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So I kicked my purse over four feet, splashed a little of my wine on the floor in haste and started to have the same, redundant conversation. When he asked me what I wanted to order, I replied, “More white wine – let’s get Aunt drunk.” And so we did.We ordered at such speed it was like we were nuns out of the convent for the night and had just tasted tequila for the first time.We both asked the appropriate questions: what we did for a living, where we were from, and what we did for fun.The restaurant was filled with single dudes at tables, waiting for their dates to arrive, and there was one such sucker about four feet away from us who kept looking at me.The obsession with dating shows started after my second oral surgery.The drugs and recovery time required to heal forced me into a fort in my bedroom, filled with cats, sleeping bags, girlfriends, and shitty reality dating shows.And while he was cute in his own way, he wasn’t what I would normally go for in a bar.I like guys who look like Seth Meyers, and he looked more like a healthy John Belushi.
There were about eight of us mustered in a small apartment in Yaletown.When I met the Maître D’ at the top of the staircase, he politely asked my name and told me he had a special spot for me over by Alamir.After the awkward-as-meeting-last-night’s-Tinder-date-while-on-another-Tinder-date introductions, Alamir and I ordered drinks.The producers served us champagne to ease the nerves while they told us how the night was going to play out.We were to all drive – yes, drive – the two blocks to the Earl’s in Yaletown, where we would then be sent up to the restaurant one by one, so they could film us escalating the staircase individually, in case they needed it for footage.
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There were five of us and I don’t think any of us changed our underwear for the four days. By “it,” I mean the worst of the worst in the world of dating entertainment: All seasons were binged-watched with enthusiasm.