Vanity Fairest

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!