#outfit is once again giving midwestern dad

[dailyrannells]

andrew & nick at the i don’t understand you premiere at sxsw

#outfit is once again giving midwestern dad #andrew rannells #nick kroll #film: i don't understand you

[loveyouforevergrace]

My Friendship With Grace

Grace and I met in my eighth grade math class, though it was seventh grade for her. She was honestly way too smart to be in the class, but she was required to have a math class on her seventh grade schedule, so she got pulled into the advanced algebra class for eighth graders. She barely showed up most days because she went to a special group where she learned concepts and formulas that I won’t get around to until my senior year of college. On the days Grace did show up however, she pestered me a lot. Being pestered wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, I didn’t mind her too much. She had braces, I had braces; she was kind of a nerd, and I was kind of a nerd too--it worked out. I would desperately try to figure out the answers of my homework (I still don’t quite understand trigonometry), and Grace would take my phone and play games on it for the entire class. I was definitely fond of her, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. If someone had told me that the eleven year old girl clicking away at Tap Tap Fish on my iPhone SE would grow up to be my best friend, I would’ve told them they were crazy.

Grace and I have an incredible amount of overlap between our interests, which is coincidentally how we reconnected as I went into high school and she stayed in middle school. I was playing a god awful video game with my friends one summer afternoon, League of Legends, and somehow ended up on a team with Grace in it. She entered the call and I recognized her squeaky voice immediately, so we both got talking again pretty quickly. At the time, we bonded over our unfortunate addiction to video games, and our love for Panic! At the Disco, though I like to believe our interests have become a little more refined in recent years. These days we like to go shopping, or just talk about clothes nonstop. We watch anime together, and we’ve moved on from sucking at League of Legends to building dreamy treehouses in Minecraft. In my opinion, our music taste has definitely developed too. She’s fallen down the K-Pop rabbit hole, whereas I’m a bit more into R&B and hip-hop. Despite our differences, I can always trust Grace with the aux cord. Deep down, I don’t think either of us is entirely out of our pop punk phase either. We’ve definitely had some interesting moments in the kitchen as well, whether that’s making an actual meal, or messing around with those DIY cooking kits meant for children. We did once make an entire Thanksgiving dinner for our friend group, and it was pretty damn good if I do say so myself. Additionally, we’re lovers of all things cute (which is definitely reflected in our Thanksgiving pie), and whenever I’m visiting her, we go on frequent Daiso (a chain of dollar stores with objects imported from Japan) trips to stock up on stationary, matching keychains, and other silly trinkets we don’t really need.

That’s the one disadvantage to the friendship--I have to visit Grace, and I don’t mean a walk across the street, a twenty minute bike ride, or even an hour long drive. I mean a three hour plane ride. Right before my freshman year, Grace’s dad got a new job opportunity working in Seattle, Washington. Essentially, she was torn out of the Midwestern cornfields and dropped off at a new trendy school in a new trendy neighborhood on the west coast as soon as we had started getting close. However, this didn’t stop us from deepening our bond. We did a surprisingly good job at staying in touch, and for the past five years we’ve been able to text for hours a day and call several times a week. As much as we both wish we could meet up at a small cafe for weekly study sessions, it’s just not possible, but we improvise. I’ve spent many nights on the phone with Grace while we watch cheesy animes, eat cut up fruit, and work on our homework. We miss each other like crazy, and COVID hasn’t made that any easier, but the saying “Distance makes the heart grow fonder” couldn’t be any more true.

When Grace and I do get the chance to be together, we go all out. I don’t know any friends who hang out quite the way we do. I don’t know anyone besides Grace who I’d be comfortable sharing a bath with while we wait for our lasagna to finish cooking in the oven. None of my other friends will have a candlelit dinner with me while listening to the Minecraft soundtrack, nor will they wake up at six in the morning to eat strawberries with me while we watch the sunrise. We once found out we were gonna be in the same airport at the same time, and decided to eat breakfast together before we had to part ways. We spend hours walking around the Mall of America since none of the malls in Washington even come close to comparing. One time we went to the art museum and pointed out any sculptures and paintings with two people in them that reminded us of ourselves.

That brings me to another point - Grace and I are insane at gift giving. With her sheer artistic talent, and my uncontrollable spending habits, we really do each other justice. Those sculptures that I mentioned Grace and I compared ourselves to? She made me a mini version of them for Christmas. No one else has ever taken the time to do something like that for me. This goes both ways. I know no one has ever gifted Grace an enormous package filled with nothing but merchandise from her favorite Sanrio character, Keroppi, or gifted her an entire outfit (complete with accessories) on her birthday. Even the letters she writes to me feel like tiny presents, they’re always handwritten and covered in adorable little stickers. She seals the envelopes with a wax stamp and everything. No one has ever done something so romantic for me before, not even my last boyfriend who I dated for two years.

I can tell Grace literally anything, and she can tell me anything too. I’ve found that in most relationships, there’s always certain things you can’t say to the other person. I’m bound to clash with almost everyone in my life at one point or another, and I can’t vent about someone’s BS to their own face. Even though things do get talked out with them eventually, it’s often after I have a lot of reflection and planning on how I want to discuss things. Grace is the exception to that--I can tell her anything. We almost never fight or get upset with each other. In fact, the only time we’ve ever had friend problems was when a girl at Grace’s school wasn’t too fond of me dating her ex-boyfriend, and she tried to mess with our friendship as a result. As you can probably guess, we got it figured out pretty quickly.

The bond Grace and I share is definitely not a common one to find. I’ve had friends tell me how badly they wish they had a friendship like Grace and I have, and honestly, I don’t blame them. I love every single one of my friends so much, but there’s such a great connection Grace and I have through our enjoyment of general dumbassery, but also our appreciation for things that are romantic and adorable. She’s the homemade whipped cream to my strawberry pie, the Dancing Figure #1 to my Dancing Figure #2. I want Grace to be in my life for a very long time, and I don’t doubt that’ll happen. I can’t wait for us to fall victim to the 50% divorce rate when we’re in our forties, and realize that “she was the one” all along. And I’m only half kidding.

[notbecauseofvictories]

Thoughts on Odile of Swan Lake?

Sometimes, you come home for an extended Christmas vacation—thank god for two vacation days a month—and your father has turned a bunch of the local community college girls into swans. That’s just how life is. You try to be understanding, really; it’s not like you don’t have a couple shitty dates tucked away in your back garden. (They make an unholy noise whenever the wind is high, but they also eat the spider mites, so.)

During the day, you feed the swans-who-are-technically-girls whole wheat bread, because that’s what the internet told you was best for swans. (Cultivated grains, right?) At night, you lend them your high school sweatshirts and old pajama pants, and blow up every air mattress you can beg or borrow from friends. Your father glares at them whenever they try to sit on the sofa, snarling to be quiet during Late Night. One of them, the slender brunette, cries silently.

Afterwards, the girls whisper to one another, and your father retreats to the back patio to smoke a cigar. After the first night—after Odette, who goes by Etta, clutches your sleeve and whispers, can you get us out of here?—you go out to join him.

“What exactly was your plan here, dad?” you ask, and Rothbart, the poster child for single-father assholery, grunts and goes on smoking.

You get up at four the next morning, in order to make the swans a human breakfast while they’ll still appreciate it. “Thank you,” Etta says when you hand her a plate of runny eggs, almost-burnt toast. She’s pretty, in a small-town coed sort of way. In the hazy, artificial light of the kitchen, her eyelashes are fine and pale against her cheeks, and it makes you think of something grown in the dark, a flower that will never bloom.

“Yeah, well,” you say, giving Etta an extra slice of bacon. “Merry Christmas.”

.

You call your boss the twenty-sixth, and tell him that your father’s had some health issues, you’re going to need FMLA. He tells you not to worry about it, just make sure to let HR know.

Outside the window, the swans are huddled together on the half-frozen pond in your backyard, their heads bent together like lovers. You can’t help admiring the elegant curve of those long, white necks, how lovely they are, set against the grey slate of the sky and the shadows of the skeletal trees. They’re trembling—you didn’t even know swans could get cold.

You tell your boss you’ll keep him updated.

.

The missing posters are all over town, once you know to look. Pretty, white—Rothbart’s gotten stupid and started breaking his own rules—Midwestern girls. Cornsilk hair, braces-trained smiles. Some of their photographs show them in cheerleader outfits, band uniforms. Another stupid, sloppy detail.

“Isn’t it sad?” Mary Anne, who was your friend and hated you in the same breath, simpers. “All those girls, just up and vanished.”

“Sad,” you echo. “Do the police have any leads?”

They don’t, you know. No one has leads on girls that turn into swans, any more than they have leads on men who turn into toads, or wolves, or birds, or frogs, or ravens. It’s the only reason your family has lasted as long as it has—being careful, always careful, and making sure that when a curse stuck, it stuck. Every morning since you came home, you’ve found Kelly Loshanko standing in your front yard, her nostrils flaring; she’s starting to show her age, and you’re still surprised she’s managed to last this many deer hunting seasons. You’ve heard rumors there are still families in Grand Rapids suffering from the curse your great-grandmother laid down on their bloodline, because they offended her. Or because she wanted to, or simply because she could—your great-grandmother was never one for explaining herself.

(You sometimes think about having that much power, all the things you could use it for. It would be a new world.)

Mary Anne is talking about her husband, who’s been spending “too much time on the internet.” You make sympathetic noises, and think about how unlikely it is that Etta ever finds a man to love her who has never loved before. 

“Odile?” Etta asks, when you stumble back to your father’s house at two am. They’re girls again, and Etta’s pale, pale as silver in the light from your phone. (It’s unnatural, unsettling, given how dark it is in the house—but you only glimpse her like this, in the almost-daylight, before she turns into a swan.) You’d hoped to sneak in and up to your room before anyone noticed, but it’s hard to avoid sixteen girls, all spread out across your father’s living room floor.

“Go to sleep, Odette,” you whisper, and admire the way her chin comes up in defiance. Even in the dark, her eyes glitter.

“You’re drunk,” she says, and you laugh.

“Yes, I am. I’m going to sleep.”

Your skin shivers all over when she grabs your wrist and holds tight. Her hands are very warm, and you’re not sure why you expected otherwise. “Please,” Etta says. “Please help us. Please—I know you can.”

You swallow and look away. “I don’t know what you mean,” you say, and slip from the circle of her hands. Go on climbing the stairs until you’re there in your room, all of it exactly the way you left years before. A shrine to the memory of seventeen, all of it: the handmade poppets, the clumsily lettered invocations of the Old Goddess, a photograph of you and Rothbart at the ‘95 winter solstice taped to the vanity mirror. 

You hate her, that girl in the photograph. Smiling and smiling and smiling forever.

(Even lying in bed, you can still feel Odette’s fingers clasped around your wrist. It’s hard to sleep, remembering that.)

.

There’s a boy, because of course there is. 

Your father threatens him with a shotgun and still, he keeps coming back. You suspect he has a touch of the Gift, enough for him to know—to actually know—what’s going on, and what exactly happened to his pretty cheerleader girlfriend. Or at least suspect where all the fucking swans came from in the middle of December.  Rothbart sleeps into the day most times, you can see the boy skulking in the windows, peering through dirty glass; other times, you can feel him watching as you go from the house to your car and back again.

“Stupid choice of curse, if you knew she had a boy chasing after her,” you tell your father. You’re both standing on the porch, watching the boy scramble over the fence and disappear into the trees. The swans are making sad, fluting noises from the edge of the lake.

“If he really loved her, he wouldn’t be feeding her that white bread,” Rothbart says. “It’s processed to shit.”

(You stand there on the porch for a while after, watching the swans-who-are-also-girls. No one’s ever come for anyone in your garden, because you’re not a reckless idiot who abducts the homecoming court—but still. No one’s ever come.)

“Oh,” Etta says quietly, when you tell her there’s a boy chasing after her, with pale eyebrows and a lovestruck look. “That’s Siggy. Siegfried.”

You are then, unfortunately, regaled with at least five minutes of the saga of Siggy, who truly means well, and definitely loves Etta—their love is meant to be, as long as you ignore the fact that they’re nineteen and one of them is currently a swan for twelve hours a day. “You don’t understand,” Etta whispers, as you scrape a dry helping of meatloaf onto her plate. Your father is smoking on the porch again, ignoring the whole world and especially the girls-who-are-also-swans sitting at his kitchen table.

“Siggy is my boyfriend,” Etta says, with the frenetic passion of a believer. “Siggy loves me, only me. Really me. He would—he would know who I am and what I want. Even as a swan. Haven’t you ever been in love?”

“Sure,” you say. “Of course.”

“You won’t tell?” she asks, and you smile. Maternally, if such a quality can be ascribed to you—but then, you’re currently serving terrible meatloaf to abducted girls on the twenty-second day of their stay in your father’s house. ‘Mother’ is the fucked up role you’ve fallen into.

“Of course not,” you say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

.

“Okay, dad,” you say to him on the patio that night. “What the fuck was your plan.”

.

You are, whatever your father says, absolutely not seducing a teenager. You’ll do a lot of fucked up shit—you composed elaborate praise to the Devil when you were twelve, and since, you’ve signed perverts up for an eternity as slimy, crawling things in your garden—but seducing a nineteen year old to thwart his crush on a beautiful cheerleader is a couple bridges too far. You don’t care how many times your father insists it’s “just this one time.” You don’t care if his whole fucking coven is behind him, and they call at odd hours to lecture you on the sacred transference of knowledge to the receptive acolyte. That’s some seventies woo-woo Mother Earth revisionist bullshit, and you burned those books when you left for college. There’s still a blackened spot on the front lawn, it won’t grow back.

“I’m not explaining this well,” you say, grinding the heels of your hands against your eyes. You’re tired, you’re so tired—it is, after all, just past midnight when you finish explaining it to the girls who are also swans. They look…mostly confused, but you mind is a soft fog of exhaustion. It’s hard to separate that out.

“Look, you need to take Siggy and hide him,” you tell Etta, holding the front door of your father’s house as wide as it will go. 

Her dark eyes are wide, and she stands very still, even as the other—are they girls or swans? you’re not sure—rush past her with a noise like the beating of wings, out into the night. You don’t look away from her, not once, even as they jostle past you. “You’re…” Etta breathes, and then her breath hitches. “You’re letting us go.”

You swallow. With a step toward her, and another, you gently take her chin in your hand. When she doesn’t pull away, you press your mouth to the corner of her lips. 

“There. The curse is broken,” you say. Under your touch, Etta trembles.

“I has to be—someone who has never—”

Her eyes are very dark, even in the silver of the moonlight. You smile. “Someone who has never loved before, I know.” You lick your lower lip, and it tastes like something artificial; cherry lip balm, maybe. “You should go.”

She opens her mouth, and then shuts it again. And then Odette Richards, called Etta, is gone into the night. You watch her go, and do not move from where you stand—not even when she turns down the next street and disappears out view.

.

The next morning, you stand on that same porch and watch your father taken into custody on sixteen counts of kidnapping and conspiracy to commit…something. You’re busy with your coffee, plans for the drive back, and not paying attention. In the next few hours, you leisurely pack up whatever’s left of your clothes and some of his. Afternoon finds you there again, sitting on the front step when he comes limping back.

“Hey there, dad,” you say, and offer him up the handle of his beat-up suitcase. It’s followed him through two centuries and almost as ten times that many states; you grew up listening to those stories. Rothschild in New York, Roth in South Carolina; Rot in Minnesota and Rotolo in Chicago…it was a little dizzying, all the selves your father had gone through, like changing shirts. But whatever his name, you can’t imagine the battered case not close at hand.

He touches your cheek with two fingers. “My daughter,” he says. “How I love you.”

His voice is dry as paper, cruel as a curse, and your lips twist in a smirk in response. “And I you, father,” you say in that same voice. Rothbart chuckles. He takes the yew handle of his suitcase, and offers you the other hand.

The house on the lake is still burning at midnight, as the old year dies and the new one is born. A strange green fire that the firemen can’t put out, and brings the neighbors out of their houses to stare and mutter among themselves. Only a girl called Etta is quiet, watching from the seat of her bike, her eyes wide and full of green fire as the house burns down, down to ash.

#this is....an odd and not entirely good thing #I just don't know what to tag it for? abduction? weird? #blame it on the brain infection #in my defense I had a lot of fun writing it #long post for ts #this is a thing I made #tw stuff #fairytales

[nickymakesmemad-blog]

Show Me Your Teeth

My infatuation with teeth began at an early age when I found a mess of them strewn across the bottom of my mom’s jewelry drawer. Is that what pearls were made of? My mom didn’t own any pearls, so maybe this was her grand scheme to finally have some of her own. I could see her, showing up to First Baptist, with a shiny new necklace adorning her Sunday outfit and the preacher’s wife would say, “Oh, Terri! I love your pearls.” My mom would look down as if she had simply forgotten what she was wearing because this outfit was put together effortlessly and she would smile, revealing only gums where her teeth had once been, and lisp, “Thank you, Mitheth Harlow.”

The teeth, however, turned out to be mine. And my sister’s. My brother’s would have been in there too had he been old enough to grow any, let alone lose some. I was disgusted. Not only had I been insulted by a gargantuan lie—a conspiracy, if you will!—but my teeth were mindlessly mixed in with my sister’s. By my logic, it seemed just as if my sister and I had French kissed, which was revolting more because of my homosexuality than the incestuous nature of the act. Laying amongst the others in the Island of Misfit Teeth was my silver tooth, the crown I had been given on my first (and only!) cavity. I was repulsed. A tooth shouldn’t look like that. I didn’t have to think about it when it was in my mouth and all the way in the back. Is this what my life would become if I didn’t take care of my teeth? Would they all fall out and soon I’d have to hide them from the gestapo in a drawer along with my other valuables? I wouldn’t let that happen. My sister could do whatever the hell she wanted, but not me. That drawer would never again see a tooth of mine. They would all stay in my mouth. The importance of this was paramount. Of course, this was before I knew about wisdom teeth. 

But before I had my wisdom teeth removed (a traumatic experience!), was the Duquoin State Fair. Not much noteworthy happens in Southern Illinois except, of course, for the State Fair. Illinois’s best and worst all make an appearance at the Fair, to do otherwise would be treasonous and subject you to a full year of “oh y’all really shoulda seen the fair this year, they had fried Snickers...who knows if they’ll be back next year. Might’ve missed your chance.” Women would show up to the fair mere moments after giving birth, vagina still ripped apart. Coincidently, that’s how non-mothers also left the Tilt-A-Whirl and the east parking lot port-a-potty. 

The Fair was always fun, because there was always drama. Someone would be seen with a woman who wasn’t their wife at the race track. Or someone would throw up on their date on a ride. Or someone would win a grand prize, bringing pride and joy to their entire town. I didn’t know it, but I would be this person. I didn’t plan to bring my town glory, but was I surprised when I did? Absolutely not. 

My mom and I were walking around the craft barn where people from around the state brought their woven baskets, murals, and quilts for non-AIDS purposes to be scrutinized and judged mainly by strangers but also by certified judges. At the center of the barn was a stage, so I was naturally intrigued. Though it had never happened and there was never anything to imply that it would ever happen, I was always convinced that this would finally be the year that Dolly Parton showed up. We had a Mountain Dew distributor, so in my mind, it was only a matter of time. 

My mom saw the sparkle in my eye and took me to the stage to see what was happening. “Boys Smile Contest” read a banner. A smile contest? What does that mean? “You should sign your boy up. Let’s see that smile, baby!” cooed an elderly woman in a lavender cardigan. The color of her sweater already won me her trust, but I was still skeptical of this stranger. I imagined this was a ploy to enlist pretty boys with nice teeth into the back of the barn where our teeth would be removed, sold for money, and then we’d be sewn together à la Human Centipede and we’d have to compete against a prize-winning pig to find truffles. My mom insisted that I show her my smile; after all, I didn’t have any cavities anymore. I knew exactly what to do. I looked down at the ground (a power move to feign modesty) and then I flashed it. My best, beautiful, boyish, charming twelve year old smile. “I’m signing you up, sugar!”

It was real now. My first beauty competition. Looking back, I had spent my entire life preparing for this moment. I had been perfecting my American Idol sob story since before I could walk (it involved the Taliban, but is too nuanced to be fully detailed in this humble post). I nervously paced backstage next to the canned salsas that were also up for judgement and made exclusively by white Midwestern women. My mom was on the phone with grandma urging her to get to Barn F immediately. It seemed, however, that a girl from her church was trampled at the goat corral and she was held up for the time being. I didn’t have my support group, but I had my mom and that would have to do. 

Should I take a step forward? Should I do a wave? Should I sing? I can sign so that would probably help; show the judges I know how to put my teeth into practice as well as keep them visibly pretty. Maybe I should keep it simple? We’re southern adjacent. Maybe I should toast the audience with a glass of sweet tea and really play in the demographic. I didn’t have time to come up with any choreography and the craft barn was devastatingly devoid of batons, so I would have to go up without props. 

“Boys age 7 to 12 on stage for this year’s DuQuoin State Fair Boys Smile Contest!” Shit on my dick, I would have thought had I had the vocabulary. Although the following summer at Catholic camp, I would be introduced to the word “queef”. I wasn’t prepared, but neither was Dolly when Jolene stole her man. I briefly said a prayer to both God and Jesus (because they couldn’t prevent 9/11, but maybe they had some sway over this) and made my way onstage. 

It was me and two other boys, both of whom were on the younger side of the seven to twelve age range. Both were missing teeth and it was fucking adorable. I was livid, but I couldn’t give up. I would just have to be better. The announcer stated the first boy’s name and he waved at the crowd. That was my move. I was pissed. But the fucking idiot was so young and so stupid that he forgot to smile. The crowd loved it. Then it was the second boy’s turn. He was wearing overalls, which would definitely score him points for matching the fair aesthetic. I shit bricks when I saw he was missing both his front teeth. The crown went fucking wild. Here he was stealing my thunder when he should have met his match with a coat hanger in utero. 

Then my name was announced. I wasn’t prepared. I wasn’t in costume like the other boy. I wasn’t adorably missing any teeth and that first motherfucker stole my wave. For a moment, a mere moment that felt like an eternity, I stood like an idiot. Then (and I truly believe it was divine intervention that caused me to do this) I took a step forward. That was it. Neither of those cocksuckers had bothered to step forward literally putting me ahead of them and separating me from the crowd. I smiled. I LAUGHED. And then I went back into my smile, but never fulling touching my top and bottom teeth, keeping my mouth just a little open to suggest to my fans that I was so jovial and so charming that I could burst into another laugh at any moment. The crowd loved it. And I knew I couldn’t stop there. I leaned to my right to give that side of the audience a good look. They exploded. I leaned to my left (the side with my dimple). They lost it. I hesitated as I considered which song I should burst into. But God gave me another idea. A spin. One glorious, one hundred eighty degree spin followed by a STUNNING over the shoulder look followed by a laugh at the audience because those people are fun. I waved to signal the conclusion of my act and stepped back into line with my competitors. Being gorgeous is fun. 

I stepped off the stage with a stuffed cow that had a big red plaque that said “Boys Smile Contest Winner DuQuoin State Fair”. It wasn’t American Idol, but I had to start somewhere. My mom ran up and hugged me and one of the judges snapped our picture. We all laughed when he told us to smile. Some of us more beautifully than others. I’m referring to myself there. It was my smile that was the most beautiful and I had a cow to prove it. My mom kept her hands on my shoulders and paraded me through the barn and towards the exit so we could find my dad. “Well that’s an awfully cool cow!” a vendor shouted. “Think your mom should look at my jewelry” and she motioned to what were obviously fake pearl earrings. 

“He just won the smile contest,” my mom informed her, “show her, Jacob!” Like my mom picked out her church clothes, I flashed my smile effortlessly. The vendor gasped at my pearly-whites and then motioned to her jewelry after she recovered. My mom politely declined interest with a nod and kept walking. She had something else to brag about in church that Sunday. 

[trentteti]

The Logical Rose-ning Section: Your Recap of The Bachelorette, Episode 7

Rachel Lindsay is a practicing attorney who once took the LSAT. And you, dear reader, are an aspiring attorney who will soon take the LSAT, Rachel Lindsay is also an aspiring married person, serving as the Bachelorette on this season of The Bachelorette, the love story these depraved times deserve. And you, dear reader, may also be an aspiring married person? Either way, you definitely have at least a few things in common with Rachel. So every Tuesday, we’re going to be tracking Rachel’s romantic journey on The Bachelorette, and see what we can learn about love, loss, and the LSAT. Welcome back to the Logical Rose-ning Section.

Last time: We traveled to Switzerland with the remaining six contestants, getting odes to conspicuous consumption, the endurance of sled dogs, and France. We then threshed out the chaff, ridding Matt and Adam, leaving our final four contenders for hometowns this week.

Hometown with Eric in Baltimore, MD

We don’t waste any time (other than having to sit through a lengthy introduction, of course) getting to the first hometown showdown. First up is Eric, the formerly insecure, but increasingly confidant and enthusiastic, personal trainer. Eric’s been building momentum up, but he risks it all with a sartorial gamble: a light denim shirt over light denim pants that strongly evokes the Canadian tuxedo. It’s a bold look, but one that could maybe evoke a humility and working class realness that might set him apart from dandies like Peter, Bryan, and Dean?

They start their date on a picturesque hill overlooking the Baltimore harbor, but travel to a tougher part of the city where Eric grew up. As they drive, Eric notes, “Look, they’re selling drugs right here,” presumably passing by Bodie Broadus.

They play some ball and Rachel displays a tight handle, before Eric introduces Rachel to Ralph, whom Eric refers to, at least as well as these old ears can tell, as his “A1.” I wasn’t expecting a network reality show to make me feel like a decrepit old person, but I have no idea what that means. Is Ralph Eric’s steak sauce? He’s been in his refrigerator forever? He’s a little too overpowering to be an everyday condiment?

The big topic of this date is that this is the first girl Eric is bringing “home.” Home in this case being in the largest quotes you can envision. It’s pretty strange that every home these contestants go to, regardless of where they’re from or what they say about their background, is dressed up with the same HomeGoods accoutrements, and has nothing in the way of family photos, trophies, or any of the normal stuff you see in people’s homes. Anyway, they head over to Eric’s aunt Verna’s house, who has either let the producers use a heavy hand to spruce up her place, or has a crippling addiction to Overstock.com.

Rachel being the first woman Eric brings home doesn’t seem to be an issue. If anything, Eric’s family’s reaction is “Fiiiiiiinally … Rachel, take this guy off our hands.” Eric’s fam is super welcoming to Rachel. When leaving, Eric then drops the “love” bomb–not the “I can see myself falling in love with you” or “I am falling in love with you”–but an actual code 143. He immediately qualifies that with “…and by that I mean I care about you.” Which makes the statement a little less convincing. You usually don’t use support a very strong claim with a weaker one–that’s a logical fallacy, folks. Rachel wouldn’t face the jury and say, “My client is definitely didn’t defraud the plaintiff, and by that I mean he really cared about the plaintiff’s feelings.”

Anyway, Rachel admits to “falling for Eric.”

Let’s assign an LSAT score to this date, based on four criteria:

1. Was the guy’s outfit on point? Eric gets 19/25 points in this category. You gotta admire a bold decision with the denim on denim look–if it’s good enough for Britney and Justin, it’s good enough for you too. Plus, a clean white tee and fresh white sneakies will never go out of style.

2. Was the activity fun? 17/25. The basketball court had sentimental importance to Eric, gave insight into his childhood without being overbearing or obvious, and gave them an opportunity to goof around. Points deducted for inviting comparisons to Rachel’s college boyfriend—Kevin Durant—though.

3. Was the family a good sport? 24/25. The family could not have been more welcoming to Rachel and really helped prop up Eric. Shouts to Aunt Verna for unhesitatingly telling Rachel that Eric is ready for marriage.

4. Did the guy say the L word? 20/25. The guy did say the L word, but walked it back in his explanation. That unforced error is going to cost him 5 points.

So Eric winds up with a raw score of 80, which on the June 2017 LSAT would have net him an impressive 162.

Hometown with Bryan in Miami, FL

We’re in Miami, which according to Rachel, just screams “Bryan.” “It’s hot, it’s steamy, there’ something sexy about it. Sometimes it speaks to you in Spanish,” she says. Is Rachel hearing voices that she attributes to the actual city of Miami, which has gained voice and consciousness (and apparently sex appeal and the Spanish language) in her mind? Is Rachel OK?

More to the point, is Bryan OK? To make his best impression on Rachel, dude wears a golf shit with a grey v-neck visible underneath and grey joggers that look like baseball pants.

We may be in Miami, but that look is pure Tampa, man.

They play dominos—still the only board game that can be considered even remotely cool, sorry backgammon—in Domino Park, enjoy some arepas, and dance in an empty bar. Bryan smooth talks her, and she is absolutely in the bag.

What could ruin this? Bryan’s mom, that’s what. Here’s her calmly sizing up the woman determined to take away her baby (37 year old) boy.

Here’s her hearing that Bryan thinks Rachel is “the one.”

She backs that up wondering, “You have gone out with so many girls, and you go on a show, and you fall in love with the girl on the show? I’m in shock!” Good point, Bryan’s mom.

Here’s her pledging her undying loyalty to her son.

Here’s her making small talk with Rachel.

Here’s Rachel imagining her new life with Colombian Cersei Lannister as her mother-in-law.

Bryan does some damage control by telling Rachel that he is “in love” with her. No qualifications from this guy.

How did Bryan do?

1. Was the guy’s outfit on point? You’re an attractive guy in a humid climate. You think you can pull off anything, so you go for comfort–light joggers and a polo shirt with sweat-wicking material. You want to go bold with a bright color, so you get some red, but you don’t want to come off too strong, so you temper it with some dark gray. The outfit is a little matchy-matchy, a little minor league baseball. But you go for it regardless, because hey, you’re a hot guy. This category awards no “hot guy” bonus points, though. 5/25.

2. Was the activity fun? 16/25. Bryan was able to flaunt his Spanish speaking skills with the domino players, show off delicious South American cuisine, and salsa dance with Rachel. Well chosen activities, but what do they show about Bryan? Tough to say.

3. Was the family a good sport? 0/25. Bryan’s mom was the undeniable MVP of this episode, a ferocious mama grizzly of a woman who I am 100% convinced was not joking when she said she would straight up murder Rachel if she crossed Bryan. Problem was, Rachel seemed convinced too.

4. Did the guy say the L word? 24/25. Big time. One point deduction for not backing it up in Spanish.

So Bryan winds up with a raw score of 45, which on the June 2017 LSAT would have net him a 144. Looks like Bryan’s taking the December LSAT (read: we’re going to see this guy again as the next bachelor).

Hometown with Peter in Madison, WI

Peter—sensing the mistakes made by Bryan, his most significant competition—goes classic in his ‘fit, with a grey t-shirt (that artfully complements his graying temple), blue jeans, and brown boots.

That scoop neck is made for a younger man, though. No need to flaunt those clavicles in your thirties, dude.

Anyway, Peter gets the award for most boring date. Peter takes her to the farmers market, my go-to for those times when I really can’t think of anything better to do. Peter orders two honey sticks for them, which makes me question his commitment to personal training.

Peter then takes Rachel to an empty bar to meet his friends, who, let’s just get this out there, are two black dudes. Apparently, Peter bragged about this Rachel early on, and now … I mean, maybe these guys are Peter’s closest friends and confidants. Or maybe Peter is showing them off to show Rachel how down he is? At any rate, these guys look positively thrilled to see their close buddy for the first time in months.

Bryan then takes Rachel back to his parents’ place. His parents, btw, are the archetypes of Midwestern parents.

Just look at that goatee and cropped haircut on the dad. That smooth in the front, spiky in the back, peacock-y haircut that is bestowed on all moms at age 45.

The mom commits a major oopsie doopsie when she says that Peter may not propose her at the end of this, instead saying that Peter may be willing to give Rachel a verbal promise ring or something. Peter could have saved this with an L-bomb, but decides to just say he is “very happy.” Sounds like someone doesn’t want to go to law school.

1. Was the guy’s outfit on point? Not only was his outfit timeless, he displayed tremendous body heat regulation by not sweating through the grey shirt on a balmy day. But I’m going to have to scoop out a couple points for unnecessary collarbone exposure. 23/25.

2. Was the activity fun? 3/25. Walking around a farmers market and making both your date and your friends feel uncomfortable at a get together? Doesn’t sound very fun.

3. Was the family a good sport? 12/25. Peter’s niece did the yeoman’s work of making Peter seem like he would be a fun and loving dad. Peter’s mom undid a lot of that good work in her convo with Rachel. In all, it was kind of a wash.

4. Did the guy say the L word? 0/25. Nope. Not even a preemptory “I can see myself falling in L with you.” Big loss.

So Peter ends up with a raw score of 38, giving him a 140.

Hometown with Dean in Aspen, CO

Dean, last week, mentioned his dad’s growing eccentricity. Must be something in the Aspen water, because Dean’s outfit is extremely eccentric.

What’s going on man? You can go classic with a button-down blue oxford, you can go crunchy with that weird alpaca hoodie thing and way too many bracelets, or you can go contemporary, with a tight maroon pants that cut off half-way up your shins. Doing all three together is the definition of eccentricity, my mans.

Anyway, Dean is not from the beer-flows-like-wine part of Aspen, but the rural outskirts. So they put on like, children’s bicycle helmets and ride ATVs to a champagne hale-barrel picnic.

The big issue, as mentioned last week, is Dean’s estranged father. If this were a normal relationship, you probably wouldn’t be meeting your SO’s family after a couple months of dating, much less forcing your SO to visit an estranged family member, much less doing all of that when you’re also dating three other guys. But that’s not how we do things on The Bachelorette.

Dean’s dad is a converted Sikh, which certainly doesn’t make him eccentric. And he seems pretty chill throughout the early parts of the date. He plays a gong for everyone, which sounds oddly soothing (and is some low-key promo for ABC’s The Gong Show). He gifts feathers to Dean and Rachel to represent the bond he and Dean had with Dean’s late mother. He makes them a macrobiotic meal, which, I mean, doesn’t look great, but I’m sure was delicious.

But then Dean and his dad gather for some “one on one” time, and things get super rocky (mountains) from there. There’s clearly a lot of unresolved issues and resentment between them, and it’s tough to watch unfold, much less make jokes about. Fortunately, Dean’s dad remains cordial with Rachel, but more or less kicks the cameras off his property.

Dean does admit that he is “falling in love” with Rachel, which will net him some much needed points in the fourth category.

1. Was the guy’s outfit on point? He gets the worst outfit of the night dishonors with a weird mishmash of office casual, crunchy surf bro, and streetwear doofus. 2/25.

2. Was the activity fun? 10/25. ATV’s look moderately fun to me. It also seemed like they were going pretty slow. I’m all in on gongs now though.

3. Was the family a good sport? Not really the family’s fault, per se, but I can’t say that airing out deep-seated resentments is the best look. This definitely hurt Dean’s chances. 3 bonus points for having a brother named Ross. 3/25.

4. Did the guy say the L word? 13/25. He gets halfway there with a, “I’m falling in love with you,” the present continuous hedge that only exists on this show.

So Dean ends up with a raw score of 28, giving him a paltry 131.

Rose Ceremony

At the rose ceremony in Rachel’s hometown of Dallas, Rachel can’t ignore the math. Dean will not be admitted into the fantasy suites. Upon rejection, Dean transmogrifies into a giant opalescent tear, and is immediately purchased by Jerry Jones and displayed prominently in the art museum at AT&T Stadium.

The Logical Rose-ning Section: Your Recap of The Bachelorette, Episode 7 was originally published on LSAT Blog

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