By Gina Angostura
Columnist

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Well, my New Year’s resolution to spend less time online is paying off in a big way. Now I have much more time to spend watching TV. I’ve been watching people fix up their houses on HGTV, cook dinner on Emeril and solve their problems on Maury. By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve really accomplished a lot of stuff.

I’ve even fallen for some of that reality TV, a genre I never thought I’d be interested in. But those shows are so compelling to watch. Like a train wreck, I can’t look away.

My new favorite is “American Idol.” I know, I know, it’s been on a few years now, but I’m just getting into it. I’m always behind the curve, what can I say?

One night while I watched the show, it hit me. This is what I need: a panel of judges to run my dating life. My own judgment seems to be faulty of late.

I can see it now.

First, they’ll conduct an interview to get a feel for the guy. Simon, Paula and Randy will ask questions and gauge him by his reactions.

“So, Guy, what do you like to do for fun?” Paula will ask. “I like fly fishing and baseball. And fixing stuff around the house,” says Guy.

“Oooo, those things sound so manly,” she’ll coo.

Then Randy breaks in.

“Stop it, Paula, you’re way too gullible. Out with it, Guy. What do you really like to do with your spare time?”

“I told you – fishing, watching sports, working on cars, sorting my Magic cards … oops!”

Simon bellows, “MAGIC CARDS! I knew there was something wrong with you the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re the worst sort of person. Trying to hide your weird habits on the first date, hoping you can get her hooked, then reveal them slowly when it’s too late. Sports, my arse. OK, Mr. Sportsman, who won the World Series in 1986?”

“Um,” Guy says, sweat beading on his forehead. “The Steelers?”

“Wrong! Away you go.

Gina doesn’t need your crap,” says Simon.

Then a big cane comes out and pulls him off stage. No, wait! A trap door opens up underneath him, and he disappears to who knows where. Maybe those things lead to hell, or maybe to the Jersey Turnpike. Same thing, really.

I’ve often thought a trap door would come in handy on a date. Instead of making excuses or having a friend call my cell phone to get me out of a bad date, all I’d have to do is push the red button on the table. How convenient! I’m thinking the beginning of the second hour of him explaining his problems with his mother would be a perfect time.

Of course, no “American Idol” is complete without the singing. Or the crying. I’ve done both while out with men, or right after.

Join me next week for another exciting round.

Angostura out.