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!

Juan Pablo #2: With a Little Help from My Friends

I don't want to die.

It's got nothing to do with disease or catastrophe or everlasting judgment--those things are going to be whatever they are, and I can't do a whole lot about them right now. Well, I guess I can work on that whole "do unto others thing," but that's beside the point.

No, the terror of dying for me right now is in what comes after. Somebody will go through all my stuff and comment on it, and there's only two ways for that to play out. A) "What a slob!" or B) "What an obsessive freak!" No one, in the middle of a post-decease house-cleanout, looks up and says, "Only a truly noble and gracious and wise human being could have stored batteries the way she did."

That's what I've been doing this week: digging into the private lives of people who can't defend themselves. (Anybody surprised?) When Steve and I moved to Saudi Arabia, leaving my elderly mother-in-law with no family nearby, she moved to a furnished place near Steve's brother. Now that she's comfortably settled there, it's time to clear out her old house while I'm in the U.S. and available to help. My father-in-law, her husband, passed away a few years ago, so going through all the stuff puts me squarely in the commentary box, where I'm scoring demerits against the time when I move into the pine box myself and my dear ones take over the commentary seat. I earn those demerits by commenting on things like this, the box full of retired phones:

(Retired, I believe, because they didn't work. And kept because, I believe...?)

And my darling great-grandmother-in-law and her cousins! If you've ever caught yourself laughing at the size of a bow on a baby girl's head, the photo suggests the trend is far from new:

And oh! The long-expired tax documents, kept in labeled boxes and portfolios! I was already tsk-tsking over the portfolios labeled 2000 and 2002 when I removed one and found this:

But wait! What's that I see to the right?

Yes. And the outside of the box was telling the truth.

But were all boxes telling the truth? I opened this one to make sure I really was about to put a modem (rather than, say, a gold ingot) into the Goodwill pile:

Hold it. There's a box INSIDE of a box. Open that to find...

I DON'T WANT THIS TO HAPPEN TO ME. Upon returning to the U.S., I will go through EVERY box I've packed away and weigh the merits of EVERY single item before I return it to the personal collection somebody is going to judge me for. Why? Because I'm among the class of people that don't actually want everyone on earth to know everything about their most personal selves. You know, the class that The Bachelor might make us forget actually exists. The one that would provide no one to dissolve into tears in a bathroom over a sketchy man she barely knows. No one to bare it all on national television...four times. You know, the one that provides people for the commentary boxes, rather than the glass-fronted pine boxes.

There actually are a lot of commentators, which is good news for me. Locked as I am in a house with no television this week (?!??!?!), I had to call upon friends for blog help. Kristy the Great and Powerful, whose own genius blog is here, volunteered to do the guest spot. But I asked a few others to give me some live-blog commentary to see what kind of a mashup we might end up with.  Our supplemental commentators are an ad exec, a non-profit program manager, a sociology professor, and an art historian. (This is supposed to make you feel as if watching this show doesn't actually make you dumber.) I loved watching the comments come in through the evening, and I figured out pretty quickly I was missing a great week. I hope you enjoy the results as much as I enjoyed watching it come together!

The Naked Truth

by Kristy Steele
(with parentheticals from fellow commentators)

I’ve seen a lot of crazy things over the years watching The Bachelor, but I have to say I never thought I would witness a moment when the words, “We’ll both be naked so we’ll be okay,” would put a woman at ease. Either Juan Pablo has a special gift or he is on a dating show with a lot of needy women. 

One shocking! twist! in tonight’s episode was that not everyone would actually get a date--solo or otherwise--with their potential future husband that week. It was pretty devastating news for a bunch of women anxious to lay claim on words like, “let my guard down,” “vulnerable,” “put myself out there,” and “connection.” But it was great news for Clare, who managed to secure the first one-on-one with Juan Pablo. You remember Clare, the blonde one who squeals every time JP enters the room? Some might say Clare came on the show to find true love and NOT to patch up unresolved issues surrounding the fact that just like the word team, apparently there is no i in Clare. I’m undecided. 

When Juan Pablo came to pick up Clare, housemates in tow like a swarm of worker bees surrounding their queen, he whipped out a scarf to tie around her eyes so their date would remain a surprise. Now, usually when a guy blindfolds you and puts you in his car you’re supposed to be screaming in your head, “NEVER GO TO THE SECOND LOCATION!” and claw your way out at all costs. But throw in a few cameras, a TV host, and 25--sorry, twenty-SEVEN--former homecoming queens and instead you’re whipping out phrases like, “He smells like heaven in a bottle,” and earning yourself a center spot in a hot tub. It’s the American way. When the blindfold came off and revealed a Winter Wonderland in the middle of Los Angeles, her breath was naturally taken away. Don’t worry, she got it back just in time to kiss him and tell him, “You taste like snow.” You heard it here folks, this Latin lover single Dad tastes like…water. Cold, flaky water. It’s okay, though. She made up for it later by avoiding clichés when describing their date as a “perfect fairy tale.” 

(AdExec says Clare is "cray-cray." She is also sure Clare's deceased dad must be very proud of the way Clare is finally "putting herself out there." NonProfit expresses her usual discomfort with private concerts.)

The next lucky winner of the coveted one-on-one date was Kat. Unlike Clare’s “Let’s chill out” invitation, Kat was informed on her note, “I can feel the electricity.” At first I was confused because they were led to a private jet, which seemed anything but electric. That’s when it hit me, “OOOhhh, it must be a PRIUS jet.” The two hopped on and Kat was left in the dark about their destination until Juan Pablo whipped out what looked like missing paraphernalia from an Olivia Newton-John video and told her to put them on. I guess the thing about being a size negative zero is that flashing neon workout clothes don’t look that bad on you. It is finally revealed that they have arrived in Salt Lake City, UT to head up an “Electric Run”--a 5K race done at night with everyone dressed in glow-in-the-dark gear. They are greeted by a screaming mob of glowing runners whose race culminates near a stage where Kat and JP are leading a dance party with thumping music and screaming fans--likely the same lot who made Stephenie Meyer a millionaire--and an elusive rose in soft focus behind the exuberant couple. JP grabs the rose. “Kat?” he yells into the microphone as the crowd completely loses their mind, “Will you accept this rose?” It is in this moment that I desperately want her to say “No.” Please, Kat? Just this once? Say no and watch the lights go out in the stadium. It’s better for ratings. My hopes are in vain as she shouts back, “YES!” into the microphone and her voiceover declares, “It was like we were the only two people there.” Garth Brooks once winked at me at an outdoor concert in San Diego so I know what she means. 

(AdExec says that sexy photo shoots help sell dogs. Fact. And she would know. But she did not know that Lehi, Utah is an awesome destination for electric rave parties, even though she lives nearby. I doubt anyone knew that.)

My clothes are beginning to feel cumbersome so I must be ready to discuss the group date. If this experience could be summed up by Prince Humperdinck it would go something like this: “I’ve got an attorney to disrobe, dogs to save, a bipolar legal assistant to send home, and a Creative Director with an oompa loompa beard to please. I’m swamped!” Not that a photo shoot with dogs while having to dress as a fire hydrant doesn’t sound like something I instantly want to add to my bucket list, or that a category 9 meltdown by a drunk 24-year-old who is REALLY confused about the Heimlich (HeimLICH!) Maneuver wouldn’t be fun to witness, but this date earned train wreck status and it’s only week 2. 

(EVERYONE took delight in "Hymen maneuver." ArtHist wonders how Juan Pablo will feel when his daughter someday hears him reassuring a woman who doesn't want to take her clothes off that "It's okay, I'll do it with you." NonProfit keeps a sizable list of red flags to watch for in people, and added "When I'm mad, I'm really, really mad, and when I'm happy I'm really, really happy" to it. Despite her background she did learn something new last night from The Bachelor: there's a fine line between a hippie and a sex offender. SocProf gives JP points for not giving the rose to the naked cop and for not engaging with the crazy drunk lady. She's hoping having a kid will make him a little more on guard against the crazy. ArtHist (on whom you can count for spotting larger themes) points out that getting naked always buys you more time in the Bachelor house, but that getting messy drunk always gets you sent home.)

My votes: 

• Date Favorite: Elise. Unlike Oompa Loompa beard man, she knows the real meaning of a role model. 
• Best Quote: Kelly. “The date card said ‘say cheese’. I would assume it’s a photo shoot but maybe it’s eating cheese. I’m good at both so I’m alright with either one.” 
• Most Likely To Serve Up Dandelions As An Appetizer At The Clothing Optional Wedding: Lucy. Obvs. 
• Lamest Observation and Therefore My Favorite Observation: Lauren, who said Pablo was looking extra hot because “he’s wearing blue and his arms are showing.” Good news for Lauren! If JP doesn’t take her to the altar, she still has options: 

• Modest Is Hottest!: Andi, for bringing a one-piece bathing suit to the mansion. “Being naked is not my comfort zone. I mean, I send people to jail every day for a living.” 

At the conclusion of the group date from Hugh Heffner meets PETA’s playbook, Juan Pablo awarded Kelly, the one painted brown with white spots, with a rose for being the “best sport.” Painted spots trumped nudity. Note to Lucy: Dalmation costume for the next date, all the way. Ultimately, it was Amy and Chantel who got the boot. Amy seemed surprised that her newscaster role play failed to impress her audience, but I think she gets it now. Chantel, Chantel. You couldn’t help yourself could you? The shock, the tears, and then the ever predictable, “I thought we had a connection.” Yes, well, I thought I would share my skinny grandma’s metabolism. We all have our ups and downs. One day your prince will come and whisper those precious words, “We’ll both be naked so we’ll be okay.” And it will be.