Rob lost his wedding ring yesterday. It has been 23 days. He ended up finding it (near the machine at the gym he was using to pound his lats, or whatever), but still.

We sprung for a nice coffee table from Pottery Barn and after two months, Molly has already scratched the bejeezus out of it. She likes to stand on it. She thinks she’s a cat.

We received some fancy Henckels knives as wedding gifts (to Andy’s utter dismay and indignance, as he insists that Wüsthof is better and that we registered for all the wrong things and that generally speaking we are the worst bridal registrants EVER). I was slicing cucumbers yesterday with a very very sharp knife (while of course talking on the phone, because that’s the only enjoyable part about making dinner) when suddenly, whoops! That’s not a cucumber! That was a HUGE CHUNK OF MY THUMB.

I start swearing and the blood starts gushing a darker color red than I’d care to see leaving my body, and I’m trying to hold my thumb under the sink while also keeping it elevated above my heart and by now I have broken into a cold sweat and Rob is starting to feel very faint. All of this while I’m still on the phone, mind you, because surprisingly enough my first instinct was not to ask the person on the line if I could please return her call once I have successfully reattached my thumb.

The whole scene was not unlike that Saturday Night Live sketch my dad loves so much — the one where Dan Ackroyd impersonates Julia Child as she “cuts the dickens” out of her finger and blood is spurting everywhere as she tries to make a tourniquet with a chicken bone while still lecturing the audience about salvaging the liver because it makes a nice paté. Except my dad remembers the words differently so that whenever anyone mentions having cut himself he starts hopping around clutching his thumb and yelling in a gravelly high-pitched British accent, “I’ve cut the PISS out of my fingah!” with extra emphasis on the “PISS.”

You know I’d post the YouTube video if I could find it, but apparently the folks at NBC have hired people like my husband to insist that no one impinge upon their trademark rights and to generally ruin the fun for everyone.

OK, I’m not even kidding, but as I am finishing up this post, Molly starts heaving and makes a beeline for the brand-new rug so that she can vomit on it.

We so can’t have nice things.

*****
UPDATE: Thanks to a reader, we now can all watch the video on the miracle of Hulu.com. See comments below for the link! Thanks Jon!

You know what’s expensive? FURNITURE. Specifically, bedroom furniture. I can swallow dropping six hundred bucks on a nice kitchen table that I’m going to have to look at every day while I’m eating dinner off a $400 coffee table while sitting on a $500 couch and watching a television set that cost more than I care to think about. I’m even registered for a $200 saucepan that is never going to do anything more than heat up a can of Campbell’s soup.

But bedroom furniture? Really? Some fancy, expensive drawers in which to store my Old Navy wardrobe? A nightstand where I can stash stash old editions of Yoga Journal and the rosary I got for my First Communion and don’t know what else to do with? This is what I’m supposed to pay upwards of $4,000 for?

Seriously! A bedroom set costs four grand! Do you know how many fancy purses you can buy with four grand? That’s enough to take a nice trip to Italy to visit Andy and Sarah. Or buy a wedding cake in Maui, for that matter!

Of course, not all the furniture is quite this expensive, but can I help it if I have champagne taste? I like Pottery Barn, so sue me. But Target doesn’t sell king-size headboards, Ikea is disturbingly modern, and Roy’s Furniture in Chicago is full of (according to our dear friend J.G.) “paisley goy shit.” (MAN is it good to be back in Chicago!)

How in the world do people afford to furnish their homes?

In Nashville, we kept all our clothes on the floor of our walk-in closet (Rob’s heaped unceremoniously, mine stacked hapazardly but at least looking somewhat tidy). But the moving trucks are bringing all our stuff to our 1,400-square foot closetless condo on Friday, and I don’t know WHERE we’re gonna put it!