Juan Pablo #3: The Children's Hour

I had dinner with a couple of little boys Monday night. Ages eight and nine, to be precise. I mean, they're children. They're actually really good company, especially if you're into this certain app that lets you add special effects to videos you take with your phone, like dropping a piano on your brother or blowing him up. If you're not, though, I can see how a night would seem to pass kinda slowly. I can see how someone might be concerned that the Object of Her Affection would be, say, a titch bored in the company of somebody who's too young.

Eight-year-old: You know what kind of animal I would be? A hippo-horse! A hippo-horse-dog-zebra-monkey-bear-lion-giraffe-table-floor-chicken-spoon-plate-everythingthereis! Bahahahaha!

Forget about my sheep pig (which is real). Now THERE'S some raw conversational material. I mean, check out the results I get for a search on "animal mashups":

And it goes on for pages. But I'll admit the topic does have its limitations, and after you've gone a few rounds you're pretty much done.

Cassandra, former NBA dancer: Oh my gosh! Hahahaha!

That kind of conversation, on the other hand, it much more open-ended, and when you have the body of a teenager because you're, well, just barely beyond being a teenager, apparently that's enough to make a relationship really start going somewhere. And high time one did for this poor girl! Did you know it's been THREE YEARS since she last had a first date? THREE YEARS! How could anyone survive a drought like that! What hardship! What sacrifice! I mean, she hasn't been on a first date since she was EIGHTEEN! That's ages! That's, like...

Okay. She's 21.

But in her eyes, she's washed up. Career over, a worn-out single mom, ready to start shopping for cotton underwear. She hardly knows what to do on a first date. Juan Pablo, for his part, knew what he was getting into: "She seems kinda shy." Given his limited English, I'm going to fill in the word he must have meant to use: "vapid." However, he said he was having "a blast" as they jetted around the harbor in the auto/speedboat. What he didn't say was whether it was any more of "a blast" than he had when he took the thing out for the first time by himself and learned how to drive it the day before.

But despite the few words that made it past her ventriloquist lips (did anyone ever see her pronounce a consonant?), and the way she reached to touch the edge of the pan when they were cooking, Juan Pablo seemed satisfied enough at her qualifications to mother his own child that he gave her a red-petaled pass to the next round. Date One, Done.

Group Date: The soccer game failed to deliver the emergency room trip that would have resulted from a field full of bachelors (girls be dratted). Sharleen the Opera Singer probably came closest, and maybe we can blame a soccer ball to the face for the really difficult-to-watch kissing they attempted later. And in the wake of so many stolen kisses in and around the stadium and all the attendant jealousy, I was gratified to see the evening's rose go to Nikki, who settled for a hug. I was also pleased that no one talked about how relationships are like headers or that she'd be sure to score her goal of ending up with Juan Pablo.

The final solo date went to Chelsie, rather than Elise, who'd been complaining to anyone who would listen about girls--particularly Chelsie, her rival for a date card--who were too young. Juan Pablo, she was sure, was looking for a mother for his daughter, not another child to raise.

Some other girl: How old do you think Chelsie is?
Elise: I don't know.
Some other girl: Maybe 25 or 26, I think.
Elise: Really?
Some other girl: And you're...
Elise: 27.

Chelsie scored the requisite Intense Premature Bonding Over Shared Danger date, which involved bungee jumping in this case. After much dread and indecision and reassurance that it didn't matter, that she could do whatever she wanted, she decided to go for it, and she did it WITHOUT ONE WORD about relationships being "like a freefall" or that they require you to "take a leap of faith." Bravo! And at dinner they seemed to hit it off way more naturally than the Premature Bonding would have me expect. Shockingly, she actually knew the band playing for their (surprise!) private concert, though I did not. (The musical product placement clearly failed when "Billy Grngdn" was the best I could capture for my notes. Currington, it turns out, so I had it about right unless you're a mightily insulted country music fan. Sorry.) Her singing and dancing along made this the first private concert that didn't seem acutely uncomfortable. I like this couple.

Finally, in lieu of a cocktail party, Juan Pablo showed up at Bachelor Mansion with breakfast fixins' to surprise the girls in the early morning. Not terribly early, it seemed. The sun was fully up and the rooms were completely bright when the li'l angel darlings smelled meat and pulled off their sleep masks. Top marks go to Renee the Kindly House Mother, who didn't fuss with her hair or makeup (or even brush her teeth) before going to the kitchen. And still looked like Jennifer Aniston. This fact did not escape Juan Pablo's notice: "The girls look great in piyamas," he said.

The obvious next step? A pooparty! he declares. A small cadre of girls did not completely understand this expression, and thought it was still a cocktail party. I'm not sure of the source of the confusion. The words don't sound anything alike. Nevertheless, while Juan Pablo, his chest, and a bevy of beauties took to the pool, Cassandra, Sharleen, Kelly the dog lover, and some blonde girl we later identified as Christy stood at the side of the pool in full makeup and curled hair, holding stemware and recoiling from the water. And complaining about Kat "throwing herself" on Juan Pablo by, I dunno, playing in the poo at a pooparty.

In the end, Christy ("Sparkle Shorts") and Lucy ("Free Spirit") went home. Christy regretted that she hadn't opened up more. If she opened up to the camera about as much as she opened up to Juan Pablo, I see the problem. Lucy, who certainly made the most of her camera time while she had it last week, graciously wished the best to everyone else. She wiped her tears with a hand adorned with her $7000 Cartier love bracelet (thank you for the spot, Kathleen) and walked out barefoot, carrying her $700 Christian Louboutin shoes (thank you, Cheryl). Someone, somewhere, has been keeping an adding machine tape running on the price of everything the professional free spirit ("unemployed princess child of rich parents") from Santa Barbara has worn in her brief stay in Bachelor mansion. I'd love to have it, and I'd love to know what else we'll never see from her suitcase.

So there we are. Two children gone, a play house still full of other children, a really pretty Fairy Goodmother, and a few grumpy alcoholic nannies. Perhaps it's time they all grew up, eh?

(Shameless grandchild promotion.) Many thanks again to my rescuers last week, who filled in spectacularly while I took care of my own mother (in law). I've had great stay, but it's time to head home. Back to the sandbox!