Know What Idol Gave Me?

Very seriously I ask myself, "Melissa, how many episodes of American Idol have aired that you haven't even made one comment on?" Not to mention last week's Idol Gives Back. That was pure genius to take such a popular show and make it do good for others. What other show raises over $60 million for charity and has Jack Black singing "Touched by a Rose." Can't beat that, not even with a stick.

Wasn't Josh Groban phenomenal as always? My husband even liked his performance. But I think he's secretly a Groban fan and just won't admit it.

And Kelly Clarkson is still my favorite Idol winner—of all times.

I knew I was in to a really good show. I love that so many people's lives are going to be helped. Like I said, Idol Gives Back is pure genius. But I'll tell you what Idol gave me: a near heart attack by making me think Jordin was being sent home.

In an Eye Blink

When it's morning yet still dark outside, people should be sleeping. Exactly where I should have been Monday morning, except I had an extremely early appointment.

I tiptoed across the room, feeling my way through the unlit room, then slid my hand down the wall until my palm bumped over the light switch—wallah! light—and I tugged the door shut so my sleeping husband didn't wake.

After getting ready (Not looking my best, I might add. Because, seriously, who can look decent before the sun is even up?), I shut off the bathroom switch and, purse in hand, wandered through the blackened room to the door. I found it. The door, that is. Only because I ran straight into it. Er, should I say, my left eye ran smack into it.

All I could think was, "Ow! It hurts," and "OMgoodness, I better not have a black eye on Easter."

My eye is only a little discolored and a little puffy. Every time, though, my eye moves, I complain about it hurting. And believe me, I've whined so much, I've even annoyed myself. I have no idea how Floyd Mayweather Jr. does it. I mean, he willingly gets into the ring, knowing his eyes and face and nose are going to get hammered. Ugh, thank you very much, but no. Taking a beating from the door will be enough for me.

Sushi Anyone?

Recently, I tried sushi for the second time in my life and learned I loved it. Big surprise—my husband also loved it. Okay, so we've only eaten the cooked rolls, no big hunks of raw fish. But I'm still guessing it's sushi—I bought it at a sushi restaurant, so I'm thinking it is. But then again, you can sometimes buy hamburgers at Mexican restaurants.

Anyway, my husband, who hates beans, comes home from a business trip to tell me that he ate Edamame from a sushi restaurant. Go figure, they’re soybeans. He actually ate a pile of steamed and salted beans. I could not believe it. I jumped on the chance to ask him, "So, you're saying there's a chance that I could fix chili with actual beans?" I received a big-fat no. I mean, who eats chili without the beans? Well, other than my husband, the ex-bean hater.

Now that we are trying new things, we like to share our adventures with other people. I got the brainy idea to introduce my mom to sushi. All excited to share this experience with her, I ordered for us, sticking with some pretty safe menu items: Edamame, salads with their house dressing, a Philadelphia Roll, and a Shrimp Tempura Roll. (The shrimp is battered and fried, can't get much safer than that!) We ate the salad, drank some water, and sucked some soybeans out of their shell. So far, so good. But maybe, when she tasted her first bite of the Shrimp Tempura Roll and her shoulders shimmied, I would have had a clue. Or maybe, when she, fumbling with her chopsticks, tried her second bite and then inhaled a handful of soybeans down her throat, I would have had a clue. Instead, I was like, "Here, Mom, try the Philadelphia Roll." She did. Her face turned white, her shoulders shook, she stretched her neck to swallow. "Too fishy," she said and then chugged her glass of water.

So, I guess not everyone likes sushi. The good news is, while there may not be hope for my mom to become a sushi fan, there is hope for my ex-bean-hating husband to like beans in his chili. Well, I can dream, can't I?