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Last season I decided I was finished with American Idol. Over. Done. Never again. Because I thought the contestants were just okay at best. I thought the judges had taken one too many lessons in manners and I finally just got sick of all the sappiness. I mean, really, they found something sweet to say about everyone. Can’t sing at all? “At least your dress is pretty!” Have absolutely no rhythm? “You get an ‘A’ for effort!” Can’t carry a tune even if someone stuffed it in your pocket? “Maybe you’re just having a bad day. Sing it again for us, and this time make it louder!”

Seriously, the incessant niceties were nauseating.

So I decided to be done with the show. I moved on to The Voice (because I love Adam Levine. Have for years. And I am nothing if not loyal to the musicians I stalk…er, enjoy listening to.) So American Idol and I broke up. Called it quits.

But.
Yesterday.
I read this.

“Keith Urban Tapped As New Judge On American Idol”

Ah, crap.

See. I love Keith. Not quite as much as Adam, but he comes in a close second. Wait—third. (Second place in my obsessive stalker heart goes to John Mayer. Especially with his new hair cut. Especially since he made a surprise appearance on SNL this weekend—the only highlight of that disastrous premiere).

But y’all, what if John Mayer ever joins X Factor? If that happens, I would be stuck music show hopping for the entire fall. I don’t have time for this. I have kids to feed. Jobs to do. A house to (not really) clean. Dinners to (pick up from the drive thru) cook. So, this can’t happen. It just can’t.

Keith Urban on American Idol is enough. Because now I’ve gotta break my vow and tune in to the upcoming season. So here’s to hoping Mr. Nicole Kidman has a tiny mean streak…here’s to hoping he never cries a stream of black crocodile tears like JLo was often fond of doing.

Moving on.
So.

We had a near-death in our family last night. It involved a kitchen table, a glass of water, and hermit crab I didn’t even know we owned. But let me back up for a second.

Earlier in the afternoon, I went to the movie with my husband. We hadn’t been in awhile and I begged him to take me (usually I go during the week with friends, but lately my friends have been busy. I have a feeling that busyness involves washing their hair, painting their toenails, and seeing how many spit bubbles they can successfully sail off the end of their tongues, but whatever.)

Anyway, it was my turn to pick the movie, so we saw “The Words” with Bradley Cooper. This is a great movie. An awesome story. One of the best things I’ve seen in awhile.

Except for the end.

Y’all, the ending sucked. If you can even call it an ending. It was more like they ran out of tape, looked around at each other, shrugged and then said, ‘that’s a wrap.’ Movie over. Everyone go home. Thanks for the ten-bucks-plus-popcorn you spent on this promising movie that fizzled.

It was so, so sad.

But not as sad as what happened next. We walked in the door at home, and I was greeted with this: “Mom, (neighborhood child who shall remain nameless) got Landon a hermit crab! Isn’t that awesome?”

Awesome. Just awesome. And considering our track record with pets, I’m surprised the crab hadn’t already tried to walk out our front door and back to where it came from. It did, however, try to drown itself. Let me explain.

See, my younger son is ten. And a ten-year-old boy with a hermit crab can sometimes be a bad combination. Especially when that ten-year-old has an older sister who screams at the sight of spiders and even the occasional fly. So of course the most logical thing for him to do was to sneak up behind her while she was doing her homework. He slowly set the crab down on her paper…three inches away from her nose.

She screamed. Swiped at her paper. The hermit crab went flying. And landed in her glass of water.

I don’t think hermit crabs like ice water. That’s just a guess, though.

My son fished the crab out of the glass. Held the unmoving creature in his hands. And cried. For five minutes, the thing didn’t move. For five minutes, my son wailed. For five minutes, my daughter tried not to laugh. And for five minutes, I glared at everyone in the house.

Because even though our track record with pets is stupid…three hours? We’d made it three hours before yet another pet of ours nearly bit the dust? This was ridiculous.

I soooo did not want to explain this to the neighbors.

But eventually the little guy started to move.

Eventually, its claws came out. Eventually, everything went back to normal.
And all was well. And I no longer had to explain to the neighbors that we’d nearly killed their gift. And I sure hope they’re not reading this now.

But you want to know the crazy thing about it? The weirdest part of all?

The whole time this drama unfolded, Maroon 5 was playing in the background. In fact, I’d been listening to their music all day. Which pretty much proves my unwavering belief in one of life’s most basic truths. And this is it:

Adam Levine cures everything.

Happy Monday!

Amy