Tag Archives: The bachelor

HOW TO PICK YOUR HUSBAND

STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Of late, my 8-year-old has been giving a lot of thought to marriage—and more specifically, to finding a husband. To wit: When her friend turned down several snack options in a row, El sought me out.

“Mom, she is a PICKY eater.  She’s going to have trouble getting a husband if she eats like that.”

And later:  “I think it would be good to know geometry before you try to get a husband, because…” She pondered.  “Because then you’d both know it.”

Right-o.  I mean, I’m not sure that both people knowing the difference between an acute and an obtuse triangle would qualify as being “equally yoked,” but it couldn’t hurt.

El’s musings got me thinking.  I watch The Bachelor, I admit it.  And, yes, I disrespect myself in the morning, but I am fascinated by what young women and men assume will make a relationship work.  Two minutes into meeting the prize—AKA, the bachelor—beautiful, seemingly bright women are passionately kissing this virtual stranger and claiming they’re sure he’s the one.  By the end of the evening, these same girls are sobbing inconsolably, because the bachelor has given their coveted rose to somebody else

Well, duh.

To all past, current, and future ABC bachelorettes:  I’m going to give you a little advice, and you should take it, because I’m a romance novelist, and I know about happily ever afters.

When you meet someone you consider forever-after material, keep your lips clamped unless you are opening your mouth to talk.  To talk, ladies.  You will not know he’s the one for you simply because you feel goose-pimply after he kisses you and fifteen other girls at an alcohol-soaked cocktail party.  (I’d feel goose pimply, too.  Eew.)  This is romance 101: Save your kisses for someone who’s kissing only you.

From now on, I want you to heed the wisdom of my 8-year-old:  At the very least, find out if you both like geometry before you begin doodling your name together with his on a cocktail napkin.

I tell my daughter all the time, “Marry your best friend.”  At the moment she’s taking me literally and is considering walking down the aisle with one of her girlfriends.  “’Cause we talk about everything, and we could share the same wedding dress, and wedding dresses are very expensive, Mom.’”

I question the practicality of two women and one dress in the same wedding, but I appreciate that she’s budget-minded and, for the moment at least, wise enough to want to spend her life with someone she knows, likes and respects.

As for The Bachelor/ette, Too Hot Mamas must send the show to the front of its Doody Head line asap.  Of course, I suppose I have to walk it there myself.

Wendy

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Filed under Children, Marriage

For the Birds

I am easily distracted.  As a writer, this is not good.  However, since I have begun writing all night long and sleeping in the mornings, my productivity level has dramatically increased.  Until yesterday.

He’s back.

The bird.

I write near a huge glass door that leads to a balcony.  Every year, robins build about a half-dozen nests in the nooks and crannies just under the balcony’s eves.  What’s cool about this is, each spring the kids can creep out on the deck, peer between the boards and see the baby birds all fat and fuzzy, open-beaked, screaming to be fed.  Kind of like them, come to think of it.

Anyway, along with the lady birds and their babies, comes the hero.  There to serve and protect.  And every year, this guy (this is his 4th year on duty) lands on the railing and gives his reflection the stink-eye.  I can practically hear the thoughts whirring in his bird-brain.  “Who are ya, ya barmy router?  Stay away from the ladies, ya handsome devil.  No?   You dare to puff yourself at me?  I’ll just have to fight ya then!” 

I’m not sure why, but in my head he has an Irish accent.  And so, he blows up to twice his size and begins to strut.  He’s adorable.  “Yer not leavin’ then?  Okay for you, ya rounder, you!”  Then, tail slashing, my hero proceeds to fashion a pile of droppings, apply a generous coating to his feet and then fly at his enemy.  AKA:  my window.  What amazes me is that the dogs can sleep through this.  The same dogs that will claw their way through the door to attack a gust of wind.

You know that sound it makes when you drag a fork across a chalkboard?  Yeah.  And, he keeps it up until the window is so coated with dung that he can no longer see his reflection.

All very conducive to writing.  And sleeping.  The Herald is back.  Spring is here.

Carolyn

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Filed under Writing

Dating at six

About “All dolled up, part deux…”_

I like that my daughter saw your son crap his pants.  I don’t know if you heard, but all through dinner she kept telling him, “You have to find your true love.  She could be in this restaurant.”  Probably she scared the **** out of him.

Anyway, this is good.  This is what marriage is really about.  First you meet your prince in the restaurant.  You go on a honeymoon and have babies.  Then you spend your golden years following him to the bathroom so you can help him wipe.

That is way more reality than The Bachelor will ever show.

Wendy

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Filed under Motherhood