me think of that time when I listed all those shoes on Ebay and I got about a million e-mails (probably from the same guy but it appeared they were coming from various e-mail addresses) asking for pictures of my feet IN the shoes, preferably freshly pedicured.    I have never had a pedicure.   The idea of someone touching my feet, sanding my feet, carving bits out of my feet and so on, makes me want to commit a felony, such as murder one or perhaps a bank robbery.

I drifted off there for a minute.   Jillian was rescued by someone, but I missed who it was because I was so squicked out by the whole foot thing.   (Sorry.)   (I hope you are not counting on this recap for actual information about the show.)   Then I got more cookies, even though the first handful of cookies that I ate made me downright nauseated.   Just like a good workout, come to think of it,  thus substantiating my earlier claim that these cookies are better for you than marathon running or tae bo.   I’ve returned in time to see the rose ceremony – perhaps the most dramatic one ever, as Chris Harrison likely said while I wasn’t listening — and I must say that I was right about at least two of her picks, or at least they look somewhat familiar.   (Look at those jaws grinding!   That’s some pent up testosterone in that room.)   At this point, I have no idea who the front runners are, surely not that guy who got the first impression rose.   He really does look like he might be suspiciously unbalanced.   Michael the breakdancer might be a contender (or maybe I just want him to be because it marries two reality shows into one, Dancing With The Bachelors), if only because who the HELL can stand on one hand like that while spinning?   That’s crazy talent, or if not talent, then at least crazy.   He would be strong enough to move heavy things for her in their future happy life together*, which has to count for something.

She definitely has a “type”, in that she is not picking any of the ones that are most obviously  mentally ill (foot fetishist aside) (not that there is anything wrong with foot fetishism – actually, I think that there IS something wrong with foot fetishism, but that’s just me — it’s more his demeanor that suggests that at some point this season the producers may need one of those dart guns they use to sedate wild animals when they wander into suburban dining rooms and threaten to eat you and your dinner guests).

Now she’s picked the Brit who they insist on subtitling every time he speaks.   Why do they do that?   He is, in fact, speaking English.   Confusing.   If I worked the subtitles at NBC, I would type something completely random under his face while he spoke, so that when he said, “Let’s take the lift down to the kerb, old chap” or whatever, I would type, “Bulldogs have frightening visages.”    That’s the kind of thing that probably entertains subtitle typists the world over.

Who else has roses?   The fake-nervous guy, with the first impression rose.   And there’s Ed.   Juan.   Country Western guy.  Jake. Wait, I’m behind!   She’s picking too fast!   Oh, I give up.  It’s too hard to try to recap ALL the guys she picked.   I’ll be more specific when the field is narrowed down to, say, two.

That first guy she got rid of looked actually like a decent match for her, in that he looked like exactly her type (the same as all the other white, dark-haired men on the show) but there is no accounting for chemistry.   The second guy, “Maybe she just doesn’t like awesome guys!” also gets points for the trying to be funny in the face of rejection.    I have no idea which other guys she kept or didn’t keep.   It was a blur.   I could look it up on the internet, but I’m busy blogging.   Also, why are all these people white?    No other races?   Really NBC?    Hello, racism law-suits!   Tut tut.   Not very politically correct.   FYI, having one guy with a British accent does not count.   I’m just saying.

Well, this winds up my day, it’s after midnight and I’m tired and the combination of exhaustion and Nelly and the excitement of The Bachelorette are culminating to make me feel like perhaps slumping over unconscious on the couch or floor, and now I really do have to pee before I rupture my bladder and I have enough problems.  (I only had one glass of wine, btw.   On ice, no less.   Because nothing says “wine afficionado” more clearly than pouring wine that is neither red nor white into an A&W glass mug over some stale-tasting ice.)   (Maybe I should start some kind of wine-advice column on the side.)

I’ll be back next week (and before that, but with unrelated posts) with more exciting Bachelorette recapping in which I don’t actually recap the show at all and mostly talk about other things, such as old car repair nightmares and sources of Omega 3s.    It’s probably only a matter of time before someone pays me for this sort of brilliant insight and reporting.

* Yes, I know no one actually ever ends up together long-term as a result of The Bachelor franchise.   I’ve been paying attention.   Yes, yes,  except for Trista and Ryan.   But statistically, the odds aren’t very much in favour of this season’s match-up.    I’m sorry to be the bearer of this bad news, but someone had to say it.   Sorry, Jillian.   Sorry, Invisible Dude.   It probably is just not meant to be.

Filed under: The Bachelorette