And Therin Lies The Rub . .

I am having a problem. You always hear that the first step to fixing it, whatever it is, it admitting you have one. So I have one.

What it is, really, is that I’m writing shit. Shit. It’s a little bit of a concern for me, since it’s Everything I Want to Do. But you don’t have to take my word for it. Evidence:

“It would have been inspiring, if it didn’t want to make Joleen giggle, just a little bit. And she never, ever, giggled. She settled for biting her lip."

There are many problems with that selection, but most important among them is that I was entirely unaware, until last night, that I had been writing a shitty romance novel. The first issue of the night was grappling with how my MS became one, 200 pages in. Delete.

Secondly, Joleen and I, we have an understanding. She's tough, and she doesn't giggle. But does saying "she never, ever giggled," ruin that? I think so. And further, why can't I just let Joleen giggle? The bitch wants to giggle. She's been dealing with some shit. And she doesn’t even know what’s coming. Why do I deny her this moment of springing abandon? Do I know anyone who has never giggled? I think not.

Maybe, I think, the problem is that I am out of touch. Joleen is single, but she does not need to be as crazy as me. She has a penchant for shotguns and stick shifts. Surely, she will do better. She can pull through.

And that is why, I think, I ended up with waffles and screwdrivers at 1 a.m.

The trouble with waffles and screwdrivers is (and you really have to search to find one, because as a rule they are pretty fantastic any time of day) is that the when you get to the point where waffles and screwdrivers are on the horizon, it’s really only baby-steps from there onto much more damaging pursuits, like bad reality television.

Where before you had standards that would balk at “What Not To Wear Now” and “I Love New York,” late night snacking expands your appetite for voracious brain cell slaughter that knows no bounds.

The only upside to waffle-eating and channel flipping is that it (just barely) refocuses me on the task at hand. Ah, research. Joleen will conquer her giggling issue, I think. I will find other women who do not giggle. I will find a woman who has strength of character and a great rack.

Instead, I ended up being sucked in by “The Bachelor.”

I haven’t seen this show in years (probably because during the interim I had a life . . . I’m not sure where that went), but it appears that, if possible, it’s really taken a hit to the middle section.

This season of The Bachelor really amps the drama with the subplot tease, “An Officer and a Gentleman.”

I could interject here with the dangerous territory of anyone, multimillion dollar television industry or not, fucking with the ideal of Richard Gere in his pressed whites. Women need Richard Gere, and reality television shouldn’t be able to take that away.

While the gentle strains of “You Lift Me up Where I Belong,” play wilitingly in the background, we are introduced to Officer Andy Baldwin, Navy Doctor, national hero, humanitarian, and athlete.

What can ABC say, really? Andy likes puppies. He blows dandelions in the breeze. He’ll always let you have the last Dorito chip, and he has a huge dick.

“I just have so much to give,” he actually says, jogging along the beach shirtless and throwing a sexy smile back at us through the camera. “I’m rapidly approaching 30 and I want to find the love of my life.”

And he just happens to be single, through no fault of his own. Surely, ABC, you jest.

Let me tell you what’s really going on, and I don’t need nine more episodes, a tearful engagement, and the following week’s Tattler Magazine to figure it out.

Andy wants to pee on you.

It’s not his fault, because his father left when he was little, he has Mommy issues, and shit happens. But it’s the sad truth, and throwing twenty-five desperate, catty, overly-tanned women into a locked up house to fight it out isn’t going to change that.

I know what you’re thinking. “She’s bitter. She’s bitter, and she shouldn’t have had the second waffle.”

Okay, you’re probably right. I have a syrup addiction I can’t shake, Andy is a great guy, and urine washes off in the shower, so really what is the big deal.

The problem is that the show, like so many others…no, wait, there are no more shows like this because women have stopped watching them, present single women over a certain age with The Dream, that there are fantastic people out there that you, in all your neuroses, simply have not found.

This, my friends, is really why Joleen needs her shotgun in the first place.

If you can’t deal with a little pee here and there, well, who’s fault is it, really? But guys like Officer Andy, guys who get full-ride scholarships to Duke University, join the Navy and become doctors, are six-time Iron Man “finishers,” as he likes to call it, are all around you, and if you will put on a bad dress and sing “The Star Spangled Banner,” they too, will be moved to share their 401(k) with you.

Just as soon as you wash that stuff off your leg.