A new reality show: "OLD Batch"

 “OLD Batch”

A different version of

The Bachelorette

I still am completely flummoxed as to how single parents pull off the dating trick. I have tried here and there, but, the effort is so herculean and the preparatory tasks so daunting.

First there is writing clever, casual emails and/or online dating profile…witness long, exhausted eye-roll. Then if something slips through the cracks and you have a plan for coffee/tea, the next level of difficult tasks: bathing, picking an outfit, finding a sitter or setting up a playdate(which you KNOW you will have to reciprocate, so…it better be good), agreeing on a place to meet( just typing this makes me nauseous), locating your sense of humor. Then you muscle through the flit-flat conversation: “So, what kind of sculptures do you make?” “What do you do when you aren’t working?” And, even though you are dying to, you can’t go to a movie because you are supposed to be Getting to KNOOOOOOW one another. At the end, sighing and weary, you finally return to debrief and spend time with dear friends: sugar, butter, chocolate.

And now, there is a new friend to add to the fun: TV!

I have never had cable TV in my life…until now. And who would want to go to hell on a blind date when I can sit at home and watch other people’s dates on TV?

I confess that, from time to time, I have watched The Bachelor and The Bachelorette. Because the dating sounds so dreamy. I don’t have to plan it, or worry about a sitter or the money,I don’t have to be in my normal drudgery life. All I have to do is go on great dates all over the world and have a bunch of attractive men profess their(supposed) strong feelings for me.

  

One little glitch: I don’t seem to be the demographic(read young enough) for the Bachelorette casting directors.

So I’m going to propose another version:

MATE Batch:

MATE stands for Mature, Artistic, and Terrifically Educated Bachelor/Bachelorette.

Or, Wait.

Maybe We should avoid mincing words and call the show:

“OLD-Batch”

(“OLD” stands for Old, Literate, and Disheveled)

That’s pretty much on target.

There’s a certain ring to it.( “Join us next week when drama strikes the Bachelorette Mansion as Linley can’t locate her first edition Dickens “Great Expectations” and she is convinced Robert nicked it. However the truth will surprise and unhinge you…Don’t miss next weeks’ episode of OLD batch!”

AND there is some poetic justice to it as well! Because isn’t it we, the Mature/Old, Literate and disheveled people that really NEED the trip to Hawaii and/or Bali.

Or... the producers could look at this as a money saving venture. It would be cheap! Because a great date for all us Old Batchs would be a trip to a good bookstore, a walk on the beach, a meal prepared by someone else(doesn't matter who as long as my kitchen remains clean) and then chatting about and comparing  favorite characters from, say, Jane Austen, Michael Ondaatje and George Elliot.

And, let’s be clear, I’m no snob.

I’m in no way above talking about movie adaptations of great works.

The intrigue of the show-- rather than someone lying about whether they have a hometown girlfriends or boyfriends—would be,when a guy I thought I really liked actually can’t stand Jane Austen.

Gasp!

Can I spend the rest of my life with someone like that?

The plot could thicken when I try to reform and educate him. 

I would gently prod him:
”But it was YOU that said to me that you thought that Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley  had a real guy friendship. You SAID that. To ME. And that was a real turning point for me. When you said that, I knew that that you really cared about Jane Austen. But, I mean, do you? Do you even care about…”

And he would cut me off:

“Wow! You are really pushing this agenda. Look, I…I…I’m not ready to say…that I would read another Jane Austen novel. I…I don’t know if I can DO that. I mean, it’s only been six weeks! OK, I see your are disappointed. OK, wait, I mean, can we at least start with the movie version. I mean, maybe. Maybe in a year. I’d read another one.”

I nod my head solemnly and say quietly while interlacing my hands in his: “OK. Well, what about Michael Ondaatje?” He rubs his eyes and mumbles nearly inaudibly: “I don’t know if I can even deal with any fiction.” And he sighs heavily.

And I squeeze his hand and stroke his hair: “it doesn’t even have to be fiction! What about Malcolm Gladwell?”

The guy shrugs, closes his eyes and winces: “I have some issues with his fact gathering. What? Why are you making that face?”

Jump cut to me, talking to the host:

I knit my brow as I talk to the host: “I mean…I don’t want to wake up one day a year from now and find out he is just an engineer who works for Google and all he reads is the fricken’ New Yorker. OK? That’s not honest. You SAW him. There he was two weeks ago comparing Michelle Obama to Elizabeth Bennett. Now this. I just feel…I don’t know if I can trust again.”

Jump cut to Robert: He is in the Guy Mansion looking around guiltily as he picks up and reads…not the New Yorker…but People Magazine. Can it be true?!

I would totally watch and love this show. And, if I got to be on the the OLD bachelorettes, I could cancel my subscription to Match.com.

Very Tired Valentine: Ode to the Constantly Weary

Ode to the Constantly Weary

You know you are tired when…

When you bend down to pick up a pirate flag on the carpet and before you know it you are lying face down on said carpet with your eyes closed. And you think: “I am so lucky to have this carpet. It is the perfect place to lie down. I would be perfectly comfortable sleeping here all night.

Starting right now.”

You know you are tired when, while-maybe-lying on your carpet, you count the things you have to do before you can go to bed. And the first thing, to get up from the carpet, seems to be excruciating torture.

Then you become your own best Olympic couch. So starts the patter in your head:

OK! Great work making through the day. GREAT work! Now all you got to do is get up—we’ll break down that process later—get up and get the yummy roasted chicken from the specialty store out of the foil and cut up some for you and some for K. No sweat! Right? No need for salad dressing tonight. (Michael Pollen would approve; so you’ve got that.) Just break up the lettuce leaves and add some edameme and bingo! Dinner. It’s OK that you didn’t make the chicken. It’s totally fine that you bought another separate chicken to roast yourself last week and that it is sitting in your frig and slowly stinking up the place. It’s OK that you will throw $12.98 down the garbage shoot. Stop giving yourself a hard time.(you know, one of the reasons you are having a hard time getting up is that you are really hungry. And, yes, you were up from 2-4:30am last night gnashing your teeth about how to make money so it’s no surprise that you are tired and yes, you should have done some yoga breathing; but we don’t have to go over that now.) OK, slugger, time to get off the bench. Visualization is all well and good. All well and good, but you can’t win the game, if you don’t play. And winning = sleeping all night. And you can’t go to sleep in your cozy bed if you don’t get up now and feed yourself and your child. Then it’s just bath and then sleepy stories, a few songs and ZING, cozy bed here you come. Just stay away from that chocolate! Get away from the caffeine sugar mix. That was the problem last night. Come on! Up and at ‘em”

And even though the sweet siren song of that carpet continues to call, you get up. You get up and you stumble down the four flights of stairs to change the laundry and fumble with quarters. And as you trudge up the stairs, you think:

What on earth are we going to eat for dinner?

All there is in the Frig is that week old piece of pizza and stinking, rotting whole chicken. That chicken is just laughing at you because you thought last week that you could be Ina Garten and whip up a beautiful roasted chicken dinner, but you can barely face opening the silverware drawer.

Maybe if I lie down on the carpet and think a minute, I will come up with a good dinner plan.