I Want My Dancing with the Stars

We're still digging out of four feet of snow on my Northern New Mexico Ranch. I spend lots of time chopping the ice off of stock tanks in the wee hours of the mornings before taking the kids to the private school where most of my paycheck goes and heading off to my full time job.

I want my Dancing with the Stars.

This last go-round, my ten-year-old daughter and I watch the pageantry religiously every week to the eye rolling of my cowboy husband and nine-year-old son. Although I notice that both do not leave the room when the show is on. They advise us that they want to see how Emmitt Smith holds up. I'm rooting for The Lord of the Dance Jerry Springer as they spoof on him during my interminably long commute to work on his now apparently defunct Air America Radio Show.

My software developer friend at the office, who's Indian and has been in this country for five years now, takes up ballroom dancing. Because it is so American, he says. He comes and plops himself in a chair in my office nearly every morning and wants to show me the newest Samba move he's learned. I watch my mostly female coworkers trying to spy on us ever-so-nonchalantly as they slow down in front of my door while making their way to the copy machine. I have to tell him this is not the time or the place to show me all that hip action, although I appreciate his enthusiasm. We take a walk out of the office and around the corner for coffee, where he Rumbas down the sidewalk and tries to get me to do it too, smile as big as Emmitt's plastered across his smooth, brown face.

My 70-year-old mother, who is visiting from Arkansas during the week of the Dancing with the Stars Season Finale, is cajoling my nine-year-old boy to promise her one just this one thing--that he will learn how to dance. At the moment, this seems more vital to her than his going to college. She bemoans the fact that she never learned to ballroom dance with all the seriousness of a deathbed confession, and tells us that she is considering learning now, if only my dad will comply. My husband explains to her that he has taught the boy to two-step (a country-western dance), but my mother is adamant, pointing at the television screen at Jerry Springer in his sleek black tuxedo. "Nooooo," she croons. "Like that." When push comes to shove about tonight's winner, she is torn between Mario Lopez's tight buns and teddy bear Emmitt Smith. "That Emmitt enjoys himself so much," she reminds us.

My smart kid knows a good opportunity for chain-yanking when he sees it, and tells his grandmother, "No way. Not interested." To which she ups the ante and advises him that the girls will love him one of these days if he can ballroom dance. The little charmer opens his mouth, sticks his finger halfway in, and makes gagging sounds.

I sit this one out.

The transmission on my 5-year-old SUV goes out to the tune of $3,200. They tell us that we are getting a 2% cost of living raise at the office, my boss wants me to be more of a team player, and one day I find myself gazing at chiffon dresses through the windows of the vintage clothing shop. Maybe I'll buy two.

When I feed my livestock this morning, I sing a Doris Day tune that one of those Dancing with the Stars couples did a fabulous Quickstep to a season or so back. I can't remember most of the words, but I can't seem to get it out my head as I trudge through the mud and manure. I see the man holding his partner in his arms like she is made of fine china, her chin up, eyes averted. Something about perhaps, perhaps, perhaps... My horses and chickens are unimpressed.

President Bush announces a plan for a military surge in Iraq. A new Washington Post-ABC News poll says that most Americans are opposed to that.

I want my Dancing with the Stars.

Now.