A Ring…I Don’t Mean On the Phone

February 8th, 2010

Disclaimer #1: The Guy and I are NOT considering getting engaged. We merely had one of those conversations last night that started out with the Super Bowl, went inexplicably to tranquilizers (?), took a sharp left at wisdom teeth, veered off into funny wedding stories and ended up on one of my soapbox topics.

Disclaimer #2: As always, the following relates strictly to a personal choice. I am not condemning anyone else’s decisions. Unless you kick puppies or something equally horrible, I do not and will never have anything to say about what you do as opposed to what I do.

So last night, The Guy and I got on the subject of engagement rings.

I…well, I need to tell you something that may…give you pause. Shock you, even. You might want to sit down. Maybe remove all sharp objects from your immediate surroundings.

Ready?

OK. Here goes.

I do not want a diamond engagement ring.

Heee! The Guy HATES IT when I do that!

(Which is probably why I enjoy it so.)

But I’m serious, really. I don’t want a diamond. Oh, it’s not that I don’t like diamonds. I mean, c’mon, they’re DIAMONDS! They’re beautiful and sparkly and EXPENSIVE! I’ve owned diamonds before, and I still have a couple, actually. Believe me, I’m not about to get rid of them. But I don’t want a diamond engagement ring.

Why?

(In no particular order)

1. If you’ve seen the movie Blood Diamond, then you know the diamond trade contributes, in some cases, to financing insurgent and terrorist organizations. Additionally, diamond mines notoriously employ child labor. To top it all off, diamond mining is terrible for the environment.

2. I have no interest in perpetuating the notion that a multi-thousand-dollar chunk of carbon somehow magically legitimizes a relationship. Let’s say your fiance is a grad student and can’t afford a diamond ring. Your friend’s boyfriend is a stock broker and buys her a $20,000 rock. Is her relationship better than yours? More stable? Is she making a better decision? There’s no way to know, of course, but the diamond industry would have you believe otherwise.

3. An engagement ring, ANY engagement ring, is merely a symbol for something much more important: your partner asking you to make a commitment to love him (or her), marry him (or her) and stay with him (or her) for the rest of your life. Too often, women get hung up on THE RING THE RING OMG THE RING and forget that a proposal isn’t about your partner giving you a GIFT; it’s about your partner asking you to make a PROMISE. In other words, the gift is lovely, but the promise is the point.

4. I’m a different kind of girl; I want a different kind of ring.

5. I’m not rich, and though I have tried (OH LORD, HAVE I TRIED), I have never fallen in love with a rich man. There are about 1001 things I’d much rather have (as well as things I need much more) than a ring. Personally, I’d rather my fiance put that money toward our new house, a kick-ass honeymoon or even our wedding than a ring that I’m probably going to knock the stone out of in three days anyway. (As Amanda Palmer says, I’m not the careful-est of girls.)

6. Have you heard this s–t about how a man should spend the equivalent of three months’ salary on an engagement ring?! I told The Guy last night, “If you spent three months’ salary on a piece of damn JEWELRY, we would have to have a serious talk about WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU.” Even if The Guy was a multi-gabillionaire, I’d rather him donate three months’ salary to charity than fritter it away on a RING.

7. I would estimate that about four days out of every week, there is SOMETHING on my body that came from Goodwill. I drive a Honda Fit. I reuse Ziploc bags and dryer sheets. I keep my thermostat at 68 degrees during the winter. Do I SEEM like the kind of girl who wears big honkin’ diamonds?

8. One of the coolest things I ever heard of was from a friend who got married when she and her husband were young and poor. They couldn’t afford traditional wedding bands, so they bought each other regular old costume-jewelry rings and used those instead. They’re older now and financially pretty successful, but she still doesn’t have a diamond ring. Rather, she and her husband buy each other “wedding rings” all the time – just pretty or interesting rings they see when they’re out shopping. Some cost a few dollars, and some cost a few hundred dollars. She estimates that she has about 80 “wedding rings” in her collection. It doesn’t matter to them that most of their rings aren’t recognizable as wedding rings – they know what they mean.

9. I have been known to change clothes six times in one day. Nevertheless, I know in my heart I can commit to the right man for the rest of my life. One ring, I’m not so sure about.

10. Chihuahua would eat it.

You know she would.

The Guy, playing devil’s advocate, pointed out the obvious:

1. You can buy certified conflict-free diamonds. And vintage diamonds certainly aren’t going to do any more harm to the environment.

2. An engagement ring (one that is recognizable as such) is an outward symbol of your commitment to your partner and therefore has some value to both of you.

3. Diamonds do not have to be ostentatious and large enough to signal passing ships.

When it comes down to it, though, I think the guy who wants to marry me will know what to do. He’ll figure it out.

Or maybe I’ll ask him and skirt the ring issue altogether.

Your not conflict-free
Kel

And then…

February 4th, 2010

My friends Erik and Andrew came over last night, and we sat around in my kitchen, as we usually do, talking movies, politics, theatre, religion and relationships and just generally being the over-educated, uncomfortably self-aware, middle-class, white, liberal pseudo-hippies we are.

At my request, each man sang a selection from A New Brain.

Yeah. We’re those people.

Erik brought over his homework, so at one point, he sat on one side of the table poring over a Whitman poem, his brow knitted in frustration, while Andrew, on the other side, slumped in one of my pink IKEA chairs looking like some sort of Abbie Hoffman/Travis Bickle hybrid wearing a Shakespeare t-shirt, surfed the internet, a cigarette dangling languidly from one slender hand. Standing between them, dressed in a miniskirt, I bent over the table and painted my fingernails “Cherries in the Snow” red with an intense concentration usually reserved for scholars studying ancient texts.

I glanced up.

“Look at us,” I said.

Both guys looked around. Clearly, they didn’t see anything noteworthy.

“This is the beginning of a really good story,” I said.

Realizing what I meant, Erik laughed.

“What happens now?” I asked.

Andrew stood. “Suddenly, I walk over the stove and lay my arm on the burner!” he announced. He started toward the stove.

“NO!” Erik and I shouted in unison. “I don’t want my apartment to smell like pork for the next three days,” I explained.

“I wasn’t really going to do it,” Andrew muttered, returning to his chair.

So now it’s your turn…

What happens next?

Your inspired
Kel

Bare-Knuckling It

February 2nd, 2010

Stasha over at The Dogged Pursuit of Happiness relieved me of a tremendous amount of guilt with these two sentences:

I know it seems like I haven’t been writing much for the past couple of weeks, and that’s sort of true. You see, the thing is, I write for clients, and occasionally, they would really like for me to concentrate on their priorities and, well, ya know, not my own.

*Weeps with relief*

AAAAAHHHHH SOMEONE UNDERSTANDS!!1!

/melodrama

No big surprise, I’ve been in Deadline Hell for the past few days. Actually, though, I owe this particular Deadline Hell a debt of extreme gratitude. I’m going to fly y’all to the moon, but stay with me, here, OK?

Last week, I had one of those weeks (and I think we all have these) where I looked around and it seemed like everyone I know is a homeowner living in a quarter-of-a-million-dollar house who drives an Audi and shells out God-only-knows-how-many clams a month to send their progeny to Montessori school outfitted in duds from Baby Banana Republic or whatever.

I, in sharp contrast, took stock of my one-bedroom apartment with the dryer that’s on its last leg. As I sat down at my laptop (which is also about to breathe its last) to blog about the moribund state of my financial affairs, I noticed the broken heel on my favorite pair of boots, which I bought on clearance at Old Navy three years ago.

And I…well…I had a wee bit of a meltdown.

I did what is normally the exact wrong thing to do in this particular situation. I called my mother.

Now, my mother loves me very much, and she thinks her baby is the most beautiful, talented, intelligent human to ever grace God’s green earth, but she does not consider my freelance writing career to be A Real Job. A Real Job, you see, pays a set amount of money each month. A Real Job requires you to be someplace depressing at 8:00 a.m. sharp, and you cannot leave until 5:00 p.m., with the exception of precisely 60 minutes during which you get to eat a fast-food lunch whilst bitching to your coworker, whom you don’t really like, about your boss, whom you like even less.

“Hello, Kelly Phelan!” said my mother. (For her, Caller ID still retains its novelty.)

“Hi, Momma,” I said. “Listen, I made a decision. I’m going to give this freelance writing thing one more year, and if it doesn’t get any better, if I don’t start making more money, then I’m going to quit and go find A Real Job.”

Aaaaand then my mother reminded me why I should never, ever assume I can predict her behavior.

“You will do no such thing,” she said sharply. “You have a gift, and you’re going to use it.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the end of that.

The next day, I met the man whom I was interviewing for the feature article that put me in Deadline Hell in the first place. We talked a lot about his career, of course, and it turns out he has my dream resume: The New York Times, Esquire, Texas Monthly and the Austin American-Statesman, to name but a few. His latest project was a big one, tremendously successful and not strictly writing-related. But as I listened to him talk about borrowing office space from family members, calling in favors, working all hours and generally, as he put it, “bare-knuckling it” to get the job done, I thought, This is what is possible. All you have to do is keep working really, really hard.

Fortunately, working really hard is not something I have a problem doing.

And the beat goes on.

—-

Additionally, The Guy and I both caught colds this weekend. We greedily swallowed the last of the sinus medication on Sunday evening, so last night, we decided to go to Target together to stock up. He picked me up after work. When I let him in the door, I was still brushing my teeth. I wasn’t wearing any makeup, my hair was unbrushed and I hadn’t even BATHED, PEOPLE. You know I must feel pretty crummy when I know my boyfriend is coming over and I CANNOT EVEN BE BOTHERED TO BATHE. Bachelor Girl, indeed.

(Oh, and I was still wearing my Victoria’s Secret sweatpants with “PINK” emblazoned across the seat. “I gotta get me some of that,” The Guy must have been thinking.)

Nevertheless, we set out for Target. We bought Kleenex, of course, and cookies (feed a cold, right?). Shuffling slowly, we made our way to an aisle near the pharmacy, where we stood mouth-breathing and marveling at the sheer number of cold medications available.

“Let’s see…this one is for fever, runny nose, body aches and coughs…well, we have all that except for the fever.”

“Maybe we should get this one. It has something for sinus pain and pressure.”

“This ones says ‘promotes sinus drainage.’”

“Ew, don’t get that one. We’ll be draining all over each other.”

I voted for the one I normally get, which costs an arm and a leg and contains a heavy-duty decongestant. I won’t give the name, but let’s just say it rhymes with Schmaritan Bee.

The Guy looked at me askance.

“What?”

“That stuff messes me up. I don’t really feel like sitting on the sofa tonight, uncomfortably high and feeling embarrassed because I can’t keep up with what’s happening on ‘Pawn Stars.’”

He had a point.

So we got this stuff:

How I love thee!

And it? Is a miracle drug. The Guy and I feel 95% human today. I even took a bath! I AM CLEAN!

AND I AM STILL A WRITER!

All is right with the world once more!

Your much better
Kel

Long, beautiful hair, shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen…

January 28th, 2010

LOOKIT MAH NEW HUR!

I got 'em all cut.

Also the contents of mah shower!

Y’all, as God is my witness, I will not take all self-portraits in the bathroom mirror forever. Future Bachelor Girl habitats include plans for a “self-portrait area.” There’ll be a nice flower arrangement and a pretty rug. Or something. Something other than a toilet, at least.

Last week, I went to my hairstylist, the fantastically talented Kelly Turner McGuffee of Cabello Hair Studio, determined to do something different. I told her it was either this or we were cutting it all off. “Yeah, we’re not cutting it all off,” Kelly said, wisely. I showed her photos of Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada and asked if she could please give me the wardrobe as well.

Kelly gave me a look that said plainly, “These are scissors, not a magic wand.”

Using this as her inspiration,

I can has Chanel jacket too?

Kelly went to work, and 15 minutes later, I had these:

Bangs.

“Your hair is so Prada!” Erik said when he saw me a few days later.

Nothing anyone has said to me before or since has made me happier.

When I tried to wash it, though, things went…awry. I did my best, but…yeah. No. It was decidedly less Prada and more Kathy Ireland for Kmart.

So I washed it again today. I overheated my hairdryer, caused a massive tangle and burned myself before I found my phone, called Kelly and begged.

“I need you to teach me how to blow my hair out,” I said, ashamed.

“Can you be here in 20 minutes?” she asked.

“Yeeeeesss…” I wailed.

“Come on,” she said.

Kelly gave me a 10-minute lesson in How to Blow Out Your Hair Without Setting Yourself on Fire, and I was Prada once more.

All is right with the world, and I am the proud owner of a new hairdryer and brush.

It’s a good thing my hairstyle philosophy can best be summed up as:

It’s hair. It grows back.

Audience Participation.

Your clipped
Kel

Meet the New Bachelor Girl Intern, Version XX

January 26th, 2010

Kelly and Rachel

Hello, lovely world of BachelorGirl.net! I am the beautiful Kelly Phelan’s new intern! My name is Rachel Havird, and though I was born in Charlottesville, Virginia, my family and I moved to Shreveport before I even turned one, so I consider myself a full-bred Louisiana girl. I am an only child, and very much so. I am also the epitome of a Gemini – split right down the middle! I am extremely excited and honored to be a part of this considering I am only 22 years old. Despite my numerical age, I feel I am well beyond that mentally and emotionally.

Growing up as an only child, I was around adults a hell of a lot more than children my own age. My father is an English professor at Centenary College here in Shreveport, so there were numerous parties at my house that included professors as well as students. During these parties, I was known to disappear to my room and come back every twenty minutes or so dressed in different costumes, running around and singing my lungs out. I guess everyone knew right then and there, even at the tender age of two, that I was destined to be on stage. I was extremely imaginative as a child and enjoyed playing with Barbies and playing dress-up, making up elaborate tales to go along with my endeavors. I am very blessed that my parents are both artistic – they opened me up to so many opportunities and new ideas. They put up with my everlasting obsession with Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice’s musical Evita and The Little Mermaid. It’s pretty insane that while other kids my age were listening to Silly Songs, I was singing along with every line of Stephen Sondheim’s Into the Woods.

Even though my love and passion for musicals and performing was obvious, I was still quite introverted and not sure of myself enough to actually audition for anything. (There’s that split-side of the Gemini coming out!) It wasn’t until middle school that I really had my first role in anything. As it is for everyone, middle school and high school were a seriously difficult time for me. I was always picked on, made fun of, etc., and I had to enter therapy when I was ten or eleven years old. The only thing that kept me going was the idea of the future, of growing up, and my love for the Spice Girls and Leonardo DiCaprio—but that is neither here nor there. In high school, I devoted all my time to the theatre department, even though I was hated by almost everyone. When I was fifteen, something happened to me that altered my world forever. All the petty concerns of other people my age were no longer relevant, and I couldn’t wait to go away to college to get away for all of it. The last day of high school people were crying and hugging, and I drove out of that parking lot smiling. My close friends were always older than me, so I wasn’t going to miss anyone…my best friend at the time was 26 with two children! I always gravitated toward older people for some reason.

My freshman year, I attended Millsaps College in Jackson, Mississippi. Due to extenuating circumstances, I had to turn right back around a year later and come home. Though I had many hard times at Millsaps, I really grew into more of who I am. I found true, amazing friends that I will cherish always.

After coming back to Shreveport, I took a year off from school, then became a part-time student at Centenary, then finally entered as a full-time student. I found where I belong right now in my life. I basically live in the theatre, and adore it…for the most part! Though I have a two extremely close friends in the theatre department, my group of friends is outside that realm. It is refreshing, among many other things! Being finally loved and fully accepted by these amazing people has changed my life. They are my family, and I would do anything for them. Men come and go, you fall in and out of love, but true friendship is something that lasts forever (despite how disgustingly cliché it sounds).

Many people have no idea what to think of me. I am a full-on theatre geek, but I love me some FOOTBALL!! I am a hard-core LSU and New Orleans Saints fan (SUPERBOWL WOOOOOOOOO!!). I love to go out and party but enjoy staying in and watching “Grey’s Anatomy” just as much. I have a slightly disturbing love for Britney Spears, yet my favorite band of all time is Tool. I believe I can cuss up a storm and give people the blunt, honest truth, however much it may hurt, and still be in God’s good graces. I believe in being a faithful and loyal friend, no matter what the situation may be. I believe in forgiveness and that not everything is black and white. There is so much gray in my life it might as well be my favorite color! (It’s not, by the way – my favorite colors are purple and gold…GEAUX LSU!!) I believe you can have an insane, dysfunctional relationship with someone and it still be the best thing for you. I believe a woman can date more than one man at a time and not be a whore. I believe you can desperately love someone but not want to be with that person. And though I forget this at times, I believe no man defines who you are. I believe in conundrums and eccentricities, because that is what my life is. I believe that no matter what life throws at you, you are strong enough to make it through any situation with a little help from your friends.

I look forward to delving further into this internship with Bachelor Girl and am so happy to have been given this opportunity.

WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS!!

Your blunt
Rach

WHAT.

What're you lookin' at?

The Yes Man

January 21st, 2010

Kelly and I were sitting around Bachelor Girl HQ doing what we do (share), and this topic came to light. Kelly and I share what is going on in the world, how crazy all you people are and in what areas she/we can mine that craziness to create witty, poignant commentary to brighten your days. And believe me, there are plenty of the crazy ones out there. It’s remarkable Kelly doesn’t post three times a day.

The topic of The Guy came up. I have met The Guy, and he is a really good Guy. I am so happy for both of them. They truly are the yin to each other’s yang, even if they haven’t figured out yet who’s the yin and who’s the yang. But she shared a story with me that further intimated to me that The Guy really is one of the good ones by way of his interest and concern during a recent moment of trepidation faced by our Kel.

It reminded me of, well, me and how I would’ve handled a similar situation had it arisen with my wife, Angie. In approximately one month, Angie and I will celebrate our sixteenth wedding anniversary. Sixteenth! In this day and age where banal talking heads like to tell us that over half of all marriages end in divorce, I say Bah! You are pretty close to grown up when you head down that road, so I don’t want to hear about, “Well, we were so young and didn’t know what we were getting into.” Bulls–t.

I can remember the moment I knew that no matter what happened between us, Angie was who I wanted to be with. Not only that, I needed to be with her and missed being with her when we were apart. She was it. The year was 1993, and we were in the midst of remodeling our very first house. It was a few months before our wedding date, which had been set beforehand; the caterer had received her deposit. It wasn’t going to be a grand affair, but it was going to be proper, and if Angie made it through the ceremony, I would be the lucky and legal man for her.

We still lived with our respective parents at the time, and after work we would meet at this beautiful little house and paint or put up mini-blinds or refinish the hardwood floors. We did it all with Papaw’s help and guidance, of course; we weren’t the Vilas, after all. But back to the story.

I am a man. Make no bones about it. I once fantasized about having a bathroom in my house where the toilet had a basketball backboard incorporated into it, and each time the toilet was flushed the obligatory scoreboard would light up and show Visitors 1 (or 2, given the proper situation) and Home 0. Then a horn would sound and applause would be piped in through the surround-sound speakers. In fact, it is still a dream of mine. I am getting goose bumps thinking about it now…we do have a bathroom due for a renovation, thanks to a leaky roof…

But I digress. The point, again, being I wanted to paint one room a cool color, and Angie wanted to paint the room a conservative, well-thought-out color. Bulls–t. I am the man; I decide!

I was very wrong about that. For a period of probably one full week, we would meet after work at this house and essentially go our separate ways, her to her room to work, me to my room to work. No talking, no comfort and especially no “kissy-face,” if you know what I mean. I was miserable. My life was miserable until my lesser brain finally kicked in and told me, “Son, you know you want to ‘hit’ that (see here for the correct def. of ‘hitting’) again one of these days. Well, a way to do that, in fact, a very easy way to do that, would be to paint the damn room the conservative, well-thought-out color and live to fight another day.” Unbelievable how the male brain really will protect the species.

So I said that I was sorry and that I didn’t want to fight anymore, or ever, and that I would absolutely love to paint the room the conservative, well-thought-out color. Piece of cake; it was even easy, and all of a sudden, this woman that I loved (and love still)’s heart melted, the wall came down and she essentially said in no uncertain terms, “I knew I would break you.” And the room was painted, make up “kissy-face” was enjoyed and that was essentially sixteen years ago. So now I say yes. I say, “Yes, dear,” when I really mean “No, dear,” but I still do it anyway.

The extent of my yessing knows no bounds. I do what I am told, because it’s almost always what’s best for me whether I know it or not. Without these feminine protections, I would be single and live in squalor and people would say, “You know, he used to have so much potential.” And “She was so good for him, it’s a shame it didn’t last.” I would be a statistic.

Instead, I am an extremely blessed and fortunate man that the love of my life has chosen to love me in spite of myself and my lesser brain. She can also use me in humorous ways.

I am a husband that will buy anything at the grocery store. She puts it on the list, by God, she’s going to get it.

One time I went into a store and purchased a tube of lubricant, AA batteries and a disposable camera. That’s it; nothing else.

The batteries were for the TV remote, the lubricant was to get a hinge unstuck (really, it was an old, rusty hinge and Papaw told us to try it) and the disposable camera was for a trip to the lake (we didn’t want to risk our good one falling in).

In my lesser brain, however, the three items were to be used in an entirely different manner involving midgets and rope and…well, you get the idea.

So, Bachelor Girls, get one that you can teach to say “Yes.” You’ll be glad you did, and he’ll also be glad you did, even though he won’t know it.

Your obedient
Chris

Men at Work

January 20th, 2010

(I told this story recently in the comments, but after thinking – and giggling – about it for a while, I decided it needed its own forum. So here we go.)

A few weeks ago, I had my yearly appointment with the gynecologist. For me, this is not as big a deal as it is for some women. Being, in many situations, a pragmatic sort of person and not terribly modest, it just doesn’t squick me out the way it does other people.

I should also point out that every year, when I go in for said appointment, I always request an HIV test whether I really need it or not, if you catch my drift. I figure one way or another, it’s best to know. Besides, Henry might come a-callin’, and I like to be prepared in those situations. Don’t you?

Anyway, when I went in for this year’s appointment, I expected the doctor to say the same thing he says every year: “Everything’s fine! You’re perfectly healthy! Go on your merry way! See you next year! Here’s your lollipop. That’ll be ONE MEEEEELLION DOLLARS, please.”

Um.

Yeah…

That’s not what happened this year.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say the words “cancer” and “infertility” were bandied about.

I did not get my lollipop.

The doctor sent me to a lab across town for some bloodwork, along with my HIV test. For some reason, even though I requested the HIV test, hearing him say the words “HIV test” mere seconds after he said the word “cancer” made my brain go, “OMFG HE THINKS I HAVE AIDS OMFG OMFG OMFG.”

What was that I said earlier about pragmatism?

Anyway.

I handed the receptionist my credit card, paid the doctor his ONE MEEEEELLION DOLLARS, walked out to Fiona in the parking lot, got in, put my hands on the steering wheel and burst into tears.

About that time, the phone rang.

It was The Guy.

We had, at this point, been dating all of seven whole days or something.

“How was your doctor’s appointment?” he asked cheerfully.

The proper thing to do would’ve been to say, “Not so great, actually. The doctor has some concerns and wants to run some tests. Can I call you back in a few minutes?”

Well, the minute I used the word “proper,” you knew that’s not what I actually did, right?

No. Instead, I spilled it. All of it. In excruciating, minute detail. Oh, sweet Jesus.

Now, I’m sure The Guy’s brain was going, “OMG PLEASE SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UP PLEASE SHUT UUUUUP I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR CERVIX PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY SHUT THE F— UUUUUP.”

But instead he remained totally calm. He asked intelligent questions and got me to explain a couple things he didn’t understand. He was very logical and rational but nevertheless sweet and supportive.

(This from a man who, by the way, has no sisters. He’s an only child, so it’s doubtful he ever had to have conversations about these sorts of topics growing up.)

My poor father called next. When I said the word “cervix,” I knew, I just knew, that he was itching to say, “Don’t talk nasty! Stop cussing!” but he didn’t. “Everything’s going to be fine,” he said, “You’ll see. And I can tell you right now, it wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to me if I had known ahead of time that your mom couldn’t have children. Wouldn’t have mattered at all.”

As it turns out, everything is fine. As expected, the HIV test was negative, and all the other tests came back normal. I am not dying of cancer, and there is no reason to believe I can’t have a veritable litter of wee Bachelor Girls and Boys.

I texted my friend E., who was the other unfortunate male who had to listen sympathetically to a screaming, sobbing and otherwise hysterical Kel lose her s–t over the phone that day: “All tests normal! No HIV! Can probably have babies!”

He texted me back: “So glad you’re not a diseased whore! Congratulations!”

The point of this story?

I love my Bachelor Girlfriends. I couldn’t possibly make it through life without them.

But the Bachelor Boys rock pretty hard, too.

This one’s for you guys.

Your grateful
Kel