I’m addicted to “American Idol”. To Simon and Seacrest flirting. (Sorry, but that’s what it seems like to me.) To watching, up until last week, the gal from my home state, Lakisha, who can belt ‘em out with the best of the Motowners. Even to counting how many times Randy says “dawg” in one episode.

Granted, I haven’t yet phoned in to place a vote. I drew the line at voting for anything other than government officials ever since high school homecoming.

But like it or not, and I really don’t, I am sucked in. I feel like a teenager again. I drive around in my car actually placing bets in my mind about who’s going to get voted off. And of course, like any good teenager, I find myself fantasizing about actually being on the show.

That, in and of itself, is hilarious. First, they’ve never had a pregnant contestant whose about to get wider than she is tall. Second, while Taylor Hicks may have looked too old to be on the show, I really am too old to be on the show. Finally, there is the fact that when I sing, it literally scares the mice out of our basement faster than anything containing Decon ever could. For that matter, given how loud I sing while dusting and sweeping, there may not be any mice left in my whole neighborhood.

In fact, when I was in Sunday School in the third grade, only one of 10 of us did not make the kids’ choir. I was that one. Embarrassing? Oh yes! Telling? Definitely. But it got me used to my fate as the worst singer in my grade.

In high school, I actually won a small part in “Bye Bye Birdie” based on my dancing skills, but was pulled aside after rehearsal one night and asked to mouth the words to the songs being sung while I was on stage. Clearly, not enough people had tried out for that musical.

Needless to say, I gave up on any hope of a singing career well over 20 years ago. And then came “American Idol”. It took me until this season to really embrace – no, draw out completely – my Idol fantasy. And it all happened when Jon Bon Jovi hosted and coached the contestants in late April.

Anyone who knows me knows my affinity for Jon. That sealed the deal, and I began fantasizing about meeting other stars in my stint on the show. And while I’m more of a William Hung than a Melinda Doolittle, it’s America. We’re all entitled to dream!

My fantasy season of “American Idol” starts like this. I’ve made it past the tryouts and onto the show. The first week is Eagles Week. Oh yeah. I told you I was too old to be on the show! Glenn Frey and Don Henley (since I just threw away my poster of them a few years ago) are my coaches. And when I get on stage, I belt out the best breakup song ever written – the Eagles’ “Wasted Time”. The audience is, of course, moved to tears. And this time, not because they can’t get to the nearest exit fast enough.

The second week? Hosted by none other than Jimmy Buffet and the Coral Reefers. I’ve seen Jimmy on stage 10 times, but never closer than a few hundred feet away. But in my “American Idol” fantasy, he of course recognizes me. I know that I have to show the audience my funny girl side after last week’s emotionally moving performance, so I belt out his Hokey Pokey song and earn Simon’s unending approval.

It only gets better from there when the Go-Gos and the cast from “Free to Be You and Me” become coaches. In my next to last week on the show, Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the creators of “South Park”, teach all of us how to jam with songs like “Ben Affleck Sucks” from Team America, and “Blame Canada” and “What Would Brian Boitano Do?” from the South Park movie.

As a side note, during that week, Matt Stone also decides he loves me and hires me to help write their next movie.

The crowning week – and of course, my last on the show? Kenny Rogers! He and I have a long history. When I was in kindergarten, we had to bring our favorite record to class. I, of course, brought in my 45 of “The Gambler”. My teacher nearly had heart failure as I shared with the rest of the five-year-olds what poker and whiskey were before she could stop me.

My parents were called. My fate sealed as class troublemaker. I don’t think I saw the sun at recess time the rest of the school year. But Kenny was worth it.

And meeting Kenny during my last week of “American Idol” would be worth it, too. I’d get booted off the show that week, because I can’t quite sing “Islands in the Stream” like he and Dolly could. But I’d have had the “American Idol” season of a lifetime.

And now, I must get back to my real life. After all, it’s summer, and the mice need to be frightened away again.

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