Now listen: when Barry’s on, you just know the show’s gonna be killer! Seriously. And good call on AI’s part for the Fifties theme because last week’s Stevie Wonder Lovefest came dangerously close to turning me off of AI for good, and I mean it! Okay, that’s a lie, that would never happen– NEVAH!– but still. It DID totally suck. Sucked real good.

DING! Ooooh, brainfart! I just realized that Barry is one of those performers that you love to listen to… you know, if you don’t have to actually LOOK at him? Good LORD, man! The Hair! The Hair! And hey, just step out of that closet, buddy, don’t be afraid. It’s got to be getting pretty darn stuffy in there. I’m just sayin’.

Mandisa - I Don’t Hurt Anymore (Dinah Washington) – Woo! Looking good, girlfriend! Whoever picked that dress with the strategically placed undersleeve thingies? Genius. THAT is how to go sleeveless, Mandisa. Seriously. Smokin’ hot look last night, babe. Loved the hair. That being said, STOP SHOUTING AT ME! I mean, why you so angry girl? Why you gotta be like that, huh? We love you, so cut it out! The lower register was much more appealing to me because by the end of the song I was like, “Huh. Looky there. Tonsils.”

**Interesting behind the scenes info from my friend Kalki: “Cat! I was at Curves the other day and they were talking about Mandisa and they said that she is one of the people who sings the Curves songs! And I was like, “Nu-UH!” And so they brought out the CD cases, and sure enough! Mandisa is listed as the vocalist for some of those songs. And what’s more, she’s one of the vocalists on the Curves workout hymn CD!!!” Thanks for the scoop, woman! Smooches back at’cha! Heh. I am still laughing hysterically… Curves has a workout HYMN CD?! Hoo! “Holy, Holy, HOLY!” All right! Woo! Who’s down with G-O-D?! (Pastor Skip!)**

Bucky – Oh Boy! (Buddy Holly) – Oh, BOY. Tough break, kid, squashed as you are between Mandisa and Paris. But let’s talk about the hair for a moment: from Jessica Hair to Jesus Hair? Huh… Yeah, good call. That said, Boomhauer, Boomhauer, Bucky McGrowlsalot. I want to like you, I really, really do. Why won’t you let me? Huh? But hey! At least you are starting to E-NUN-CI-ATE! This is progress, indeed. Oh! And loved the mic tossing. Very sharp. (I just said “sharp.” Good lord. I am officially my mother.)

Paris – Fever (Peggy Lee) – The hair? Okay, I won’t even go there. Okay, so check it: this was probably your best performance this season, hands down, I am so not kidding. Your voice is a fine-tuned instrument, that is fo’ sho’. [Simon voice] BUT [/end Simon voice], although you are this teensy, WAY annoying firecracker with the powerful voice, I still get a sense of a little girl dressing up in Momma’s clothes… Because Fever? Really? Girlfriend, you are so not old enough to really connect with the feeling behind this song. Fever is a sultry song… it should be purred, not belted. Honestly. With a little experience and humility… yeah. You’d definitely give Fantasia some competition.

Oh! Looky! Constantine!… and Ryan Cabrera. Okay, I would not have called that. And Secret Greek Idol Luvah? Um, have you even SHOWERED since last season? Because ew? Love the glasses! Smooches! MWAH!

Chris – I Walk The Line (Johnny Cash) – Cheater! CHEATER! But that comes later… TGIM absolutely LOVED this dirgeful version of I Walk the Line, and he is an actual, honest-to-freaking-goodness Johnny Cash fan. I mean, he has liked the man’s music forever, LONG before Joaquin and Reese made it trendy. He has CDs! I mock him. That being said, yes, you = PRETTY. And hey, props to you for “refusing to compromise,” blah blah one-trick pony BLAH, but dude, if you are going to cover some other band’s version of I Walk the Line in the most blatant, karaoke way possible, you should probably mention it at some point. Raise your hand if you thought Chris arranged his own version of the song to “stay true to his rocker roots? (*raises both hands, waves them wildly*) Way to totally take credit for a version which was simply a ripoff of the version on the Best of Live’s CD. I feel so betrayed. I can’t even look at you anymore. Okay, that’s a lie. (Pretty!)

Constantine! Again! Is it my BIRTHDAY?! The unkempt look is totally growing on me… But if it is true that you are dating Kellie “Pick Pickler”… well, we may not be able to see each other anymore. Think about it. (Call me!)

Katharine – Come Rain Or Come Shine (Ella Fitzgerald) – Wow. The girl-crush? It grows stronger… and hey, way to shy away from the Pickler School of Vapid Ho-ness! Good call. YES! The bouncy is BACK, baby! Or rather, the shakeshakeshake, but let’s not quibble, mm’kay? Thank God for double-stick tape, that’s all I’m saying. (Wait…) Kat? You = Adorkable! And though your voice was admittedly a tad (just a smidge! an iota!) sharp in a few spots, this song still sounded oh-so good on you. That voice! So effortless! So pretty! And did I mention how FREAKING SUPER UNBELIEVABLY HAWT you looked? Yes? Okay then.

Taylor – Not Fade Away (Buddy Holly) – Now why in the WORLD did you pick such a boring, repetitive, non-vocally-challenging song? Huh? What the hell were you thinking?! Could you have BEEN any more blah? I was bored, and I freaking LOVE you! I didn’t bob my head even ONCE. But hey, [Paula voice] you had fun with it [/end Paula voice], and that’s my favorite part of the performance, anyhoo, so whatev. You’re not going anywhere, so PICK A BETTER SONG next week, mm’kay? OH! And the end pose? Golden.

Lisa – Why Do Fools Fall In Love? (Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers) – So cute. So talented. So forgettable. So going home. That’s all I have to say about that.

Kevin – When Will I Fall In Love? (Nat King Cole) – You still creep me out. I think it’s the soulless, blinky eyes of doom. And the attitude sucks, too, so there you go! I jutht can’t thtand it any longer. Pleathe make it thtop! Okay, that was cruel. Please go away now so I can be all Puppies Giggles Flowers Cat again.

Elliott – Teach Me Tonight (Al Jarreau) – First off, the tie? Are you freaking serious? And TUCK YOUR SHIRT IN! That said, you didn’t actually take Barry’s advice, which… stupid? I mean, Barry may be fruitier than a picnic basket but the dude knows his music. I just don’t think you connected with the song, and it showed in the vocals. Then again, I spent the majority of the performance looking at The Ears and elbowing TGIM, all, “What did they do to his ears? Are they pinned back? And up? Is it the hair? It’s got to be the hair. Why does he look strangely less blechy and sort of kind of almost attractive in a low-eared, bad teethy kind of way? Oh, man. I find this disturbing.” They are cleaning you up nicely, that’s all I’m saying. So there you go.

Kellie – Walkin’ After Midnight (Patsy Cline) – Listen, Pickle. Bronzer is NOT your friend. TGIM kept saying “What is up with her makeup? She looks like a hooker. Her stylist should be shot.” But seriously, “I thought he was calling me a jacket!”? HATE. And “happy doo doo” song? (Confession: I did actually laugh at that. I know, right? I’m so ashamed.) If it weren’t for the distracting southern accent– “Lahk Ah du-yew?” “Fur yew?”– this was probably the best Pickler performance ever. Which isn’t saying much, but it’s something, right? Simon is either insane or incredibly horny for Vapid Ho. Oooh! HARSH. Sorry. I have to admit, however, I am beginning to doubt the existence of a merciful God.

Ace – In The Still Of The Night (The Five Satins) – Oh, baby. You seriously need to pull up those pants. Um, unless you are planning on taking them all the way off– in which case, carry on. I am thinking that one falsetto note a song is a’ight, dawg, but what’s up with the whole nasally in the nasal thing you’ve got going on? Belt it out more! The belting part was awesome! Overall, you underwhelmed me with the vocals, dude, and I now officially HATE urbanized jazz. I want my Father Figure back! All “warm and naked,” remember? *sniff* *sigh* Just thought you should know.

Who should go: Kevin! Bucky! Kellie!
Who will go: Lisa

Technical Difficulties

Please stand by… (recap to come)

Wading Through a Sea of Blue… and Pink… and Yellow…

(Warning: This post could be construed as tangential and prone to metaphorical meanderings, or as TGIM would put it, “TOO. DAMN. LONG.” That is all. Carry on! Or not. It’s up to you, really. Um, okay… proceed at your own risk.)

While sitting in the bar area/holding pen at the Outback Steakhouse last Saturday night waiting with my squirmy six-year-old daughter for a table, I found myself silently cursing the elementary school for recognizing my daughter’s compassionate nature and rewarding her with a freaking Friendly Falcon gift certificate, good for one Joey Kid’s Meal. Oh, and for giving in to my daughter’s pleas of “Momma, I don’t care if the wait is over an hour! Let’s stay! Please? PLEEEEEEEEEEEZ?! I get to hold the light pager thingy!” Seriously, she snatched the pager right out of the hostess’s hand and shot out the door before I could stop her.

Now don’t think I didn’t try to talk her out of it. Oh, indeed I did. I admit, I was not happy about this. The fact that it was twenty degrees outside did not help. I pleaded, I cajoled, I whined. I even bribed, then whined some more, but she wasn’t having it. She had plopped herself down on one of the wooden benches outside and there she sat, swinging her legs idly as she clasped that pager to her chest like Master Frodo Baggins with the One Ring. I tried to take it from her, to make her see reason, to convince her that we could come back another time, but she was all “NOOOOO! It’s MINE! We must have the preeeecious!” Okay, not really, but I wouldn’t have been surprised, that’s all I’m saying.

Finally I gave in. I dragged her inside where we squeezed ourselves onto one of the packed benches in the bar. It was a busy night, so we were packed tightly, Old Man High-Pants and his Wife Unit on one side, family of five rowdy, smelly boys (I’m just sayin’) on the other. Full of excitement and youthful energy, she bounced up and down on the foam-cushioned bench with absolutely no regard for her fellow patrons’ personal space (or mine), scrunching me closer and closer to Old Man High Pants (who seemed decidedly too happy with the arrangement)– one finger twirling in her hair, her other hand clasping my Pink Razr to her ear (yes, I’m a genius)– wiling away the time talking to her Grandma Claire while at the same time dramatically advertising to anyone who cared to look that she was ON the PHONE. This is what is called “multitasking.”

I watched her, and watched everyone else watching her, and said helpful things like, “Alli! Sit down! Stop bouncing! Oooh, sorry, I’ll pay for that… Stop, you’re kicking that boy in the shins! Get off my jacket! Good LORD, Alli! SIT. STILL.” She ignored me, of course, but did stop long enough to cover the phone and say with an impatient sigh, “Momma, I am TALKING.” I closed my eyes and resigned myself to the looooong wait. I may have pouted a bit. too. I’m not sure. It’s all a little fuzzy now. For reals. It’s a blur.

When the pager finally went off, Alli began jumping and squealing and running back and forth between the hostess and me. I tried to shush her exuberance– “It just went off! I was just standing here and it started blinking! Do you see it blinking? Momma, come ON! IT’S BUH! LINK! ING!”– but how does one calm the torrential downpour of a sudden rainstorm? It just can’t be done.

I tried my best to keep her in check, as it seemed as if every eye in the restaurant was fixed directly upon me and my wild-child daughter. And totally judging. And condemning. “Bad Momma!” their eyes screamed. But it was useless: she played with the utensils and sugar packets, and talked, and laughed, and danced in her chair to the 80′s music playing, and talked, and ordered for herself (saying “please” and “thank you”), and ate, and talked, and talked some more. Then, about midway through our meal something struck me. I put down my fork (which is amazing in itself because have you TASTED the Cyclone Pasta? Mmm!) and I just sat there, watching her, really seeing her, letting her words wash over me.

And I thought of books. Used books, specifically.

You see, I always hated buying textbooks when I was in college. I’d stand there gazing pitifully– longingly!– toward the shiny new William Shakespeare: The Complete Works, wishing for nothing more than to pick it up and run my fingers up and down its smooth, nick-free cover, or thumb through the crisp, totally NOT dog-eared pages inhaling it’s booky newness, before wrapping it in bubble wrap and placing it gently into my backpack. Aaah, the sweet torture.

Then, of course, I’d stick a pin in my bubble-wrapped fantasy and reach out to grab one of the stupid old ratty copies on the shelf next to the brand-spankin’ new books, you know, one with a bright red sticker on it shouting to the world, “I’m a third of the new book price! Because I am torn! And smelly! And full of icky food and sticky beer stains! And the occasional spot of drool! Seriously, I’m on my last leg here. Buy me now!” Because I am cheap, okay? And hey… those strings of star- and heart-shaped mini-lights and that super comfy featherbed mattress for my dorm room certainly weren’t going to buy themselves, now were they?

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against tattered, dog-eared, food-stained books. Books is books, you know? As a matter of fact, some of my favorite books are in a similar condition. And dude, I am Queen of Shop The Sale, so forget about me being embarrassed to have to buy used. I’d be much more likely to stand behind you in line going, “You just paid $600 for three new textbooks?! Are you insane?! I’m getting all twelve of my books for $235.86! Woo! That’s right, SUCKAH! That lava lamp I’ve been eyeing? Practically mine! HA!”

No, what I took exception to when buying used textbooks was the inevitable array of incompetent highlighting perpetrated by the previous owner(s). Good LORD! The pre-existing sea of yellow! Or pink! Or blue! Or all of the highlight colors at war with one another on the page! You can bet money that I would spend tens of minutes of my valuable college socializing time digging through stacks of used books, searching desperately for the books with the least amount of highlighting. Honestly. I didn’t care if the books had vomit stains or were falling apart at the seams; I found the ones with the most highlight-free pages. Because, dude. If there is one thing I learned in college, it is that students? Have no freaking clue how to highlight competently.

You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. There have been studies! So many college (and high school) students truly have no clue what to do with a highlighting marker. They see other people with them and think, “Pretty!” Then they rush out, buy their own, and begin marking up their books all willy-nilly, an unimportant word here, an inconsequential paragraph there. But the worst of the offenders wield that highlighter with the belief that they will somehow magically retain everything they just read if they simply highlight, well, every single stinking thing they just read. Then a new owner comes along and uses a different highlight color, and so on and so forth until the book is just one big rainbow of irresponsible highlighting.

And what do you suppose happens when your reading material has been incompetently highlighted with a yellow (or pink or blue) marker? It dramatically reduces comprehension, that’s what! What is most important becomes lost in a sea of color, a virtual hodgepodge of frustration and misinformation. Because just as sure as proper highlighting skills will focus your attention on the most important information a book has to offer, excessive highlighting will ruin the book.

Ruin it good.

Much like in life.

Okay, granted, this was quite the thought to be thinking during dinner at Outback Steakhouse with my daughter, but never underestimate the crazy yet lightening quick workings of my mind. Or the verbosity of my daughter (I know! Where does she get that?! For reals!).

I realized that I had wasted more than half of what could have been– check that, should have been an evening full of love and laughter– one that I could gratefully pull out of the vault when my youngest daughter no longer thinks spending alone-time with Momma is a special treat– wielding that stupid yellow marker and vigorously highlighting only the trivial things, focusing my attention on the inconsequential. I was so busy highlighting what I thought was important, what I thought other people thought was important, that I completely missed the point. I ruined the book.

Ruined it good.

Chastened, I tried my best to salvage the rest of the evening. I found Fun Momma underneath all that color and I picked up my knife and began singing the 80′s music into it as she danced in her seat, I oohed and aahed over her Spotted Dog Sundae, and laughed with her over some silly joke Boomer From School– “my ushy-gushy boyfriend!”– told her. By the time we hit those heavy double doors and burst into the frigid night air, we were laughing and joking, and the happy mood lasted until we walked through our front door.

“How was it?” TGIM asked us.

Before I could say a word, Alli shrugged and said, “Oh, Momma was wearing her cranky pants, but I think she’s better now.”

Oh no! I thought. That’s it? That’s all she remembers?

She kissed me and squeezed me and ran upstairs to put on her pajamas. And guys? Guys?! I was devastated.

That night I decided to put the highlighter away for a while, because at that moment I realized that in life premature underlining often leads to highlighting inconsequential information. Cranky pants, indeed. Instead I vowed to try my damnedest to kick back and carefully peruse what life is offering– to understand, it, to enjoy it– right here, right now. No judging. Not yet. Only enjoying. Loving. I’m hoping that by doing this, when the time comes that I am looking back over the time I spent with my children, family, and loved ones, I can more competently perceive and appreciate what was truly meaningful in my life. Highlight it, if you will.

And that, my friends, is what I will focus on.

Meditation

Sometimes it is nice to simply be still…

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