"Who's deciding who gets the individual dates?" Chris asks in a fashion so troublingly rhetorical that every existing punctuation mark -- including the Spanish-language upside-down question mark -- vies for placement at the end of it and causes the English language to descend into chaos and screw you, Chris Harrison, for killing English. And, the answer: "One of Jesse's best friends!" The girls laugh uproariously in a horribly non-contextual fashion, while back in the attending limo, Teary Lou The Uncheerful Fawn actual lets a full-throated sob let fly, thus creating an emotional average state between their laughs and her cries that equals "stone-faced passivity," which is also being represented in my house at all times that find this show airing. "This woman has known him since college, and she's married to his very best friend!" She's also...our returning champion! Chris picks up the linguistically repetitive phone and places a long-distance rhetoric-call, asking, "Would you guys like to meet her?" Yes. Yes, they would. And in she walks. It's Jenny! Jenny is The Spy! We're dragged screaming through a series of emotionally revealing reaction shots that were edited together with a staple gun and a dream: is that? But I thought? Can it be? Confusion! Shock! Incredulity! And, finally...acceptance! Trish looks surprised. But she's wearing a tiara. So really, she has no right to look at anyone else like that, ever.
"The first thing you think is 'uh-oh,'" Trish tells us in a confessional in which she's still wearing the tiara. Honestly, Trish. Take it off. I'll give you the same advice I gave to Uma Thurman when I saw her in the trailer for Paycheck: "You have to change what you're doing. Some of us are actually trying to like you." But she pays me no heed, vamping on, "I think we're all kind of backtracking in our mind about past conversations or things that we might have done." Says the girl literally wearing her anti-romantic, non-Bachelor-sanctioned feelings on her sleeve, sporting as she a t-shirt reading "Gold digger. Like a hooker...just smarter." And as much as I want to malign her for purchasing her TV-ready wardrobe at Spencer Gifts and ask whether she'll try and ruin one of the individual dates she won't be going on with some strategically-placed rubber vomit, I have to point out instead that my family's idea of dressing up for the holidays is, and I quote, "no t-shirts with writing." So if my music-teacher mother can be forgiven for years of personal messages to the world reading "I can't...I have a rehearsal," I say there's nothing inherently more disturbing about "Gold digger. Like a hooker...just smarter" than there is about, say, "Hold me...I'm a fermata." Just stop calling my mom a hooker.