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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.As I climbed the stairs, I was hoping for two things: not to fall on my face and for there to be a bucket of wine for me at the top of the stairs.A week later, I got a call saying they had found a match for me, someone their algorithms calculated I would get along with, and I agreed to go on a date on national television at p.m. Let’s preface this by saying that no one should go on a date at p.m. I realized that about five minutes before I was scheduled to meet the producers.Panicking, I did what all millennials know how to do very well – I called my mom and cried about it.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.I thought it was odd until the cute Maître D’ showed up with another girl to the table and told me he got my name wrong.
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Alamir was supposed to be on a date with the girl to his left, and I was supposed to be on a date with the lonely guy who kept looking at me.
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.
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