Idol Audition

As a well-grounded, secure-in-myself, not-living-life-through-my-daughter individual, I assumed I was immune to Idol Fever. Wrong. The moment we entered the Scottrade Center, a tiny piece of me knew Birdie would be the next American Idol. I started planning how I'd be a really cool Idol mom, modestly deflecting numerous suggestions that my daughter must have inherited her singing skills. And I indulged in a few fantasy moments of Birdie keeping me in the lifestyle to which I'd like to become accustomed. Two points supported my Idol fever: Birdie wasn't wearing cowboy boots, and there was a whole lot of screechy, flat, sharp singing filling the arena hallways. Birdie still had to audition. That meant continuing with the herd, now three hours into Idol mode. We found our seats inside the arena and settled in to wait. An Idol wanna-be behind me chattered about this Idol producer and that Idol producer. She'd auditioned seven times. I snuck a peek at her: An aging cowgirl with pig-tails surrounded by a whole family dressed to herd cattle. In front of me was an Idol wanna-be guy, asleep. He woke up long enough to shout "I'm the next American Idol!" with the rest of us. We screamed because the Idol Machine said scream. It also told us to shout, "Welcome to St. Louis!" At this point, going on 9 a.m., we would have shouted anything the machine asked, especially when Ryan Seacrest appeared. The cowgirls, and everyone else, leapt to their feet. Ryan reminded us that St. Louis is where Carrie Underwood kicked off her run for the Idol. Then Ryan left and the crowd settled. The Idol Machine set up audition tables on the arena floor. Then section by section, Idol-wanna-bes were herded into line. As they reached the arena floor, workers took their tickets and release forms. The forms bluntly warn that auditioners may be made fun of. Everyone was placed into groups of four and directed to an audition table. One by one, each singer sang for Idol producers. A few Carrie Underwood clones received "golden tickets" to move to the next round, so did the irritating banana and the chunky guy in pink tights. I hope they understood the "may be made fun of" part of the release. Pepto girl didn't advance. Neither did Birdie. And that's when my Idol fever faded into tired from waking up at 4 a.m. Idol workers snipped Birdie's wristband, and mine, too. We followed other not-gonna-bes off the arena floor and were released into the arena parking garage, near the dumpsters. We shuffled out to the sidewalk and back to our ordinary lives. Maybe a fruit-suit would have propelled Birdie through to the next round, or perhaps a pair of cowboy boots made from Ryan Seacrest photos; or a matching set of pink tights and angel wings. Or maybe if it had been a different day, a different city and a different audition table. Birdie can sing. But at that moment, all she wanted, all I wanted, was a nap. And maybe a bite of lunch. But no more Ryan Seacrest sightings. Ryan will have to wait another year to hear this American Idol.