Guilty pleasures

No, I'm not talking about the new toys I bought Saturday at my Pure Romance party.

I am not a fan of American Idol. I just haven't been able to get into it. I think I've watched one episode. Now, I do enjoy the first show of the season where they show all the dorks that audition and don't get on, but as far as watching the show, I don't. But we have discovered So You Think You Can Dance and I gotta say I'm hooked. Hooked, by cracky. I was worried I'd have nothing to watch on Wednesdays this summer, but SYTYCD has taken care of that. Not to mention it filled a hole on Thursdays, too. And what a treat that Wednesdays and Thursdays are Mr. Diva's night off! And a good thing, too, since don't have TiVo. Now, if you were to see him in the casino some night and mention that you heard he likes SYTYCD, he might deny it, but I'm here to tell you, folks, my man likes to watch. The show.

And the best part of it is that the minute the show comes on Kady does these hip-twisting moves the entire time we watch it. I tell her to brush her teeth and she pops it all the way down the hall. It's not unlike twisting to get your underwear out of your crack, but cuter on a 4 year old. Plus, I gotta say, she's got some moves. For a white kid. And even more hilarious, she now asks us, "See dat? See me? I'm poppin' my booty!!"

Tonight we were all sitting in the living room in a vicarious stupor (and I know at least I was secretly wishing I could dance like that) when Mr. Diva said, "Mm...she's just not poppin' it tonight." I looked over at him in his wife-beater as he spit in his spit cup and marveled at what my husband had just said. I said, "Did you just say she wasn't poppin' it?" He spit again and said, "Well, you can't honestly think she was."

Another recent guilty pleasure of mine is Michael Buble'. Oh. My. Gosh. I could kiss his face and not feel guilty in the least over it. He's so farking sexy and hot and cocky and that voice. *sigh* Sometimes when I'm watching him sing (on the DVD that my husband bought me a few weeks ago) I get this giddy feeling that I can only describe as pubescent angst. I could see me putting his posters in my locker and kissing it with my Bonne Belle lip gloss on in between classes. Seriously. And when I have my MP3 player plugged into my head and I've got the song "Home" playing repeatedly and he is sounding so forlorn and sad and I just know that he misses me and wants to come home and it's all I can do to not just blurt out, "Then just come home, baby. I'll kiss your face and stroke your hair and it'll be okay, honey. Just come home!"

Pussycat Dolls and Nelly Furtado are also recent fasciations of mine. Nelly Furtado and Timberland singing "Promiscuous" has me dancing a little white chick jig while I'm fixing dinner. Oooh and those sexy Pussycat Dolls talking about loosening up their buttons and bein' a freak like your girlfriend isn't - yeah....that's good stuff.

Yes, I realize I'm 33 and a responsible adult and way too old to be watching and listening to this stuff like I do, but I can't help it. Someone organize an intervention. I think I need it.