The holiday season over, I vacuum pine needles from the carpet and tuck away the decorations. The days short and the nights long, I yearn for a respite from the winter months. I wait for the thrills yet-to-be: Super Bowl, Ground Hog’s Day and the hint of a Coppertone breeze.

Idle, I flop in the recliner and scan the ho-hum reruns. Law and Order, Law and Order CI, Law and Order SVU, I flip to another channel, my honorary law degree intact. The History Channel, ER and Frasier, enjoyed once, enjoyed twice, I’m in search of the unknown.

“This is American Idol…” the voice excites the room with a promise of adventure.

And now I Idol.

Bold, vibrant and vulnerable the top twelve take the stage. From Missouri to Oregon, I watch the contestants change. Not only do they discover their voice, they sport new hairstyles, chic clothes and personality. All along the process, they mold, they blend, they change and without notice, I change, too.

Soon, everyone’s on board with Idol fever. Designer clothes, hair-styles-with-attitude and a sway-with-a-wiggle, I pick my contestant and stand by my choice. I have a vested interest. A campaign superior to a political candidate, backers organize.

Marketing enigmas erupt. Fans sport tee-shirts with head shots and slogans and even, a “Fan-Brand” thong under wrap. Banners wave, blogs overload and generations cross barriers.

Beneath the fanfare, we develop our marketing skills, learn to negotiate and accept the consequence of a short-vote. From whispers to shouts, we form a family unit that is connected by discussions, disagreements and compromise.

United, we idol.

Midseason, I browse the crowd at the corner Juice-be-Me shop in search for Idol-mates.

“Do you watch American Idol?” I ask, a stout man with a graying soul spot.

“Never watch the show.” He answers and saunters away.

I order my strawberry mango smoothie, hold the wheat grass, and move to the order-almost-ready counter.

“Nice day,” I offer to the woman pocketing extra straws and ask, “Who’s your favorite American Idol?”

“Say what?” she replies and we shuffle left-foot-right in superficial conversation. Empty of a connection, I wait for my vitamin-enriched-smoothie and note the nice weather, again.

My drink ready, I grab a napkin and greet the customer next to me.

“Did you see American Idol last night?” I say, bending to stroke his dog’s head.

“Absolutely!” he shares.

A link is formed and I move a step closer. 

"Do you "Cook"? I rock my hips and play an invisible guitar.

He strums back a note of approval.

“What did you think of…?”

“Simon was right on. You know, the favorite singer, she was off her game.” We nod in agreement and laugh.

I draw a long sip of the icy concoction and mimic the childhood game, Simon Says. 

“Simon says 'get on key', Simon says 'not your night', Simon says 'brilliant'.”

My opinion counts. I’m validated and the weather just got better.  Next time, I think I’ll have the wheat grass. 

Bonded, we Idol.  For a few minutes, Idol chatter travels back and forth and then as quickly as our whipped cream melts, we wish our contestant a spot for next week, and I leave a bit happier.

Elimination night and I huddle on the couch. A routine played out week after week, I know the script. Bait, tease, all programmed to fit into a commercial time spot.

What? An audible gasp, unpredictable yet predictable, the exit night announces the elimination. I watch the young woman cry. Not my number one contestant but a strong contender.

Empathetic, I listen to the Idol-hopeful-no-more sing farewell and disappointment paints tears throughout the studio. After the show, I read the Idol message boards. Supporters gather to grieve, cast angry words, offer hugs and then to regroup. The support shifts and the devoted move forward to the next week.

Andrew Lloyd Weber night and I’m prepared.

A carton of Dreyer’s, a six-pack of Coca-Cola and a box of Kleenex, I’m ready for the tear-jerking ballads of lost-love and masked-face.

“Wasn’t jumping up and down.”

“You look beautiful.”

Excuse me? Like what’s that got to do with voice. Platitudes won’t grab the title. I spoon a mound of Hollywood Cheesecake into my mouth and nod a silent no to Paula. Sexy legs and hip gyrations don’t transfer over radio. I want notes on key and pizzazz. 

Frustrated, Simon says, “This is supposed to be a singing competition.”

I agree. Cute kid but the talent is raw, give it a year or two. I wait for the next singer.

I close my eyes and the lyrics, raw and edgy, fill the room.  Oh yeah, and on key.

Hooked, I cast my opinion towards the screen. ”You’re the man.”

A recap of the evening’s performances and I squirm in my seat.

I wait, wait and finally, “The phone lines are now open…”

One by one we come together with a common goal – trump the others vote to boast our musician to the next week. From the ludicrous to the fantastic, to the pursed lips and sour notes, for whatever reason, we vote. And we vote.  My voice not to be silenced, I vote, too.

Overwhelmed phone lines bog and busy tones greet me. Quickly, I try again.  Persistent, I get through. “Thank you for voting for contestant five…”

I hang up mid-sentence and hit redial. No time for polite greetings. I’m crunched into a two-hour time frame and an invisible fan just cut into my space. Bumped, I strike a comfortable pose and tap redial again and again and again.

Week nine, week ten…the contest heats up and the performers pout, argue and defend or stand and deliver under the disco lights and judges’ reality check.  

Another Idol contestant hears the exit song.

Whittled down, the season hits the finale with two contestants vying for the prize. David Archuleta and David Cook, the season’s best go note-to-note. My man steps out of the box, challenges the norm of a repeat performance and ends the night on a soft, high note. I cast my vote on a high note, too.    

The audience packed with faces old, young and in between, rally until the final vote and a new American Idol takes the stage. David. David Cook.

The season over, I play in the summer sun in wait to winter-the-winter in Idol - once more. 

THE END