There are some people, for instance the one I married, who feel I can be overly critical. Maybe it is about one’s need to crank up the heavy metal while driving, maybe it is about one’s habit of treating those within earshot to an a capella version of “Symphony of Destruction” while listening to one’s iPod. The (his) point is that I have a natural ability to find room for improvement in others.

Rather than viewing this trait as annoying, as some people (he) might, I view it as a valuable skill, which is why I am officially declaring my candidacy for the position of Judge No. 3 on “American Idol.”

Unlike my decision to become president of the PTO, this decision has not been made impulsively. I have carefully deliberated this move.

After researching various contests that could potentially employ my expertise, I narrowed down the possibilities. Further self-introspection and skills analysis showed that I lacked the fashion sense to offer helpful input on “Project Runway.” I do not know a pirouette from a cha-cha and, therefore, in spite of my affinity for sequins and semi-shirtless men, could not intelligently do more than gawk at “Dancing with the Stars.” And there is a waiting list a mile long of fellow sugar-high enthusiasts to guest judge “Cupcake Wars.”

But I can sing.

Actually, I cannot sing. Of course that doesn’t stop me, given a cocktail or two and an open mic. But after countless late-night sing-a-longs, three different (unsigned) garage bands and 28 years of playing the piano at church for people who actually can sing, I am ready to take it to the next level, primed, it would seem, for a gig that combines the thrill of live, televised amateur entertainment with the opportunity to play mentor/cougar to up-and-coming artists.

I have dreamed of this ever since the Sanjaya run of ’07, when we first started watching “Idol” at the request of our daughter. We laughed, we cried, we sometimes felt our ears bleed, and by the time the faux-hawk finally left the stage, we were hooked.

And now it is time for the years of loyal viewing, critiquing and even voting (yes, I said it, I have voted — with fervor, I might add — and you’re welcome, David Cook) to pay off in the form of a seat right between Randy “Dawg” Jackson and Steven “Dude Looks Like a Lady” Tyler, where I might impart my own wisdom upon this season’s hopefuls and banter with Ryan, maybe even setting a regular coffee and shopping date with him.

I am Paula’s love for all humanity, Simon’s lack of talent and limited wardrobe, Kara’s disdain for bikini-clad wannabes and Ellen’s dance moves all rolled up in one Midwestern mom with an ear for talent. And, given the chance, I could guide these rising stars to the top of the pop charts. Or at least away from Megadeth.