I’ll admit, I watched American Idol last night. I’ll go further and admit I like American Idol. I’ve watched the past three seasons, starting with season five, Carrie Underwood. How can you not get hooked when it’s Carrie Underwood?
I usually don’t like the first five or six episodes, until they are through with Hollywood, and actually in to the competition. But . . . it was the season premiere.
There was one contestant, Cody Sheldon. I laughed when I saw him. I turned to Wyatt (yes, he was watching too) and said “He must be a nemo.” Wyatt rolled his eyes and said “He’s an emo, not a nemo! He’s not an orange clownfish!”
Could have fooled me.
We have a neighbor girl up the street who informs us of all the teenage vernacular.
“He’s an emo.”
“That guy’s a creeper.”
“She’s a mo-mo.”
“If mo-mo is a molly mormon, is pe-pr a peter priesthood?” I laugh at my own joke. Kylie shoots me a look that confirms my lameness on SO many levels.
Apparently Old MacDonald is an emo too, as Olivia sang on our way home from the store today:
Ee-Mo Donald had a farm, ee-i-ee-i-oh!