Why Courtney is the evil genius who broke the Bachelor mold

…But first, my thoughts on reality tv as a whole.

I hate reality television. Outwardly, outspokenly, despise it’s entire existence. I’m not an advocate for Survivor. I don’t go ga-ga for Teen Mom. I could care less about the Jersey Shore. I hate that we’ve made these people famous entirely because of their incredible lack of talent and extreme idiotic human behavior.

However.

Have I maybe possibly by chance gotten sucked into an occasional Kardasian Marathon? Abso-freaking-lutely. And why? Because it’s fun to make fun of these people. To hate and envy (sometimes) them at the same time. To yell at the screen about what horrible, rotten, spoiled, moronic failures of human beings they are.

And honestly, for me, it’s just very therapeutic.

So it really shouldn’t come as any shock to anyone, that the one reality show I allow myself to watch on a strict weekly basis is The Bachelor. Because it allows me to yell and laugh and envy and loathe and love all at the same time. It’s like drugs. And probably most unfortunately, I am addicted.

I don’t love the Bachelor. I actually think it’s one of the worst shows in the history of ever to be put on the air….But that’s also why it’s so brilliant.

Allow me to explain. Take a show like The Jersey Shore for example. A reality tv show that has made its fortune off a bunch of drunk guido meatheads getting unapologetically intoxicated and then having sex with even more unfortunate wannabe versions of themselves. And then we, as Americans, glorified and exhalted this behavior and put Snookie as a guest star on the View. Mad props Hollywood. And hey, I think it’s great. Whoever marketed that show is incredible. They made being an asshole on public television not only socially acceptable but also an enticing cultural phenomenon. Now Frat houses all across America have a place in their household that can finally be accurately named “The Smoosh Room” without apology. Well done.

And yeah.. that’s bad. But in my mind, the Bachelor is still worse. Because Jersey Shore is what it is. It doesn’t try to hide the fact that the reason behind the show is to get drunk and fight and meet random girls in bathroom stalls (that shit cray..). They lay out all their trashy crude behavior on the table and with their middle fingers in the air declare you can take it or leave it because we’re not hiding anything.

And I admire that bold honesty. Not enough to ever go home with someone who refers to themselves as “Pauly D” but still, I respect that at least he’s honest about his intentions.

This is where The Bachelor is worse. Because in a lot of ways… it’s the same exact thing. But you’d never know that, because the absolute trash of it is hidden behind designer dresses and lavish dates and exotic locales. It looks like the classiest reality show around. In truth? It’s filth.

How’s that for bold honesty? That’s right Chris Harrison, I think your show is disgusting. I’ll still watch, I’m a loyal viewer, but mostly because I’m both appalled and impressed how this trainwreck operates so smoothly every week.

Because here’s the bottom line: there’s Snookie (wasted) eating pickles in her slippers that are bigger than her head cussing out her ex-boyfriend on a banana phone at 3 AM…and then there’s 25 girls forced to stay together in one place all falling in love with the same guy who gets to date all of them at the same time while the alcohol flows and the cattiness grows.

And I believe one hundred percent that feelings on this show are real. These girls (and guys) really fall for eachother. Which is why it’s also so terrible. We’ve made real, true miserable heartbreak.. entertaining. We watch as these people’s raw emotions are on the screen for all to see and we judge them accordingly. Feelings so private, just thrown across national television like some big media spectacle.

We’ve made it seem “romantic” for one guy to take three different girls (one of which he SUPPOSEDLY is going to marry and be with for the rest of his life) back to “the fantasy suite” (cough, cough smoosh room) in one weekend and for that to be COMPLETELY NORMAL AND OK!

Um right. In a real relationship? If your “boyfriend” had sex with two different girls the same weekend as you and said it was to help make his decision easier to decide what relationship was stronger to decide who he was going to marry, you’d probably stab him. Or at least want to. That’s called a dead-end deal-breaker. That’s fucked up. That doesn’t WORK.

Which brings me to some quick facts to prove that point:

-There have been 22 seasons of the Bachelor.

-…only 2 couples who got engaged on the show are still together.

….. fail.

And do you want to know why? Because this show stopped being about “Finding Love” a long time ago (or maybe never). It’s a publicity stunt. It’s about entertainment. When these girls lose, we as viewers win. I’m not an expert on love by any means but something tells me, they’re not doing it right.

Anyway, don’t get me started. The Bachelor is a show I love to hate. Which is why this season in particular is of extreme interest to me. Because one particular contestant has turned the tables on the show in a way that I have never seen done before.

Yep. I’m talking about that lovely sweet gentle kind girl every one is chatting about..Courtney Robertson.

Courtney is an evil frigid terrifying bitch.

…And I kind of love her for it.

Don’t get me wrong. We would never be friends. I think she’s a terrible human being. She’s cruel, and manipulative and two-faced and I’m pretty sure she left her soul in Santa Monica because god knows I’ve yet to see her show even the slightest bit of compassion or remorse for anyone other than herself on the entire show.

She’s a real life fairy tale villain. She’s tricked the prince. She’s destroyed all opposition. She pretty much killed any other princess in the vicinity. It’s not the Bachelor anymore. It’s the Courtney show. And I think she’s a genius.

I’ve said for weeks this girl is going to win the whole thing. Not because her and Ben are a match made in Heaven. On the contrary, I don’t think dear ‘ol Court will be allowed anywhere near the pearly gates upon her demise. But instead.. because from the very start this girl worked the game. She’s not trying to win Ben’s attention. She’s made it the other way around. She has single-handedly changed the rules and premise of the entire show. She changed the formula the Bachelor banks on. Ben is only a pawn in her evil diabolic plan.

I will bet mad cash in that Courtney will win the Bachelor this season. And yes, I said win on purpose. Because this is a game for this girl. And she has executed it brilliantly. Do I think Ben will propose to her? Yes, I do. And then I think she’ll leave his californian, frizzy headed winemaking brokenhearted ass for a trade-up to something more glamorous, more rich, more famous. This is a girl with an agenda. A plan. And I don’t doubt for a second she’s going to get what she wants.

Which is why I love her. Because FINALLY someone is treating this show like it should be treated. To stop pretending it’s not some game. That there’s a winner and a loser. That it’s not as much about finding love than outdoing and outlasting the competition. I don’t believe her for a second that she loves Ben or wants to be with him. I think she’s an actress. She manipulates the camera. And I sincerely hope someday, someone finally realizes she melts when you pour water over her head.

So until then, bless you Courtney and your empty callous evil soul. I hope you win. I hope you destroy Ben. Because that’s what the Bachelor is all about. Smoke and mirrors. Except this time.. you’re the one who’s doing the fooling.

….Bravo, bitch.

Don’t forget to stop and scold the roses

I woke up this morning with some serious anxiety.

I’m talkin’ through the roof, wake up one minute before your alarm with a feeling of dread in your stomach anxiety.

And no, I don’t think anything bad is going to happen today. In fact, I think it might be a pretty good Thursday. Not quite college-fratio-friday-esque but still…. a decent day.

..However, at the same time, today is the day that Petra comes home from New York. Which means even if I did a stellar job, I can pretty much guarantee that there is something I did wrong. And that I am going to hear about it. Which makes me wake up with severe anxiety. And fear. And an overall feeling of general dread.

Because I also really, really, really hate hearing about things I did wrong.

Don’t get me wrong. I can take constructive criticism. I’m good at trying to right my wrongs, fix my mistakes and improve on my errors. I can take the heat but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate hearing about how I’ve fallen short.

Which is why being told to follow her outside today so we could step away from the kids, made me feel like a dog with it’s tail tucked. Reallll cute.

.. Ahh, yes. Here it comes.

I am a multi-tasker. I’m organized, responsible and I really do make it my number one concern to do a job right if I care about it. Which I do in this case.

But according to Petra, I treat my job.. too much like a job. I don’t spend enough time playing. I don’t engage enough with the kids. I’m there. But I’m not really there.

…And the really, really annoying thing about constructive criticism?

When that person is right.

I’m just going to come out and say that I’m not the most maternal person in the world. I like being around kids. I love being around people so innocent and carefree. And I love Louis and I love Adina. But I’m a mom on my own terms. I’m very much aware of the fact that I am their nanny and not their mother. That I have other things to worry about. That this needs to be done, and this needs to be done and this needs to be done and I’m making mental lists and attempting to multi-task by ironing and making dinner and helping Louis with his homework all at the same time. And that I need to think about life past this and what I am going to have to do to stay in LA and trying to accumulate some kind of new friend group in California and worrying about maintaining my old friend group in Kansas City and making sure I don’t go broke, or become obese and did I let the dogs out? I can’t even remember. Is this too sugary for them? Can this be dried in the dryer? Is it after 4? I need to pick up the kids from soccer, swimming, theatre, baseball etc. etc. etc. and just before my brain explodes with an overload of things I need to accomplish before I turn 30… I look over at Louis and all the kid wants is a hug.

….BUT WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR A HUG!

Because he has a mountain of homework and he’s not getting any of it done. And that really annoys me. Because have some time-management kid! Be responsible!

GROW UP.

Then I remember he’s seven years old. And he would rather play with his toy cars then look up words that have the “oi” or “oy” sound.

So she’s right. I need to work on being in the same room as this little boy. To be there for him when he’s here. To realize that he’s a kid first and foremost. That that, above all else, is my number one job. To be his friend. To play with him.

And I guess that’s a good life lesson you know?

To be in the same room as the company you keep. Whether that’s a little boy you nanny for or your best friends. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in everything I need to get done and everything that I’m worried about.. someone could tell me my pants were on fire and I’d react the same way as if they’d asked me to pass them a beer. (Ok admittedly, this is a slight exaggeration.) But you get my point.

So.

Petra.

Just so you know.

(Though I doubt you’l ever read this)

I’m absolutely determined to make this more than a job. To not just succeed at being a good nanny but also improve as a person. To realize there’s always room for improvement. And that you are forever going to have to hear what you did wrong before you start doing things right.

To fail, and fail, and fail again. But most importantly, to always be able to look at the person next to you and realize, that sometimes, all they really need.. is a hug.

Happy Thursday.

M

K.I.S.S. (Keep it simple, stupid.)

“Meg?”

“.. yeah?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Are you ever going to have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t know Louis….It’s not looking good right now.”

“Well.. you should probably get on that if you ever want to have a baby.”

…Happy Valentines Day from sunny (and single)

-thanks a lot for the reminder Louis-

Malibu, California!

Louis actually refers to himself as

So after all the diamonds and puppies I got from adoring admirers… I thought I’d end today with some post-love day thoughts.

I don’t hate Valentines day. I don’t love it either. Yes.. occassionally, I wish I had someone in my life- but I’m also not sitting around shoving sugar in my mouth crying over The Notebook about how men suck and I wish I was at a nice seafood dinner with a princess cut diamond ring on my finger.

But hey, I’m a girl. You’d have to be pretty secure to not feel at least a teensy bit vulnerable on the biggest display of commercial love of the entire year. Not to mention I went to not one, not two, but three grocery stores today. Which by the way, I think is the major culprit in commercial Valentines Day self-inflicting pity. Walking in to one is like walking into a bad dream made of pink, red and white helium balls. And you’re all of a sudden surrounded by cupids and chocolate and banners and teeny conversation hearts screaming YOU FAILED VALENTINES DAY and your head starts to spin and just before you throw up and buy yourself flowers just to ease some hallmark related deep seated romance-lacking guilt… you reach the cheese aisle and come to your senses. I’m telling you. Grocery stores prey on the weak. Also, the easily manipulated into buying hummus. But that’s whole other issue.

Anyway, I’ll keep it short tonight.

I don’t love Valentines day. But I love how I feel about it. I love that I am the kind of person (much less girl) who doesn’t put her heart into every little materialistic demonstration of cheesy cliche love. That Adina, the 10 year old girl I nanny for, got chocolate-covered strawberries from an “admirer” today and I literally laughed at myself for being a teensy bit jealous of her. Because free chocolate? Duh, score.

It’s one day. And personally, I think it’s kind of a sweet day. As long as you keep it simple.

So what did I do? I ended it watching a movie with two kids who’s idea of a successful evening is who got more candy from their classmates. And I seriously couldn’t be happier about that. Because when Louis, my 7 year old ball of nannying joy, told me he loved me tonight, I knew he really meant it. It wasn’t–Oh I love you Meg. But only when you give me something. Or I love you.. but only if you love me back. It wasn’t I love you if you were a little bit smarter, or prettier or skinnier or richer. It was just.. I love you. And I think as a society, we forget that it really can be (and actually really should)… just that simple.

So whatever your thoughts on Valentines day are, I hope you at least try to keep a 7 year old’s perspective on the art of saying the perfect I love you.

And also…. please keep in mind that if you do have a boyfriend, according to Louis, it’s probably about time to have a baby. So…. good luck with that as well.

Happy Valentines day! ūüėČ

M

I WISH I only had 99 problems.

Waking up at 6 in the morning is a problem.

Luckily, I’ve always been a morning person.

Waking up has never really been the issue.

…The problem is, I’m also a night person. Which means I’m on my computer mindlessly shopping the J. Crew Sale section with money I don’t have and then I (obviously) have to ‘pin’ at least 40 things before bed because heaven forbid I win a million dollars tomorrow or meet the man of my dreams and I have to start putting my perfectly pinned virtual bulletin board to good use starting immediately. And before you know it, it’s 1 AM and I’m on the seventh episode in a row of Weeds and I’m considering opening a medicinal marijuana cupcake bakery instead of my current lifestyle choices and I remember that I have to get up in 5 hours and all of a sudden, I realize that tomorrow is going to be a very, very, long day.

And both of these things wouldn’t necessarily be an issue if it weren’t for the fact that during the middle of that following day, I fall into a waking coma, retreat into some creepy form of a zombie creature, lose all ability to actively communicate with the rest of the human race and can be pushed over a metaphorical cliff edge with a one wrong glance in front of the coffee machine from the perfect stranger.

And that my friends… that.

…is the real problem.

Because society hasn’t really ok’ed the whole cave creature routine I pull out every day around 2 pm. You aren’t supposed to grunt at the friendly individuals at the cashwrap at the local grocery store when they ask how your day is going. You aren’t supposed to feel instinctively close to vomiting at couples who are happy and in love and living their life like a little hallmark card as they pass you during your morning caffeine trip. As a 20-something, you’re supposed to be a healthy, well-adjusted, just-stumbled-out-of-bed-looking-like-a-detergent-and-neutrogena-commericial, perky, upbeat, Katie Holmes, Katherine Heigl, Reese Witherspoon member of society.

And don’t you DARE forget that.¬†

Perhaps, I’m the exception to this rule then. I’m still waiting for my skin to look like something out of a skin care commercial. And my disposition some days is closer to that dog from Sandlot than some cute heroin from the most recent chick-flick.

In short, my friends, I have failed.

But at the same time…

I feel like I kind of like it. 

I mean what’s a typical day without a little conflict?

For example:

Should I actually wear normal clothing today? Or should I attempt to pull off the yoga-pants-are-not-leggings-and-therefore-can-be-worn-in-place-of-actual-dress-pants-routine? Should I eat chipotle¬† straight carbs for lunch? Is that even a question? Paying extra for guacamole? Absolutely. Duh. It’s been one of those days. Should I see if I can pull off driving in the HOV two-passenger lane to avoid traffic risking the fact that there is no one next to me? Oh, that reminds me, I’m single and it’s Valentines day. Of course I am. And what is this creepy stain on my shirt? What is that? Is that…? Just don’t think about it. Probably guacamole. Dammit, I was supposed to turn back there. Sorry, sorry, female driver at the wheel! Promoting stereotypes for all! I love this song. I wish I could sing. Whatever, no one can hear me, I’m belting this shit. Except my window is open. Oh hi hot man.. who now knows I can’t sing. Wait! I have other redeeming qualities! Come back!!!! Ask for my number like in the movies! ¬†.. Is it Friday yet? It’s only Tuesday??? Screw it. Is it five yet? I need a drink.

And so on and so forth.

…But it’s more than that right?

Because ¬†it’s also the “I’ve had a few drinks and now I want to call my ex” problem. It’s the “I’ve had more than a few drinks and have actually called my ex (perhaps several times) and now I don’t know whether to die or keep drinking (most likely the latter)”. It’s the “I’ve gained ten pounds from eating my feelings from my ex never calling me back after I called him 5 times after a few drinks last Friday night.”

Yep. been there.

or how about…

It’s the “I went to a four-year institution GOT MY DEGREE, and now I’m working alongside people who deal pot in the kitchen with the fry cooks between serving patrons at an average food and beverage chain” ¬†It’s the “I’m employed at a job I hate, working by people who all hate their jobs, hating our insipid little lives in harmonious unity and I really, really hate that.” ¬†It’s the “I have no idea what I want to do with my life. I have no direction. I have no future. I wish I was back in college hungover on my couch. Wah.”

… believe me, been there too.

But here’s the thing.

All of these little problems, these things, people, situations that occupy our day after day after day in our 20’s? Well misery loves company right? And it’s a comfort to know that these same things we go through every single day, some one else (most likely several people) are going through as well.

That no one is Kate Hudson. Not even Kate Hudson is Kate Hudson. (Yeah, try that inception-esque mind trip on for size) No one’s biggest problem is trying to get rid of a super hot guy so we can write a story that will let us have free-rein in the most up and coming magazine in New York. And if this person exists, please show me her so we can kidnap her and force her to tell us her secrets.

So instead of dwelling on all of our little problems? Let’s dwell on solutions. Because it’s getting from point a (the problem) to point b (the solution) that are going to make us better women in our 30’s and beyond. Each crisis you fight through, LEARN from it.

Honestly, I’m a book of problems. I can’t get over some guy in my past. I can’t find a “real job”. I constantly have stains on my shirt and I should have probably gone to work out at least three hours ago before eating several spoonfuls of nutella in my bed while watching a lifetime movie marathon was even in my atmosphere. I drink too much on the weekends. Sometimes, I’m lucky if I get a chance to shower in the mornings. I’m awkward and under-dressed. I’m inappropriate and late. But honestly, these problems.. when you think about it, are what makes being in your 20’s so special. They’re so relevant to our age. Do you think when I’m 50, I’m going to be making blackout texts to some guy I used to date? For the love of all that is holy, I sure AS HELL hope not.

I'm a cool mom.

….Because that might actually be a problem.

So for now, let’s try to enjoy the things that make this time in our lives so unique. That we don’t have it all together but hopefully, through trial and error, through fail on fail on fail on fail.. we’ll get there. And we’ll be better, wiser, (dare I say more attractive?) women because of it. That each problem you go through in your 20’s, makes us one step closer to that chick-flick easy-breezy-cover-girl dream. And well if not?

Screw it.

…That girl kind of sucks anyway.

So here’s to all our 20 something problems. To being spastic, unprepared, clumsy, unlucky and occasionally (more often than not), drunk.

Yep, I said it.

Cheers to these years.

Cheers to being 22 and not knowing what the hell I want to do with my life.

Cheers to my problems.

Now drink up, it’s Tuesday and there are sober girls in China.

#20somethingproblems

m

Are you there Society? It’s Me, Meg.

It occurred to me while I was watching my 10th episode of 30 Rock the other day, that I am in the middle of a very specific women’s rights movement.

And I was instantly filled with a desire to take up my metaphorical picket sign and take a stand.

From my bed.

On my computer.

…But still. Times change.

We already got the whole voting during elections (yawn), owning land (whatever) , being able to marry without a cow dowry (ok, this I support), get out of the kitchen into the workforce (or for me.. the other way around)¬†thing out of the way . None of this is not the kind of women’s right movement I am speaking of.

So… what is it?¬†

Ok. Here goes. 

For pretty much forever, I felt like women entertainers have fallen into two distinct categories. Either you were pretty… or you were funny. And there’s been very little to no combination of the two. If you were funny, you were probably not sexy. And if you were sexy, you were probably not funny. Sure, there have been entertainers who’ve pushed the limit on this but as a general rule, this was the way of the world.

DUN DUN DUN.

Until now. 

LADIES (and gentlemen I guess? But let’s be real when I say that you probably stopped reading after I didn’t offer to make you a ham sandwich): We are currently being ushered into a new type of sexual revolution. Is this even the right terminology? Does that even make sense? I’m writing by the seat of my pants here I’m just so inspired. Too much coffee. Yikes.

I’m talking about the funny, pretty girl. I’m talking about the Tina Feys, Emma Stones, Kristen Bells, Chelsea Handlers and Kristen Wiigs of the world. The funny girls who wrote Mean Girls and Bridesmaids. They aren’t afraid to make people laugh. To offend. To be witty and smart and sexy at the same time. Who knew you could make people laugh without wearing cargo shorts (blechhhh) and some butch haircut? Even Ellen (GOD BLESS HER), as a outwardly lesbian comedian looks LIKE A GIRL (and dare I say, fierce?) and still is hysterical! Imagine that!

We don’t have to look like a dude to make people laugh.¬†

And while I don’t think we’re there quite yet, I think I’ve stumbled on something. And maybe it’s just me when I say I wish I knew that Megan Fox had a sense of humor. I think I’d like her considerably more.

…Probably not. But I would honestly really try.

I think that’s legitimately one of the coolest things I’ve ever thought of. My brain literally did cartwheels thinking about it. This is¬†so¬†much cooler than being able to vote. I kind of hate voting. I would much rather have really witty Victoria’s Secret models in society than elect another transvestite-molesting caucasian male congressman into office.

Politics are whatever.

I vote for laughter.

Maybe that’s just me.

In other news..

 *getting off of my soap box*

¬†life back on the nanny ranch is going swimmingly…. For the most part. We’ve had a couple potholes in our journey to Sound of Music tranquility involving shirt-folding quality (I seriously can’t get away from folding apparently, read: how shirts ruined my life in the past) and a slight debacle with mopping which won’t be spoken of but instead just remembered with fearful nostalgia. However, for the most part, ¬†I feel like I am rolling with the punches like a boxing weight champ, or a heavy-weight American Mary Poppins. Mostly, I am trying to monopolize on the idea of compromise. For instance, I have now started something that I will shamefully refer to as “secret microwaving.” It’s actually a pretty simple concept in that the fact that this family doesn’t have a microwave is slowly eating away at my efficiency. Basic logic: Less pots and pans used for cooking, less clean up for me. Less clean-up for me, more time to do other things.

Bing.

Bang.

Boom.

So in the name of multi-tasking, I have begun playing a little game entitled: “Can Meg get away with reheating things for the kids in the microwave in her room?” So far the answer is YES.

To me, it seems senseless to dirty another pot, when I can just reheat dinner from the previous night in my room for the kids lunches. It takes 30 seconds and half the amount of clean-up. And I know that they fear the electro-magnetic rays that enter their food when microwaved. I get that. But I mean come on, these are the same people who don’t make their kids wear a helmet on a street where people drive 45 in a 25 mile zone and rarely stop for stop signs. In the famous words of Ron Weasley:

They¬†need to sort out their¬†priorities.”

I know this will eventually probably get me in trouble. I can already hear the phone call with my mom. But for now… let me play this game. Cheap thrills ok? Electromagnetic rays coming right up! America: F*ck Yeah.

I’m actually really trying to go back to 1950 for this family. Really. I am. I am trying to make cooking into a relaxing, enjoyable process. But for me, the relaxing, enjoyable part of cooking is the eating part. I’m too concerned with getting shit all over the trillion dollar stove to enjoy the process itself. If something overflows, something inside of me dies. I have become new close and personal friends with Clorox and Comet products. I fight an eternal daily battle with their dishwasher, which though originally promoted to me as a “highly-efficient european appliance” as far as I’m concerned should be set immediatly on fire. Or they should get their money back like now. Because unless you pre-wash everything, nothing gets clean in that thing. It’s evil. And then it’s my fault. And because of this, I’m absolutely convinced it’s out to get me.

Anyway, enough complaining about kitchen appliances like a middle-aged, sexually frustrated housewife. If that’s my biggest problem, I think things are going pretty well!

In closing, I have an exciting announcement.¬†I have decided to start writing regularly for the blog girlsintheir20s.com. It won’t be live again for about another week, as they do some renovations, and though I am definitely going to keep writing here, I thought I’d give you all a chance to check out my first steps to getting published. It’s only a matter of time before I win a pulitzer right?!

Actually, I don’t think they give out pulitzers for complaining about dishwashers. It’s fine. We’ll get there.

Hey, it’s hump day! Do what you all do best.

..laugh, of course.

M