Bachelorette Heather

Sometimes when I watch the Bachelorette, I accidentally start to feel like I am The Bachelorette. By that I just mean that I relate men on the show to men in my life.

And sometimes I accidentally almost try out to be the next Bachelorette, nearly giving my father a heart attack.

Also, I sometimes get way more flirtatious when I watch the show. Oops.

The Bachelorette also makes me think about what I would like to say to all of the boys who have ever had a part in my life. Sometimes I wish I could line them all up, like for a rose ceremony, but it would be way longer, because I wouldn't just hand them a rose or not. I would go down the line and tell them all exactly what I think of them.

To Bachelor #1, I would say: "I wish I could make up my mind about you. That would be cool."

I would give him a rose. And then I would flounce on over to Bachelor #2, to whom I would say:

"I wish it wasn't so easy to talk to you. I wish you didn't catch on to my jokes so quickly. I wish I didn't love your family so hard. I wish you would go jump in a lake and never take me to dinner again."

And then I would kindly send him on his way, out of my life forever, and turn to Bachelor #3. I would really love to smack him soundly across the face, but ladies on The Bachelorette use their words more than their open palms, so instead, I would probably say something like:

"You are so gay. I don't even have words. You are also super-horny and I don't think I've ever met someone as immature as you are. Anddd you are a slobbery kisser. If I never see you again it will be too soon."

And then I would snap my fingers and have some burly security guards come and escort him out. And by "escort," I mean "defenestrate."

To Bachelor #4, I would say: "Again, no. No. Stop making awkward comments. It's not going to happen. I can't stress this enough. Please stop being self-destructive."

And then, hopefully, Bachelor #4 would take my advice, and I wouldn't give him a rose, and we would both be much happier, and I could move on to the next man in the line.

To whom I would say: "Awkward that I had a dream about you recently. Also awkward that you are suddenly my favorite person in this line, but still in a totally platonic way." And then he would scoot on out the door and back to his lovely wife, who really is lovely, and we would all carry on in our happily separate lives.

Bachelor #5 (since that last one doesn't really count as a bachelor) is a man to whom I really have nothing to say. Besides, "I still wish I had timed that better, so I could have at least gotten a ride on your motorcycle."

And that would be the last time I ever expressed an ounce of sorrow that that is over.

Bachelor #6 is someone I would not be altogether thrilled to see, because I would have to say sorry to him. I'd have to tell him that, all toolish Facebook pictures aside, I actually think he's kind of a catch. And I really should have gone to the lake with him. I would offer him a rose, but I doubt he would take it.

Next I would say, "Oh hello, Bachelor #7. I don't know why I think you are so cute, but I really do. I may have told my friend that you look like Nick Jonas. It's a good thing, don't worry. I also have a secret goal that involves you serenading me by the end of the summer."

Hopefully, he would work extremely hard to help me accomplish that goal. I mean, there is a rose on the line.

But then I would get to Bachelor #8, who would probably have brought his girlfriend in an attempt to make me feel stupid. But I would just smile at her, wondering what on Earth she could be thinking, and tell him that if I had to relive it, I would reject him again. Even now that I know of the awkwardness that followed. Even if I had to relive that 100 times.

Once Bachelor #8 and his girlfriend had gone on their way, I would turn my attention to Bachelor #9. At this point, my burly security guards would hand me a palm tree, with which i would thump him on the head. Then I would say:

"You're the dumbest boy I've ever met! Honestly! And you look like you're twelve! And I don't care that much for you, but I can't understand you for the life of me. Literally, no understanding. Goodbye." Cue the burly security guards.

I would then grab Bachelor #10 by his lapels and shake him. And I would demand that he take me on a date right then, because I still freakin' want a date with that man. Emily always asks, "Will you accept this rose?" But our conversation would sound more like, "Take the dang rose."

When I got back from my date with Bachelor #10, which I'm sure would be a letdown after all this time and anticipation, I would smile winningly at Bachelor #11. And if I was feeling particularly bold, I might just say:

"Yeah, I did make it a point to memorize and call your number during kissing rugby. You better be there when I go again. I promise I'll try to say something clever this time. I was feeling a little concussed last time, okay?"

I'm sure he would respond positively. Especially when I handed him a rose.

As The Bachelorette, I would hand Bachelor #12 a rose, along with date card asking him to go country-dancing with me. For some reason, I think that would be so fun....but I think I would send him home after that.

I would tell Bachelor #13:

"Your girl has frizzy hair. And I don't know why you're in my line, you should be in my friend's line of bachelors.....but while you're here, I might as well tell you that you are ruining my life right now. I hope you're happy."

My producers would come and help him find the right line, and I would turn to Bachelor #14.

"Hi," I would say. "You're an idiot. I am going to txt you one more time....one. And that will be the last time we ever speak if you don't call me up soon afterwards to ask me to go fly a kite with you."

Oh, and then I would say the exact same thing to Bachelor #15. And I would ask them both on a group date for the next week.

And finally, I would ask Bachelor #16 this burning question I've been dying to ask for about a month now: "Are you gay?"

I would also invite this guy to come on my season.....

....provided he doesn't win Emily's heart,

 and I would send this guy:

p-p-p-packing. So fast. And you better believe I wouldn't be going to meet his parents. 

Gaga for Van Gogh

Every Tuesday, I walk across Brigham Square and into the JKB, straight up to room 3115 for my elementary school art class. We do all kinds of things in this room, everything from shading practices and still-lifes to watercolors. It is a three-hour art class and, usually, we spend about an hour working on our project for that week. The rest of the time is spent trying to understand the assignment.

My teacher, Sister Bradford, is a lovely lady with straight blonde hair that she wears tied up in a sparkly black scrunchie. Every week, she walks around the class on 3-inch platform shoes and hands out a packet, that describes in all caps how we are to complete that week's assignment. It stresses me out a little. I know it is not the tone that she wants to take, because in real life, Sister Bradford is very sweet and soft-spoken. I just wish I had an explanation for her packets.

This week, a man opened the door for me as I walked in the JKB. I thanked him and then went upstairs. He went upstairs. I walked down the hall, and so did he. Finally, I walked into my classroom, and he walked in right behind me, his black boots clicking with each step.

As it turns out, Sister Bradford couldn't make it to class this week and had a guest artist come in in her place. He followed me to our classroom, waltzed in with his paint brushes and his gouache, and in a matter of minutes, he had the entire class in the palm of his hand.

I don't know exactly how he did it. I put down my bags, left for a few minutes to get a snack from the vending machine, and when I came back, the class was all huddled around a table where the substitute was. He had a palette with three different purples in it, and he had just started demonstrating how to use watercolors. The class was captivated! Not a sound was made as he lightly stroked the paper with his brush. Magically, the watercolors did exactly what he wanted.

We watched as our substitute leaned back, adjusted his beret, and looked over his work with thoughtful eyes. "You see," he said, "It's not so hard. I just kind of lightly tickled the page."

"You tickled it good!" said one of the girls. Our substitute smiled and started swirling his brush in the water, ducking his head. "You can do it, too," he said.

His brush swept over the paper and everyone shuffled forward to try and see better. As we watched, a collection of sighs, oohs, and whispered compliments bubbled up from everywhere in the crowd. "Can you come back when we have to learn ceramics?" several people asked. "That looks amazing!" "I wish I was this good of an artist."

It was as if Van Gogh himself had entered our classroom and taken over. The girls were ecstatic to have such a competent teacher. They unabashedly lavished compliments on him, and I don't think he was really sure what to do with all of them.

Van Gogh took some questions, did a little more by way of a demonstration, and then sent us back to our seats to work on our watercolors there. He walked around, offering advice and encouragement and answering whatever questions people still had.

His presence had a soothing effect on our usually tense class. We chatted about our weekend plans. We complimented one another's artwork. We freely asked whatever questions came to mind.

Van Gogh came over to my table and looked down at my nearly-finished rose. "Wow," he said. "Did you do all this in one class period?" I had. "Do you think I need to do anything else on it?" I asked. "Let's take the tape off," he suggested. I beamed. I pulled the tape off and showed him.

"That turned out really nice!" he said. "I like how you did that. Doesn't that look cool, with the complementary colors? Good work!"

Never have I felt like such a competent artist as I did then. I took my watercolor home and hung it on the fridge :)