March Madness

On Sunday, the brackets are chosen, and according to hubby, "Chances of UCLA making it to the big dance this year are slim to none.  Their only hope is to win the Pac-10 Tournament." Why am I hoping they don't?  Why am I relieved, if not all-out giddy?  In the past, when UCLA has made it to the party, my house has reverberated with scary, ritualistic zeal. 

I Would Like To Thank Kimberly-Clark

My pink Shimera scraped the carpet and went swish-swish.  My white hand bag paid tribute to Dior, Chanel and Kimberly-Clark.  My Bearpaws heralded from China and kept my toosties warm.  My hair was a hot mess; my makeup understated.  I caught a few stares as I modeled my robe, my clutch of tissues, my slippers for the tiny crowd gathered in my living.  I caught more than a thumb's down for my overall look.  I caught me a bad-ass cold.  So much for Cousin Andy's.  So much for the anticipated scream-fest, the bloody brawl for which I spent the last three weeks training. Oscar night fizzled for the Short Jewish Gal, along with the Neil Patrick Harris opening.  My damn predictions came close, but not close enough.

And The Winner Is: Not You!

I'm not sure why I take such sick pleasure in predicting who gets the boot on "Idol." On Thursday, I called three out of four.  I kept shouting downstairs to hubby, who's already burned out on the show, "I got another one right!"  Hubby had trouble rising to my level of glee. A low-key "good for you" was about all he could muster on my behalf.  In my tiny universe of me-me-me, it's just so much fun to be right.

One Tough Cookie

Barely out of the hospital, Crystal Bowersox once again won ladies night on "A.I." with "Long As I Can See The Light," by Creedence Clearwater. She promised to bring it to church, and dang, if she didn't deliver. Girlfriend's got such "raw, natural talent," in the words of Ellen, that there's no telling where she could land, chart-wise, long as she manages that testy diabetes situation. Simon tried to retract his subway comment and called her a "serious artist."  All I can add to that is:  Duh! 

The Man Your Man Could Smell Like

Old Spice is running a series of hilarious commercials, starring major hunk/actor Isaiah Mustafa.  They are so cheeky and fun, they make you want to buy soap-on-a-rope.  Check it out.  If you don't scream with laughter, chuckle, or at the very least, grin, call a doctor, immediately.

Isaiah Mustafa, The Old Spice Guy

From Pussy Cat to Lion

"Big Mike" Lynche went from pussy cat to lion, in the words of Simon Cowell, Tuesday night on "AI," singing James Brown's "This Is A Man's World."  Nicely done, my muscle-bound man.  Big Mike's soulful rendition was the only real standout performance, strangely enough.   The guys definitely improved their game, after the sudden switcheroo. It was supposed to be Ladies Night, but my favorite Crystal Bowersox got rushed to the hospital, so they did a flip-flop with the dudes.

Enough, Canada!

Kitschy, over-the-top and fun.  That pretty much sums up the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics.  Giant inflatable mounties.  Giant inflatable beavers.  Giant maple leafs. Giant hockey pucks.  And William Shatner summing up what it means to be a Canadian: “We are a people who know how to make love in a canoe.” Your basic insane Hodge Podge for 20.  I'm so glad the Olympics are over, I could do a ceremonial tribal dance in cross country skiis.  I could sing, "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay."  Let's move on, shall we, to something far more important, where the only trophy handed out is a golden dude named Oscar.