i hate myself for loving you

I am finally breaking down and doing the American Idol post. I am disgusted in myself for it, but so be it. Here's what I think.

I usually like A.I. I think they do a good job of finding really talented people with a wide variety of musical abilities. This year, I feel like they forgot what their job was. It's like watching karaoke. Decent karaoke, but karaoke none the less. It makes me want a Coors Light and a Camel. And maybe some of those little pretzels.

I just don't get it. Usually, it's kind of anybodies guess who's going to win, or at least make it to the top three. This year, it's pretty god damn obvious who will make it, or at least who deserves to make it. (I forget that it really just matters whose friends call in the most. But alas, it is only television.)

Most of these kids pick horrible songs. Like tonight. Why didn't anyone sing No One Else On Earth? Mendisa or Katharine could have nailed that song. And Bucky? He's a country singer for Christ's sake and managed to find the most pop-y, hideous, sad little song he could to sing. Boo-hiss to him. Why is Ace still on this damn show? He can carry a tune, but so can I and you don't see me running around drooling into cameras. Taylor, well, I love Taylor. We might have to have some babies. But still, bad song. Grandma's Feather Bed at least would have made me giggle a bit. Bad song choice. All of them. Maybe except that little blond girl. She seemed ok tonight, but just because it was her genre. She is usually where I go floss.

Ugh. I can't believe I have more to say.

But I do. The little bickering between Simon and that Seacrest cat is silly, scripted and every time I have to listen to it I get a little dumber. I can't tell if they need to beat each other up or make out. And Paula Abdul with the whole I love you Sweetie thing makes my teeth hurt. Her hair, however, looks fabulous. Bitch. And Randy needs a new catch phrase. For the love of god and all that's holy, Stop Saying Dawg. Please.

Ok, I got that off my chest. This is what I have become. Once upon a time, I was very metropolitan, had boys dripping off of me and more friends than I knew what to do with. Now I have this crap. And stretch marks. Oh well. I'm better insured now. I guess that makes up for it.

borrr-innng

It is exactly 2:53 in the a.m. What, pray tell, am I doing up, you ask? Taking Midol and drinking Slim Fast to avoid a nasty hang over after a great night of drinking with my wonderful friends? No, try again. Drinking a big glass of water and searching for clean jammies after a particularly long, interesting roll-in-the-hay? Can't even remember the last time that kept me up until 3! No, keep guessing. What's that? You give up? Well, let me help you out. I'm waiting for my kitchen timer to go off so I can pull my sons' birthday cake out of the stove. Because I had to fold all that damn laundry from last week and I didn't have time to bake it before I went to work and the birthday party is 10 hours away. Cakes have to cool before you frost them. So I am baking one at 3 in the morning.

I am an animal. You know you're totally jealous.