No Thanks. You Can Keep Your Stupid Rose.

The only thing more surprising to me than The Bachelorette's DeAnna choosing Jesse over Jason at last night's Rose Ceremony is the fact that I actually sat and watched it. Disgusting, I know. But really, what choice did I have? If I wanted to spend any quality time with my husband last night I was going to have to share him with all those morons on the Bachelorette. After ten years of marrriage, I am still rattled by my husband's fascination with this reality show and its ugly stepbrother, The Bachelor.

Any of you who know my husband are probably scratching your heads in disbelief. Join the club. We're talking about a guy who has surfed daring waters all over the world, traveled by seaplane to remote fishing resorts in Alaska, and has snowboarded the backcountry of Utah. He's an outdoorsman, a true man's man. He greets his friends with, "Hey there, tough guy!" He's ruled by logic, common sense, and answers only to the voice of reason (which of course means I'm ignored much of the time around here). So it begs the question, "Why, why in the name of all that is masculine does he like watching this show?"

I've posed this question more times than I can count over the years. As a matter of fact, I bring it up every time he makes me sit down and watch one of these excruciating episodes with him. And with the dreamy eyes of a teenager watching High School Musical for the first time he says, "I don't know. I guess I just like to figure out which guy she's gonna pick."

So each week I sit on the couch, squirming, crawling out of my skin for an entire hour while perfect strangers throw themselves at eachother, cry like little girls (I'm talking about the men here), and declare undying love and devotion to someone they've only known for twenty days in the Bahamas. It's completely unrealistic, voyeuristic and pukey enough to make me hack off every rose in my neighbor's yard. No offense, Muriel.

And for the life of me, I can't figure out why he wants to watch it with me. I'm a nightmare. Throughout the entire show, I'm yelling at the TV and at him for making me watch it. I curse these desperate fools for their shallowness, their "ho"-ness. I scold their friends and families for putting up with it. All the while he ignores my rants and continues to watch, peaking between the stars dancing in his eyes. Every so often he'll lift up his head which has been resting amorously on the arm of the couch to invite me over for a cuddle with him, probably hoping to quiet me down long enough so he can hear what they're saying.

My only consolation is that I don't have to deal with midweek Bachelorette "rehash". That's taken care of by the girls at his office. As the ladies chat between cubicles about the previous night's episode, my husband will suddenly interject from his office across the hall, "I know! I can't believe she dumped Jeremy! He was so much better for her!" I feel nauseous just imagining the looks on their faces.

It just shows to go you that everyone, even the Chuck Norrises of the world, need a little wiggle room. Fine. Watch the stupid show. But just don't expect me to ever jump up and down over a bouquet of roses. Those flowers were goners eight seasons ago. You're better off bringing home two tickets to the Bahamas. And if you're good, I'll let you hold my hand as we ride horses along the shore, the Carribbean ocean water lapping up our legs and the wind blowing through my hair, just like on episode ten with DeAnna and Jesse.