…at 3:30 in the freaking morning. Couldn’t live tweet it because I had the chance to see “Rock of Ages” five days before it’s released to the rest of the world and I grabbed it. So now I’m sitting here looking through slitted cock-eyes — slitted because there was too much sodium in that low-sodium soy sauce and cocke-eyed because I’m trying to watch a bunch of guys whining about how each of them should’ve been the one Emily took on a one-on-one date and not Sean the insurance salesman, who IS — by the way — the safest choice for Emily. He’s gorgeous and seems to be shockingly normal. So for me, it’s Sean from here on out. Meantime, I get to listen to Emily give Sean a tour of London, a la Brad Womack. “This is the castle where Princess Diana lived. Here. In London. Which is where we are. And the next time you visit London, don’t forget to pack your Crest white strips. Like me. I’m Emily the Bachelorette.” DAMN, Emily. There’s a point where white teeth get a little scary. By the way, I have to stop and admire the effort it took for Emily to do the reach-around hair twirl while letting Sean know the history of the prison in which they dined. “Isn’t this romantic? King Henry beheaded his wives here. Now I’m going to drink red wine without fear because I now own stock in Crest white strips.”
So as I try to pay attention to the TV, what else is going on? Emma Kelly just had the final dance recital of her illustrious dancing career. Yes, it was a moving moment. I got a little misty-eyed thinking about all the Monday afternoons to come that aren’t filled with me begging, pleading, threatening, cajoling, bribing and beating her into a leotard and through the doors of that dance studio. I was also a little misty-eyed realizing my daughter wasn’t going to be one of those girls up there 10 years from now, dancing on the performance squad with pure love and abandon. Oh well. Emma Kelly’s mama’s not a dancer. Emma Kelly’s not a dancer. Moving on!
Dang. Emily sure is TAN. It makes her teeth even whiter. And now I’m really frightened.
So EK’s daddy thinks she should either play tennis or model. Yeah. I’m all about building up my daughter’s portfolio and then taking her to an audition where she will proceed to bury her face in my butt and keep it planted there despite all the begging, pleading, threatening, cajoling, bribing and beating. Well, no beating. People would be watching. I don’t know what it is about my kid. If you want her to perform, FORGET IT. But if you take her furniture shopping, for instance, she suddenly decides that this particular furniture store could use a dancer. So she is going to going to use every square inch of available space to show off her dancing skills while advertising the merchandise. Then she begs me to let her dance for strangers while asking them for money. Yeah. Where’s Miss Personality Plus when I desperately need her to show up? Oh yeah — face-planting in my butt. So if Daddy wants EK to model, Daddy can deal with it. I’ll sign her up for piano.
I’ve got to go pay attention to this Bachelorette mess. Apparently all the previews showing Emily telling someone to get the F out involve this Kalon person and I need to give this my undivided attention.