Mi Harem Es Tu Harem

One of the more glorious aspects of having several roommates is getting to have like-minded souls to watch TV with. Bad TV in particular. Last night I came home from a spectacularly boring online date (note to the men of DC: when meeting a woman, kindly remove whatever is lodged up your butt before hanging out with her) to find two of my roomies watching Dancing With the Stars. This particular episode wasn't especially interesting. Steve Saunders looked pretty stiff, Billy Ray is too heavy on his feat, and my roommate K has a crush on Apollo Ohno's dancing partner.

What was much better was the delicious train wreck that followed: The Bachelor.

I have never quite been able to get into this show. The fact that it revolves around a man living in a mansion with a bunch of chicks who all want to date him sets off my feminist alarm bells to the point where they threaten to deafen me. I can't wrap my head around why anyone woman would volunteer for such a debacle. Unless it's merely for fame.

I start to feel a little nuts when I even *suspect* that the guy I have the hots for is into other women as well. I can't even imagine what it must be like to live in that kind of environment knowing that whatever he's doing with you, he's doing with a bunch of other people that you then have to make nice with. Human beings are simply not hardwired to survive and thrive within such environments. But such is the manufactured world of "reality television."

Also amusing is how often this guy invokes the word "connection." Last night I watched him tell many ladies how deep a "connection" he felt for them, completely without irony as if the fact that having a "connection" with so many people basically renders the term useless. Who doesn't this guy feel a "connection" with?

My absolute favorite aspect of the episode was the over-use of what is now my favorite term on earth: "special alone time." It sounds so perfect for a heart-shaped bed with satin sheets, sickly sweet champaign and Barry White fluttering through the hi-fi speakers. From now on, whenever I refer to getting it on, I will call it "special alone time." Ew. It sounds even better when an under-fed bottle blond whines about "not getting enough 'special alone time'" with the Bachelor.

And what about that chick with the sprained ankle? Way to milk that injury, girl. Hey, if appealing to his need to rescue and nurture is what it's gonna take to win, I completely applaud your strategic thinking skills. I loved how angry the other women seemed over the fact that she was using her injuring to gain sympathy. I almost expected them to roll into the next scene with an array of new injuries themselves.

Look! I broke my arm!

Hey! I have a concussion!

What about me? Check out my spinabifida.

There was also the de rigueur backstabbing and cattiness expected of women trapped in a house with nothing to do all day but be filmed waiting for a guy to pay attention to them. I can't remember exactly what happened. Rumors were spread, mind-games played. Whatevs.

In the end, the manipulative gossip-mongers were sent packing and the remaining women all look exactly alike to me.

As for the Bachelor himself, he's kind of a dullard. Cute, but not overwhelmingly so. Naval officer/doctor/aspiring astronaut. He's the quintessential "good on paper" guy. Too bad the workers at the plant where he was assembled forgot to implant his personality chip. Not that the ladies seem to mind. Quelle shock.


Spicing up the experience was the fact that I spent this whole time text messaging with a boy. Or two. My roommates even helped.

Me: How do you spell asphyxiation?
Them: What the hell are you doing?
Me: Text message flirting. Now how do you spell asphyxiation?

Did I mention I am a total text messaging stud? But which one will I give the rose to? Stay tuned...