THE X FACTOR: HELLO GOODBYE
I really had been looking forward to The X Factor. It’s embarrassing, really, how much my hopes were up. I guess I just inherently trust Simon Cowell. (Sometimes I feel we are kindred spirits and that if I was a contestant on one of his shows we’d immediately bond over our mildly obsessive compulsive ways and our love of straight-talk and white teeth and I’d be his not-so-secret favorite and after a while other contestants would start to resent me which would bother me a little bit but mostly I’d feel it was worth it.) But, also, after following so many seasons of SYTYCD and Idol, I now have a weird hankering for performance competition shows. I like the way you can zone out and half watch them — one eye on the TV, the other eye writing thank you notes or flashdancing a t-shirt or eating carrot cake from Canters. And I really get into judging the judges’ and contestants’ hair and makeup choices. I also find that I quite enjoy seeing young people under tremendous amounts of pressure. And now that I am a parent, I get all choked up whenever they show the contestants’ proud moms and dads weeping in the audience, which is constantly. Plus, I think I just miss Simon and that exciting feeling I get from being simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by him.
Anyhoo, I’d planned to write about X Factor, hopefully ongoingly, on this here blawg. But 30 minutes into last night’s premiere I discovered this show is unwatchable. It’s just like Idol but way worse than Idol in that children and senior citizens are allowed to compete, plus there is an unreasonable amount of what I can only call “background noise” (because it’s so raw!), plus they cut to the audience a thousand times per minute so we can see what regular americans think. jesus.
But last night wasn’t a complete loss. Because guess what I stumbled upon! Dance Moms. Lifetime Network. Holy shit.
In other news, look at my LadyBaby’s lunch box.
She is a school-girl now. This is why I’ve been so remiss on the blog, friends. When your kid starts preschool there is a thing called “transition,” which means you, the mom or dad, stay in the classroom with your child while he or she clings to your legs, weeping and begging to go home and this can take one day or many days or weeks, even, but the point is, you stay in there until the day arrives when your child finally releases his or her grip on your thighs and starts having craploads of fun, which is now exactly what LadyBaby is doing. Outrageous, big-girl-on-the-loose style fun. Yesterday we were at the rock-n-roll Trader Joe’s and I pointed to the Bette Midler “Thighs and Whispers” album posted on the elevator wall and asked her “Who’s this?” For a year or more she’s been seeing it and exclaiming “Mama!” But yesterday, when I asked who it was, she casually replied “Bette” — like in a duh, obviously tone — and then waddled off the elevator to stick her entire arm into a vase full of calla lilies.
“Bette.” I mean, come on. So grown up, my girl.