Dancing with the Stars. Now there’s a novel idea.
My neighbor announced to me yesterday that she was practicing to audition for the show. We had met quite unexpectedly out on the front curb while I was loading my car and she was checking her mail. Coffee in hand (it was only 9 am) she went on at length about the rules to adhere to and the rigorous training involved just for a shot at an audition. “Wow”, I said, looking truly amazed. “But don’t you have to be a star? Or someone?” She ignored me.
I never could get into that show. I may have watched ten minutes once when I was at someone’s house. All our eyes were drawn to the glare of the television screen with all its glitter and bass thumping. I watched one routine and felt I’d had enough. What I did get into for years was So You Think You Can Dance. Now there’s a whole lotta fun and talent rolled into one entertaining package. That series had me riveted for many nail biting episodes through several seasons. I’m not sure if it’s still on. I’ll have to check.
Meanwhile, Mr. Gorgeous has moved on. I believe I saw him the other day in aisle eight chatting up a pretty twenty-something blond, a six pack of Bud Lite in his cart and wielding a package of Tide Ultra in his inhumanly large hand. What a man.