Look, I'm just going to say it, okay? I watch The Bachelor.
I KNOW! Please don't smite me. Trust me, you couldn't possibly be any more embarassed for me than I am for myself. If it makes up for it, please know that I try to atone for it with half an hour of Wordsworth right afterwards. But sometimes there ain't no daffodils going to make up for all those tacky cleavages and bitchy one-liners. (And connections. Why are they always "making a connection" with each other? Also, why am I speaking like I'm related to Eminem? I don't say "ain't" in real life, I promise.)
Last night was the season premiere of the show, which is being held in Paris this time around, presumably because they've just plain run out of pretty places to watch the sunset in L.A, and also because the announcer obviously got bored of saying "it's the most dramatic rose ceremony yet!" and asked if he could mix it up a little and instead say "it's the most romantic season yet!" Always with the exclamation points and the superlatives, this announcer. And you know he's got you. Because what he's really saying is "Don't turn over to CNN just because the commercials are on, you sneaky witch! I'm trying to rot your brain cells here, and make you forget that you once knew the subjunctive tense in French and most of the history behind the poetry of Christina Rossetti! Run and get your green onion kettle chips from the kitchen if you need to, sure, and grab another glass of wine while you're in there because TRUST ME YOU'RE GOING TO NEED IT, but hurry back soon because there are still 45 minutes of your life that you need to waste watching girls with obvious boob jobs crowing about what a wonderful journey it's been!"
So this time around, the gang's all here---23 ditzy overly-made-up women who sort of embarass me in a way I can't put my finger on, and maybe two who look kind of normal and cute, like people you might go to the out-of-town Banana Republic outlet with if they asked. And if they were driving. But there's this one girl. Oh my god. Wait, here she is. Her name is Allie. G. (Unfortunately, she's not Ali.G, because Ali.G going on the Bachelor? Or, even better, Ali G. being the Bachelor? THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN MY KIND OF SHOW.) Anyway, this Allie G., she's just a little unhinged. And I'm not even going to mention the fact that she obviously went to the Trowel School of Application when she learned to do her makeup. Because, oh, there's so much more to talk about.
At first I thought she was kind of cool. She greeted the bachelor---his name is Travis, and he's actually kind of super hawt, though maybe loses points for, um, I don't know, GOING ON THE BACHELOR?---with some (albeit badly-pronounced) French, and she was shorter and more normal-looking and less blonde than some of the beauty queens who'd gone before her. I sort of dug her. Plus, then I found out she was an oncologist, so I sort of dug her more. But HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, after that she became insane.
She had her ten minutes with Travis, on a sofa somewhere in this French chateau that you just know all the girls are secretly hoping Travis actually owns, like this is some bizarre version of Joe Millionaire (yeah, watched that too, shut up), and while most of the women usually say things like "My favorite restaurant is Olive Garden. What's yours?" and "I'm so honored to be taking this journey with you! I really hope we can make a connection!", Allie G. does maybe two seconds of small talk and then she says "Well, Travis, I'm ready to move onto the reproductive phase of my life. So, you know, if that's what you're looking for, to reproduce...."
And then what happens next is that the girl standing behind her and I simultaneously say OH, SHE DID NOT JUST GO THERE, and Travis looks horribly embarassed and Allie G. does not look horribly embarassed, although maybe she should. Because why would you say that? Why wouldn't you try and say something witty and funny instead, and make Travis remember you as the Hot Funny Girl instead of the Suddenly Less Hot And Maybe Kind Of Scary And Desperate One? And even though I'm totally cringing for her, this isn't as bad as what happens next. Because Travis hands out roses to ten girls, and all the time this is happening, Allie G. is visibly becoming more and more perturbed---I mean, she can just feel her eggs withering as Travis skips over her in his quest for a potential bride---and then when it's all over and she hasn't been given a rose, she CONFRONTS him with "what? Am I too smart for you? Am I too old? Are my boobs too small?" And he is very gentlemanly about it and kind of admits that the R-word---WITHIN FIVE MINUTES OF MEETING HER---sort of freaked him out, and then she's all up on her high horse about how he's just like every other man she knows and she's tried Internet dating and speed dating and blind dating, and now she's just going to join a convent. AND WHY DOESN'T HE WANT TO REPRODUCE? WITH HER? And I'm so embarassed for her because she's really starting to make the whole fairer sex look a little kooky, but my god, she JUST WON'T STOP and she tells all the other girls and even the cameraman what a tool Travis is just because he didn't pick her. To reproduce with.
Now I'm not a Rules girl. I've never done that "only call him on the second Wednesday of the month, and always be busy the first eleven times he asks you out," because really, does anyone ever manage to have a relationship like that? Or even meet for coffee? So I'm all for being oneself and not playing games when it comes to dating, oh yes indeed. But really, and tell me if you don't agree, but I sort of think it's a generally well-known fact that there is ONLY ONE THING you have to remember when you meet a potential suitor for the first time, ONE THING, and that is Don't Talk About Your Reproductive Cycle In the First Ten Minutes.
THAT IS EASY TO REMEMBER, RIGHT? In fact, it should come naturally because it's actually more of a Life Rule than a Dating Rule, don't you think? Strangers don't want to hear about your reproductive cycle! I mean, for reals. Unless you're wearing a paper gown and are about to write a check for a $20 co-pay, then the Don't Talk About Your Reproductive Cycle In The First Ten Minutes rule should hold pretty fast whoever you're chatting with. Unless you want to perpetuate the stereotype that unmarried women in their mid-30s are desperate to find a man, march him up the aisle, and then make him construct a baby crib from IKEA.
So please! For all of womankind! Someone tell Allie G. not to talk about her eggs on the first date. Unless the first date is breakfast.