Idol Thoughts, 12-1*

*It’s season 12 of Idol, and this is my 1^st comment on it. And really, if you’re not watching the show, these postings may be of no interest to you. I won’t be offended if you skip them.

Whether or not it is staged, I like the cattiness between Mariah and Nicki (although I could do without their lame attempts at a British accent). I suspect Mariah is the new Paula, but a little more coherent, and Nicki the new Simon, in the sense that she is going to tell it like it is. Randy is… Randy and Keith should be married to me, but what-evs.

I thought they would put Hoppy through (the guy with one leg) because you know how much they love a good backstory. Really surprised there was no one with a Super Storm Sandy backstory, seeing as this was the New York auditions.  My spirit guide didn’t make any announcements last night, but it is still early days. I’m making two predictions of my own, however: the chick with the fostered/ adopted siblings is going to crash and burn and the chick who used to be fat is going very, very far in this competition.

Idol's Back!!!

Even though I watch an inordinate amount of television, hardly any of it is reality TV. But, of course, there is an exception to every rule and for me and reality TV, it is American Idol. I only started watching because it had an English component to it (same reason I started reading the Harry Potter books). Those dancing/modeling/cooking/surviving/dating shows don’t do it for me, but, for some reason, even with the English component gone (I miss Simon), Idol has stuck. (It is probably a lethal combination of my addictive personality and my OCD – because I’ve watched Idol from the beginning, I have to watch it until the bitter end.)

I try to quit, I really do. Every year something happens that makes me declare that I am never watching the show again (although I do have to finish out the season – my OCD would never allow me to quit before the end). The first year it was Bryan Dunkleman not coming back (I love the Dunk). Then it was Ruben besting Clay; then it was the hiring of Jennifer Lopez (can’t stand her). Usually it is when a particularly annoying or untalented person advances way too far in the competition (you know who you are, James Durbin and Jessica Sanchez). And there is at least one of those every year. But like the hair on my chin and the fat on my arse, I keep coming back.

Anyway, when I started this blog last year, the season was just coming to an end and took up only a couple postings. I have no idea how much I shall blog about the upcoming season, but, if my addiction runs as strong as it usually does, it will be a lot – so be prepared.

Dead Men Have Thin Thighs

So I Googled a former paramour recently and discovered he died about a year ago. His online obit is set up so that messages can be left. The following is a list of messages my evil twin wants to place on the website,  followed by a parenthetical explanation as to why she wants to do such a horrid thing.

“How did he do it, does anyone know?”

(Both Evil Twin and I are almost certain it was suicide.)

“If you were truly his soul mate you would have died within three months of his death.”

(The obit has that usual blurb describing his wife as his soul mate. Barf. Plus I subscribe to the Vonnegutian theory (see Cat’s Cradle) that if you truly love someone, you’ll die either with them or shortly thereafter.)

“Last time I saw him, he was wearing my bra and panties. Can I get them back now?”

(OK, this one is slightly exaggerated. It wasn’t actually my under wear, it was from his own personal collection. He weighed about the same as my left thigh, so my lingerie swamped him. But I did leave a Prince CD (it was the nineties – don’t judge) and a pair of stilettos at his place (those did fit him) that I would like back.)

But seriously, why does my mind think of these things first? Why do I not first consider sending his widow a consolatory message? Why do I automatically think of the bad things? I guess a lot of it has to do with the fact that the relationship, such as it was, ended badly. Like, for example, when my purely platonic friend A. died, such thoughts never entered my head. So, yeah, I guess it just comes down to my jealousy, pure and simple. Jealous that another chick got to be called his soul mate and not me.

How Many Chauffeurs Does It Take To Change A Battery-Operated Light Bulb?

The confluence of the New Year and all the reflecting it brings, and the prospect of an out-of-town visitor, led me to a light bulb moment recently: I don’t know why it has never occurred to me before, but I have come to realize that, despite my crushing loneliness, I do not, in fact, want a boyfriend; no, I want a chauffeur and a never-ending supply of batteries.  

Most of you know about my irrational fear of driving (well, irrational to the Americans, but that is because you were all born driving) but if I had a chauffeur, he or she could take me to the places I want to go and don’t mind going to alone - movies during the day (not at night, that is major Loserville to go to the movies by yourself at night), eating out, somewhere with a good view of fireworks, a Strip show, etc. And because this is a chauffeur and not a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have to dig out my sexy (i.e., uncomfortable) lingerie (well, as sexy as it gets in my size) and put on make-up and check that my bedside stash of condoms have not expired, and not eat anything gassy the day before and pretend that my life is hunky-dory and make up a fabulous social life, so I am OK with the fact that the out-of-town visitor can’t stay more than five minutes after we’ve done the horizontal mamba because I have a (fake) party to go to with my (fake) friends anyway.

Because, for me, at this stage of my life, when I have been alone for so long, I just can’t be arsed with all the baggage a regular BF would bring (like, one of my married friends has to shave every week – even in winter!). A chauffeur doesn’t care if you shave, right?

Year In Review

Random facts about my 2012:

• Started this blog.
• Had my personalized license plate stolen.
• Became a citizen.
• Spent $197.63 at the post office.
• Went to the movies once.
• Gave $36.67 to charity.
• Did the dance with no pants three times.
• Had my libido obliterated by a new medication prescribed by my doctor (this fact might have a lot to do with the fact that I am not really that concerned with the low number in the above fact). (And yes, I am aware of how many times I used the word fact in the previous sentence.)
• Became a faux auntie again (welcome to the world, S!).
• Lost 10 hours in vacation pay at work because one, I do not have a life and, two, I suck at math. (I had to scramble to use up my time and I thought I’d booked enough days to cover it, but nope, I didn’t carry the one or something, and ending up having to forfeit 10 hours.) I shall be bitter about those 10 hours for a very, very long time.
• Got five pedicures.