BoomerGirl Diary

The other day, I’m walking my dog and I see my neighbor Candy, a self-proclaimed danceaholic, pull up and park in her driveway. Candy is a dance instructor and has little time to watch TV. Her one exception, of course, is “Dancing with the Stars.” She never misses it.

“Hi hun,” I say.

“Hi baby,” she says.

We do two minutes on the digestive ramifications of our eight-day matzo-rama before I launch into the good stuff.

“So what’d you think about Mar – ”

Faster than I can say Marlee Matlin, Candy gets a sick look on her face, holds her hand up and commands, “Don’t tell me! I haven’t watched it yet.”

Now I feel worse than rotten. I have spoiled the surprise of Marlee’s elimination for my good friend. I make a pathetic effort to cover my tracks.

“I just wanted to know what you thought about her mambo,” I lie. I am not a good liar. My face gives everything away.

“Don’t say anything next time,” Candy says.

“Promise,” I promise.

And I mean it, too. The last thing I want to be is a buzzkill for anyone’s escapist fun. It’s not the first time I’ve run into this DVR dilemma. It happens a lot, especially with shows that purge contestants, which pretty much sums up just about every program on TV. At lunch or in the market or at the gym or jabbering on the phone, if I forget to phrase a question a certain way, I’m in trouble.

“Did you see ‘Top Chef’ last night?” is much safer than blurting out my shock or pleasure regarding which of the potty-mouthed cooks was ordered to, “Pack up your knives and go!”

When it comes to “American Idol,” I’m the vulnerable one. I record the show on Tuesday night because I take a dance class. I leave the house right when it’s starting. The temptation to play hooky, stay home and watch “AI” is nearly unbearable, yet somehow, I find the strength to hop in my car. There are many hardships in life, and for me, this is one of them.

Two hours later, I return, my hips all swiveled out, my back groaning in remorse. Stretched out on the sofa, half-asleep, my husband looks up at me. He knows the rules. He’s allowed one or two words of review.

“How was it?” I’ll ask, even though I really don’t want to know.

“Okay,” he’ll say.

Sometimes, if he’s more alert, he might add, “Not bad.”

“Okay” and “not bad” tell me I’m going to love every minute. There will be wonderful moments and cringe-inducing moments. I can’t wait to watch it in the morning. Yet this presents another problem. When my brother calls to say hi on his way to work, he’s already seen “American Idol” and wants to discuss the full range of performances. The good, the bad and the ugly. Immediately, I have to rein him in.

“So, wasn’t Syesha – ” he starts.

“Don’t tell me!” I bark. “I haven’t seen it yet!”

I give him an opening to tease me. Naturally, he takes it.

“Okay, fine, but you’re in for treat. Wait till you see – ”

“John!” I whine like a six-year-old. “Don’t!”

By now he’s laughing. This is too much fun.

“Oh, and the guy with the dredlocks? What was he – ”

“I’m hanging up,” I threaten, but I never have the guts to do it.

I know we’re living in a high-tech world. I know there are no surprises anymore. What it comes down to is this: If you record a beloved show and want to maintain the suspense, take my advice. Don’t leave the house. Don’t answer the phone. Don’t open the newspaper. Don’t go on-line. Otherwise, chances are good that someone will divulge whatever it is you’re desperate not to know. And if that someone happens to be me, let me just say in advance, I’m truly sorry.