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All His Children

January 30, 2012

image via: Haines Shoe House

I once went on a date with a guy who had so many children he actually lived in a shoe. Or maybe it was a huge house in Greenwich. I forget now.

 

 

 

 

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Mildly My Type

January 23, 2012

Not me…but it could have been.

I had a date on a very very cold night in New York City. Very cold. He called me to plan it and we were discussing where to meet when I said,
“Can you believe how cold it is outside? It’s freezing.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone.
“Well. It’s not…yea. Not so bad.”
What? I lost four fingers from frost bite when I left my apartment this morning. What do you mean it’s not so bad?
I tried to push my doubt aside that we would have very little in common and got ready for my date. I was wearing so many layers. I wore two jackets, and might have even put on Bear’s snow pants. I didn’t care how I looked. I was going for warmth. I remember showing up for a date recently and when I went to get my coat from the coat rack as we were leaving, my date said to me,
“You wore a puffy coat on this date?”
“Yes. It’s freezing.”
“Then you couldn’t possibly think it was going to be good.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Cause puffy coats aren’t sexy.”
“But they are warm.”
“I am wearing a Rag and Bone coat, and I am freezing. You know why? I wanted to look good for you.” He whined.
It’s not my fault you are the woman in this relationship.I thought, as I pulled my very warm Montcler fur hood over my head and hoofed it out of the restaurant like a clumsy Clydesdale.

But back to my date…

I was standing in the restaurant, layered in puffiness and GORE- TEX when my very tall dark and handsome date walks in his suit. No coat.
“Where’s your coat?”
“This is it.”
“It’s freezing. It’s about 20 degrees.”
“This keeps me warm.”
“Wow.” I said, as I spent the next 20 minutes peeling off layers of clothing. I may have even had glove warmers in. And a hot water bottle shoved up the back of my sweater.
“You see, I am a very positive person, I like to look at things in a very positive manner. So instead of saying “cold” which is a negative word, I like to think it’s mildly refreshing.” He explained.
“Ah. I would like to mildly de-thaw in the kitchen. Next to the oven.”

We sat down and my date began to regale me with his adventurous tales. He had actually climbed Mt. Everest. It would have probably been a bad time to tell him I am too lazy to walk up the stairs at my local Staples so I take the elevator one flight. I was impressed with all that he had accomplished. He was also working on some other crazy expedition where he was walking to the North Pole. Ten days of no sleep. Only “rest.”
“If you notice I have some scruff on my face. I usually shave everyday. But I have to grow a beard for the expedition or my face will freeze.”
“Right. Of course. Wow.” I started to picture what he would look like with a long creepy beard, “When is that?”
“April.”
“Wow. That will be quite a beard.” I had assessed he would look like a hot Osama.
“Yea. It has to be.”
Right now, with only the scruff he looked cute.
The thing is, I was impressed by his incredible motivation and his insatiable lust for accomplishment.

We ordered a bottle of wine and a couple of dishes. We were sharing stories about our background, our upbringing, our hobbies. Even though he was amazing, incredibly sweet and very accomplished, I could just tell we weren’t going to be a good personality match. But the dinner was lovely and I was enjoying his company.
“Hey, you are a writer, you will appreciate this story.”
I nodded, excited for what was to come next. It was a 45 minute story involving the writings of a priest. And something about a goat. I can’t say for sure since I feel asleep half way through the story. I had a dream that I got into a taxi that was driving by outside the window. I guess it was more like a nightmare, because I knew it wasn’t real. In reality he had just ordered another bottle of wine.
Help. A tiny voice cried from within. I’m trapped.

He was trying and seemed like a really good guy. When all of a sudden he said it. Out loud. I don’t recall what we were talking about, but I heard it clear as day.
“I don’t have a television.”
I literally heard the music in the restaurant screech to a halt. At that moment, the date was over. RIP this date.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t have that much time. And the time I do have, I’d rather be doing something more important than watching TV.”
Ah. So we didn’t agree that the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills are important. I see. Well, we tried. We did our best. We sat through this lovely dinner and you are handsome, and incredibly kind. Obviously well read and very very good at your job. But I am trashy. I love reality TV. And like InTouch magazine. A lot.

When it was time for dessert, he asked if I had a sweet tooth.
“Yes.” I said. Figuring he didn’t. I don’t think any of my dates had ever preferred dessert.
“Me too. What would you like for dessert?”
“Hmmmm.” I said, looking over the menu, planning my attack.
“How about we get one of each?”
In that moment. In that single, solitary moment, he went from guy that doesn’t have a TV, to the best date ever. One of each? One of each? He loved desert as much as I did. Maybe we could love each other.

Like two bulimic sorority girls on a binge, we sat and downed one of each.
After the meal, the very dessert heavy meal, I suited back up in my winter gear and we walked out into the mildly refreshing night. No. I can’t. It was still fucking freezing. Is that not positive? Oh well. It’s true.

“Good luck with all of your adventures.” I said as I watched him freeze in nothing but a suit.
“Why good luck? Aren’t I going to see you again? I had a great time.”
“Oh. Yeah. Yes. I guess so. Sure.”
The truth is, I wasn’t sure. Well…I was. But for now, I didn’t have it in me to say no. He was a nice guy. Very sweet and meant well. When he followed up and asked me for another date, and I told him the truth. I didn’t see it being a match. And I love TV too much.

(Note from me): It has been a very long time since I have written about one of my dates. I have to say, I have softened a bit and feel bad writing about this guy. He was super nice, a perfect gentleman, and a true hopeless romantic. Someone will be lucky to have him. Really, truly.

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On Being Discovered

January 17, 2012

I was discovered! Really! You know when models or actresses get discovered? Great talents of one kind or another? Yeah. It was nothing like that.

I was standing in Starbucks when all of a sudden I was approached. By a woman. She was rather attractive.

“Hi.” She says, grabbing my shoulder gently and whipping me around so we were now having some type of private conversation.
“Hi.” I say, quickly scanning my brain wondering if I have ever met her before. I never forget a face, but apparently had forgotten hers.
“I notice you aren’t wearing a wedding ring.” She said in a low tone whisper, glancing down at my hand.
“No. No, I’m not.” Hi, my name is Darcy. And I’m divorced. I want to say, but realize that would probably be too much information for this stranger.
“Are you single?” She asked.
I thought for a second. I wondered if she was hitting on me and suddenly realized, I was not ready for my foray into lesbianism, even though I often tell my mother that I am.
“Yes.” Scared for what was coming next.
“Well, I think you are gorgeous. And you are perfect.”
“For?”
“Setting up. I have a lot of great men.”
I half smiled, not sure of what was going on. I quickly wondered if my mother had slipped her a hundred bucks and a bottle of tequila. I stood cautiously.
“I deal with only the best.” She continued.
I let out a nervous laugh, unsure what to say.
“You see, I am a matchmaker. A very very high-end matchmaker.”
“Oh? Wow. Well-”
“I have men pay a lot for my services. Well, our company’s services. But for the women, it’s free.” Somehow through small talk, she discloses these men can pay anywhere up to 50k for their services.
I furrowed my brow and my jaw dropped a bit. I quickly wondered if matchmaker was code for Madam. I mean, 50k sounded steep. For a date? You could get those for free.
“I, I don’t-”
With that she slipped me her card.
“Call me,” She said. She might of even handed me a bottle of Love Potion number 9, but that part is blurry now. Her email address and company website were on front of the heavy stock card.
“Oh..okay…I’ll check it out. The website. You know..”
“Trust me,” She said, as she walked up to grab her coffee.
“You just go to dinner. That’s it. And if you like them, great, if not, we set you up with someone else.” She said over her shoulder and she walked out on her very high Jimmy Choo heels.

I went home and immediately pulled up the website on my computer as though I was looking up some type of deviant porn act. This…was a secret. A dirty one. Well, a secret I will share with all of my readers. Which are a lot of people. The website was filled with flashy pictures of gorgeous women and the site boasted their high-profile clientele.
I immediately called Alexis.
“Hello?”
“I am becoming an escort.”
“What?”
“I was approached by this woman. She claims to be working for a “matchmaker”, but I am on the site, and it looks like, well, it looks like an escort service. Even the name is uncomfortable to say.”
“That. Is. Amazing.”
“I know. Maybe Jason was right. Maybe I should be an escort.” (See: Take My Ex-Wife. Please)

I googled the company and came up with a wealth of information. Apparently, they were pretty legit as far as matchmakers are concerned. But it still seemed a little escort-esque to me. In a bored moment, and realizing it would make for the best Darcy entry ever, I e-mailed my new friend, Heidi Fleiss, I mean Jackie the matchmaker, and made my appointment.

That night I turned on a red light in my bedroom and practiced dancing in my lingerie in front of my window, like any good escort would do. Oh wait, that’s a hooker. In Amsterdam. What do high-end escorts in New York City do? Wear stilettos and mini skirts to Rangers games. Yeah. That couldn’t be me. I like a lot of layers when I go watch them play.

The day of my “meeting” came. I wasn’t quite sure how to dress for it. It was mid-day, in midtown, in a real office building. Do I wear fishnets? Or just  jeans? A pants suit? Who was I kidding. I was never a lesbian basketball coach so I never ever owned a pants suit. It was particularly cold that day, and by the time I showed up my cheeks and nose were red, like the neighborhood drunk. Or a nice jewish girl about to make the jump to high-class hooker.

I approached the doorman (in this case, the doorwoman) in the lobby and told her what floor I was going to. She asked for my ID. My name was in the system so she could see where I was going. Awkward. She was on the phone and had a Bluetooth in her ear. (You know how I feel about that. See: Can you Hear Me Now). I was pretty sure she was whispering to the person on the other end that a brand new concubine was arriving. She laughed. I cringed.

I walked to the elevator banks. I got lost. There were so many damn elevator banks. I have lived in this city since the day I was born. How did I get lost in a lobby full of elevators? Oh wait, I know how; my moral compass was clearly broken, as I was on my way to meet a Madam.
“What floor are you going to Miss?” One random lobby dweller asked.
“36?”
“Right this way.” He said, leading me to the proper hallway. He looked me up and down and I saw his head turn out of the corner of my eye as I walked past him. Ugh. Did he know where I was going too? But he did check me out. Maybe he’d want to be my first client?

When I got to the offices they were beautiful. Really top-notch. I had to sit and fill out paper work, just like at the doctor’s office. Except instead of medical history I had to fill out things like relationship history. What were my hobbies? My interests? What was my type? Was this really happening?

I entered the room to meet with the matchmaker. Not the original one I had met in Starbucks, but her cohort. After answering a series of questions as to what I was looking for and what my type was, and what some of my deal breakers were, I asked her…as politely as possible:
“This isn’t an escort service right? I mean…it’s not…is it?”
She laughed.
“No! Of course not. We just deal with very busy men, who are looking for something specific. And we find and screen the candidates for them. We will contact you if you meet their criteria, and you can always decline.”
“Okay.” I smiled. Still not convinced. The matchmaker was lovely though. Really. She seemed so normal.
I said my goodbyes and made my way back into the streets of New York City, putting on my sunglasses and pulling the hood of my coat over my head as I left the lobby of course.

By the time I got home, there was an email from the matchmaker telling me how great it was to meet me, and how she already had two people in mind for me with their brief bios attached. One was a surgeon and one was a hedge funder. The men sounded great. Truly. Successful, and kind, with very good life stories detailing acts of kindness and examples of how family oriented they were.

But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t feel comfortable with the process. I figured any man paying a service that much to have dinner with me, would expect a very special dessert. And it’s just not how I roll. I also didn’t love the story.
“Mommy, how did you meet daddy?”
“Oh, he paid a fortune to take me to dinner.”
It was a little too pretty woman for me. And not the opera scene that we all love. More the Hollywood boulevard scene with the bad wig and the knee-high boots and the sofa in the elevator for two.

So I politely declined the dates. I want to find men my way. The old-fashioned way. Finding dates isn’t my problem, but finding the one is. But I will let fate take it’s course. A serendipitous event that no one can predict. And I don’t mind waiting. I have so many hours of trashy TV stored on my DVR I could stay content for a long time really.

Wait. Did I just say I didn’t need to find a good man because I had so much DVR to catch up on? Where the HELL is that lady’s card?

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General Hospital

January 9, 2012

Nothing sexier than Uggs with hospital garb

I was sick. Really sick. I had a virus. The flu. Whatever it was, I was ill. So ill in fact, I needed to go into the hospital to get rehydrated. (Yes, I mentioned this in my previous entry, but I figured I could continue writing about it. Hope you don’t mind.)

I was lying in a bed in the ER, an IV of fluid dangling from my arm, my hair tied into one gigantic rats nest and I may have been any number of shades of green. My mother stood by my side nervously.

The Doctor on call spoke to me for a bit about my symptoms and ordered a few tests. When he walked away my mother asked me,
“Why didn’t you ask him if he knew anyone?”
“What?” I said, barely able to respond.
“Like any single friends for you?”
“I did.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“That’s because of course I didn’t. I am lying here looking the worst I have looked in I don’t know long. He was asking me how many times I vomited over the past 24 hours and I had to describe what it looked like. Should I have thrown in I also like Pearl Jam, long walks on the beach, and candle-lit dinners?”
She laughed. “Well, you never know.”
“Do you think there was any shot he was going to run home to his friends and say I saw the hottest chick today. She was listless. She almost threw up on me. I don’t know that she has showered for days. Don’t miss out on this incredible opportunity.”
Beat.
“Come on Mom. Really?”
She laughed. We both did. Hysterically. But out of the corner of my eye I saw her trolling the emergency room for other single doctors.

When I got home that night she stayed in my apartment to help me out. I was awoken at 6 am to a very faint sound. It sounded like paper. Being ripped. Slowly. Wait. That sound was…familiar. But no, it couldn’t be. But it had to be.
“Mom? Are you opening my mail?” I called from my bed.
“I am organizing it.” She called back from the living room.
Crickets.

Mom, I know you are reading this. Thanks for everything! Thanks for helping me out and being the best mother ever. And of course, giving me the best material!

More on my mom? She is one of everyone’s favorite characters! See: Real Texts From My Mom, As Long As You’re Happy, My Mom The Stalker, Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me A Match…That is Alive, My Mother, My Pimp, Sugar and Spice and All Things Technological, Moving and Shaking, Driving with My Mom.

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Having What It Takes

January 2, 2012

The Truth

One of the reasons I married my ex-husband is because I saw how he took care of his mother when she was sick. He not only quit his first major job out of college to move to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota with her for three months to take care of her (he was an only child, and she was a single mom) , but he visited her every single day in the hospital for nearly a year until the day she died. That’s when I decided he was a good man and had what it took to be a good husband. It was exactly what I would have done for one of my parents had they fallen ill. And it’s exactly what I did for my father 11 years later when he was diagnosed suddenly with stage 4 Pancreatic cancer. When I sat with my father for the 6 months of his courageous battle I realized it’s not what you had, but it’s who you had by your side.

I had been broken up with Colby (See: Yankees Vs. Red Sox)  for nearly two years when my father died. But he was by my side every step of the way. I knew that Colby loved me. Real, real, deep love. The kind that Nicholas Sparks books are made of. Colby rode in the car with me to my father’s grave after his funeral. He didn’t say a word but I knew he was there for me and I felt totally comfortable falling apart, as I knew he would be there to catch me. When the service was finished, there is a Jewish tradition, where each person has the opportunity to shovel dirt onto the grave. Helping fill the grave means you have left nothing undone and it is the ultimate final respect for the deceased. After everyone had their turn I looked over at the men who worked in the cemetery who would have the job of filling the grave when we left.
Then I looked at Colby.
“I want you to do it.” I said, through my tears.
“Do what?”
“Fill the grave. I don’t want strangers to do it.”
I knew Colby could handle it. All 6’4″ of him. Colby said nothing. He was standing there in 98 degree weather at the end of June in a dark suit and began to cover my fathers coffin. I looked on believing that Colby was a superhero. He could do anything. And would for me. I felt much better knowing that my dad would be covered with care.

Over Christmas I was sick. I had a virus to end all viruses. I had to go to the ER to get re-hydrated and I spent days in bed vomiting. And guess who showed up to help me? Leo. (See: Deal Breakers & Songs About Darcy ) Not surprising. We had always remained friends and as far as I am concerned, he was always the ultimate mensch (if you aren’t familiar with Yiddish it means “a person of integrity and honor” thank you Wikipedia). When he checked in for the holidays and heard I was sick he insisted he come right over and take care of me. I didn’t even have to ask.  I hadn’t dated Leo in 10 months, yet I could still count on him. He knew I was alone. Bear was on vacation with his dad, my mom had put in overtime and needed some sleep before she was to leave for her own trip, and I…was alone. Really sick, and alone. I couldn’t even get up to walk to the kitchen. By the fifth day, I had a fever. A high one. And I was scared. Leo wanted to help and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He came with flowers, two kinds of soup, and a ton of Gatorade. He sat with me and for the first time in two days I was able to eat. He even assembled a Chanukah present I got Bear and he walked my dog in the freezing cold. When he came back, seeing that I had eaten he asked if I wanted anything else.
“A brownie maybe?” I think it’s the first time in days I had asked for food.
Guess what he did? He went back out into the cold and got me a brownie. He even sat though two hours, two different states of the real housewives, a show he can barely stand. He left when I was falling asleep. My fever was breaking and I was ready for bed. Like a gentleman, he left and checked on me periodically through the evening and late into the next week, stopping by a few days later to bring me even more food, making sure I was getting enough.
“I can’t believe you would do all of this for me.”
“Of course I would. I care so much about you. I would never want you to be so sick alone.”

Last year in my New Years Entry (See: Auld Lang Syne) I asked the question: Should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? I had an answer then, and I have the same answer today. No, old acquaintances should not be forgot. Without old acquaintances, without the lessons people have taught you along the way, you would not be who you are today. I have had men set the bar incredibly low, but today, I am measuring the standard to those who have set it incredibly high. Because that is what we all deserve.

I do not know what this New Year brings but this is what I do know: Surround yourself with people who have your back. With people like that in your life, you can do anything, because you know they are right behind you to catch you if you fall. And there may be times you fall. But feeling safe to take the risk is half the battle.

I don’t know who I will date in 2012, but I do know this: They better be by my bedside if I get sick or by my side if I need them there. I want someone I can rely on. Someone to take care of me when I need the help. And someone I can count on. The same way they would be able to count on me. I don’t want a guy. I want a man. Someone who will fight to the death in the gauntlet for me if the need should arise, just as I would for them.

When the going get tough, the weak get going. But the strong…they stay by your side.

Wishing you all love, light and all the best in 2012.

Darcy

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Breaking Bad

December 27, 2011

image via: gizmodo

Guys, I am not quite sure how to say this…so I am just going to come right out and say it.

(Insert sound of throat clearing here)

“My penis would break you in half” is not an okay pickup line. It’s just not.

We clear?

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The Most Dramatic Rose Ceremony Yet

December 21, 2011

Most Dramatic Rose Ceremony Yet image via: The Bachelorette

It’s holiday time in New York City. Holiday time means holiday parties, and lots of them. After an impromptu change of Thursday night plans, I headed out with a few friends to  an old friends party. One of the friends I was with, I had dubbed my lucky charm. You see, he is one of my best wing men and I always have the best dating luck when he is with me. So I put on my highest heels, my skinniest black pants and my finest sequins and headed out for the holiday festivities with my crew.

After spending two hours at the first party, we ventured to our next location which is currently one of the hottest spots in New York City nightlife. We got a table and piled onto the banquette, when suddenly, I lock eyes with one of the most handsome men I have seen live.

Now here is the thing: He wasn’t my kind of handsome. He was Tom Brady handsome, which is obviously very handsome, but a little too pretty. For me. I like guys that look like they have been through it a bit. A scar or two, possibly a crooked nose, you know, signs of life. I’m not really the pretty boy type, but he was cute with a smile that could light up the entire room. He planted himself in front of me and we continued to make serious eye contact for a good 40 minutes, constantly checking back.
“Do you know this guy?” I said to my lucky charm. “Is he your friend? The one with the brother? You know…that guy you once introduced me to?”
“Who? Ian? No. But he is staring at you Darce.”
“I thought so.”

I continue to lock eyes with the handsome stranger and then turn my attention to my friends. After a quick walk around the room and a location change I spot said handsome stranger and notice he is wearing the same shoes my ex-husband always wears. They are from LL Bean. Those Boat shoes. The ones that people stopped wearing in 7th grade. People who aren’t my ex-husband. Or this guy.
He inches closer to me in the crowd. He is finally close enough to talk. He stands with his chest close to mine. He is about 6’1″ and general heaven.

“You know, those shoes come with a special policy. You can send them back to LL Bean when they are worn out and they will send you a brand new pair. Forever.” I said, as I smiled my most Darcy smile and gazed directly into his eyes.
“Are you making fun of my shoes?”
“No. I like them.”
“Good. I like you. Who are you? You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Me?” smiling coyly. Is this for real?
“Can I steal you away? Let’s sit down.” He says, shuffling me to a sofa.

We are now sitting alone on a sofa in a dark corner. I ask him how old he was as he definitely looked younger than me.
“31.”
“Ah. I am too old for you. I’m 36.”
“That’s not too old. And you are beautiful. Who cares.”
When is it too early to tell someone you love them? Can I tell him now? Now? What about now? Maybe now? How about now?
I was looking at his flawless face, his perfect teeth, his piercing blue eyes. I thought he was way too handsome to be picking me up out of the crowd. It was a pretty hot crowd that night, and I’ve got to admit, the competition was stiff.
“Where are you from?” I asked, trying to figure out this handsome boys story.
“Grew up in the city until 8th grade, then moved to Connecticut.”
Explains the shoes.
“I like a Connecticut boy. What do you do?”
“Finance.”
He was sweet. He looked like he stepped right out of an episode of Friday Night Lights as the hot new ball player. And for this moment, he was mine.
Within in a few minutes of chatting he grabs my face and tries to go in for a major kiss. With tongue. A real real kiss.
“Whoa. Sorry, I wasn’t ready for that.” I said, pulling back my face and making it my own again.
That was awkward. My friends were watching from across the room. Their mouths agape.

Suddenly, my friend approaches.
“Aren’t you that guy? That guy from TV?”
“Yes.” He says, with an embarrassed smirk.
“Really? What show are you on???” I asked. I definitely didn’t see that one coming.
“I was on the Bachelor, and the Bachelor Pad.”

Crickets.

Now, if you are a Darcy reader you KNOW how much I love reality TV, and those are shows I watch. But I have missed a few seasons lately. Damn you Darcy. Why did you have to take up writing and spend less time focusing on your DVR. UGH. Such a overacheiver. But at least kissing me in the first few minutes made sense. He was used to having to vie for one womans attention against 20 some odd other bachelors, all in a 45 minute time frame. He thought he was working under the wire. Makes sense now.
“Yeah. You are Bachelor X(real name omitted).” She says accusingly.
“Yep.”
Okay, now please. Please walk away cock block. I chant silently in my head. But she doesn’t. She goes in for more.
“I met you. At a party.”
Oh boy.
“You dated my friend.”
Not good.
She stared him down with intense crazy eyes.
Please make this stop.
“I’ll leave you two alone now.”
“Thanks.” I said. I may have murmured it from under the sofa I was now hiding beneath.

“This is really awkward with all your friends staring at us,” Bachelor boy said. I look over to see my friends, also known as my cock block crew, staring at us like we were on stage. My lucky charm was dancing in my fur vest in our direction, my other friend giving him the look of death, and the other two just staring in awe like they were witnessing an orgy with animals and carneys.
I tried to wave them away without him noticing.
“Come with me, let’s go somewhere else.” He said.
“I can’t right now.”
“But they really aren’t leaving us alone. It’s kind of weird.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Then come with me.”
“I…just can’t.” The truth is, I didn’t really want to. I wasn’t in the right mind-set to follow a cute boy gd knows where. Not tonight.
“Well, I can’t do this with all of them right there.”
I didn’t blame him. I said goodbye to my Bachelor. No rose for me at this ceremony. I could almost hear Chris Harrison in my head “Say your goodbyes now Darcy.” It’s okay though. I didn’t want to be that girl, dating that guy from TV.
Given that I have never had an actual rose ceremony, this certainly was my most dramatic rose ceremony yet. We will always have that.

But it is nice to know, this mama has still got it. Oh, and note to self, next time, I will leave the cock block crew at home. (Sorry guys)

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