The girl who preferred the cameraman.
That crazy bitch from Anaheim.
The hawt non-kissing nanny.
Bachelor, I can't quit you.
Since that faithful day back in March of 2002, The Bachelor had me at Will you accept this rose? Feminism be damned, I ate up every moment of this newest reality trainwreck. And when Trista burst onto the scene in all her post-cheerleading glory, I was cheering at my TV screen as she and sensitive firefighter Ryan (Does anyone else remember those pictures he used to draw for her?) tied the knot while dozens of helicopters circled their ceremony. And I think I might have been the only one that watched that lame ass special about their (incredibly boring!) bachelor and bachelorette parties.
I drooled over winemaker Andrew Firestone (still my all-time fave!) and chuckled with funny guy turned kissing bandit Bob Guiney. I crossed my fingers that older bachelor Byron would choose one of the Cougars rather than one of the twenty-somethings brought in to create drama and even held my breath as super boring Bachelorette Meredith gave her final rose to Ian. I was officially a Bachelor junkie.
However, my interest started to dwindle around season seven. I wasn't quite sure if it was due to the recent birth of my first child or Charlie O'Connell's overall lameness. But either way, I fell off the wagon for a few years, leaving diehard fans like Lisa to fend for themselves on Mondays nights. (Sorry about that!) I just couldn't sign off on that fake prince, the football player or the guy with the accent. To my husband's delight, I declared I was done with The Bachelor forever.
But then came single dad and complete DOUCHEBAG Jason Mesnick. I was drawn in all over again, fascinated why an attractive man with a young child would choose such a path to meet their soulmate. How in the world his ex could have ever signed off on such a thing. I was so pissed that I even put it on my official "If I Go-Go this is a No-No" list. But even in all my righteousness, I recognized damn good TV when I saw it. And I think we can all agree that, for once, Chris Harrison wasn't exaggerating when he stated that it was going to be THE MOST DRAMATIC AFTER THE FINAL ROSE CEREMONY EVER.
So I was back. The next season, I found myself screaming at my TV every time Jillian gave hot two-timing asshole Wes a rose and stifling a giggle as Jake cried over the balcony in his high-waisted pants. It was too good not to blog about.
I'll be honest- I wasn't thrilled when I heard that the producers had chosen Jake, the previously mentioned high-waisted pants wearing crybaby. I had been hoping for Reid, who I had harbored a secret crush on the previous season. So I was pleasantly surprised as Jake was introduced to all the new girls moving into what I like to now call "Crazytown".
But what surprised me the most wasn't the fact that they cast someone like Michelle from Anaheim, who seems clearly unbalanced, but that Jake wasn't the complete snoozefest I'd thought he'd be. It was what kept me coming back for more, despite that RIDICULOUS amount of flying puns during the first cocktail party. And must we even bring up the "On the Wings of Love" flying montage? *Gag*
Despite that, he earned my respect (the term "respect" being used loosely here) by kicking that nut Michelle to the curb immediately after she demanded to kiss him and then deemed it unworthy when no tongue was involved. And I couldn't have been happier than when he called that Mary Poppins wannabe Elizabeth out on her cock-teasing and then sent her packing.
And as I anxiously await the knowledge of which two women will be shamed when their precious roses are thrown in the fire and to witness the next Ali/Vienna catfight, I realize that I've reached an all-new low in my reality TV watching. (Well, unless you count that Jersey Shore marathon when I was sick.) But I don't care. I'm proud to say you'll find me sitting in front of my television each Monday at 8pm. You know you want to join me!
xoxo, Liz