Dancer Jekyll & Ms. Hyde
Talk about bipolar! That's how I felt watching this episode of
Hey Paula.
First, we see Paula trying to have an afternoon out with her friends. Now, I work in entertainment, and I know what it's like to have your cell phone "blow up." But come on! While on a single call, she had five other people leave her voice mails. I don't care if you're as famous as the Baby Jesus - that's insane! Everyone needs some time to themselves, and I could literally feel this pop star's fatigued pain. (Not to mention the size of her cell phone bill!)
My sympathies only grew when Paula began to monologue about her chronic pain; it literally brought tears to my eyes. I mean, 14 surgeries on your neck! Can you even imagine?! I fractured my right hand in a freak jogging accident (don't ask!) last year, and the arthritic pain is still unbearable some mornings. I can't even comprehend what double-digits worth of surgeries and countless procedures could do to one sensitive area.
And that 10-second needle injection?! Enough said and too much seen! For the first time in a long time, I felt profound pity for my formerly favorite diva... until she walked into her rental house. That's when Paula did her 180. (Frankly, I'm surprised her neck didn't do a 360, and we didn't see green slime shoot out of her mouth à la
Poltergeist.) Your design stylings being what they may, that house was decorated beautifully, both inside and out. Paula didn't even take the time to meet with the interior design artist before the unveiling. The way that Ms. Abdul conducted herself (especially on the phone) was just, in this IKEA-shopper's opinion, disgustingly immature. There and then, my sympathies for Paula died.
And what was with the closing scene? Apparently, Paula got some deal to host a radio show. (Wow! Paula seen and not heard?! Talk about an incoherent program!?) Well, after Paula got the news that her project was green-lit, she sobbed like a trailer park woman hold a Publishers Clearing House check. It was creepy, and I just didn't get it.
And frankly, I don't want to "get" whatever "it" may be. One minute you feel extreme sympathy for Paula, the next you wish she'd "straight up" get off your television screen. Oh, Paula, pop some lithium and get even-keeled. I want my '90s dance diva back, not this randomly sobbing psycho.
