No, I don’t. Not a waltz or a rhumba or a jive. My cable box has chosen to implode mere hours before the finale of Dancing With the Stars. This has placed me into the unenviable position of requesting that the Lord & Master put my guilty pleasure onto his DVR. Giving him ample opportunity to snigger as I watch Kirstie Alley, Chelsea Kane (a Disney cutie pie), and Hines the Football Player finish out the toe tapping season.
I love that Kirstie has told the press her current dress size is, and I quote, “a stretchy six.” Wow. It’s powers of delusion like that that bring a smile to my face. And I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been dodging my own Weight Watchers meetings for close to a month now. Crap, I even bought a glass bottle six-pack of Cokes. Smoooth. Coke is the Devil, but at least I know I’m a sinner.
When I was back in Hackensack the current DWTS hoedown had just begun. I soundly lost in my vain attempt to woo Daddy away from his devotion to Turner Classic and CNN, specifically, his Man Crush, Elliott Spitzer. (Bob prefers his humiliated public figures to be Ivy League, you know.) Most of his comments are softly whispered and unintelligible. But to my request that we tune in to the Hollywood hoofing, he rang out clear as a bell: “You’ve got to be kidding me, Wiggles.” Rex Harrison couldn’t have enunciated more clearly.
Why doesn’t anyone else appreciate D-list talent sweating through choreographed routines in sequins and spray tans? I’m a trash TV queen stuck in a family of culture vultures.