Make Mine Mike

Seven words I never thought I'd say:

Thank goodness Tampa Bay won the pennant.

Seven more:

I'm sick of Red Sox winning titles.

And another seven:

Didn't matter who won -- go National League!

Getting ready for work this morning:

Adelphia: I think this dress is too low-cut.
Michael: You say that like it's a bad thing.
A: Keep in mind I'm teaching 5th graders today.
M: Oh.
A: I should change.
M: I guess. I'd be staring at your cleavage all day, and I'm not even a 5th grader.
A: Yeah, right, you're not a 5th grader.
M: Well, I'm smarter than one.
A: Just not as mature.
M: Whatever. I'm having sloppy joes for breakfast.

So much to update, so little time. All the stories and photos from our honeymoon in Hawaii are starting to become old news. But don't worry, even with the time delay, I'll still be able to accurately describe it all without indulging in hyperbolic embellishments.

But before I talk about surfing 50-ft. waves and BASE-jumping down a volcano, I'll discuss more recent developments while they're still fresh in my mind.

Namely... while I'll miss the button-down stuck-up corporate hell I allowed myself to re-enter, I got another job. A much better job. A writing job. Thank Jebus.

I started last week working on another reality show. Still getting up to speed on the situation.

The upside of it all is pretty obvious -- it's creative, fun, and I'm not surrounded by office drones who stifle me all day while subjecting me to schweet-schmoozing their "Papi". In fact, I'm working with a few friends, and the other people there seem pretty cool, too.

The downside is that it's in Hollywood. My east-side friends are laughing at me finally making it to the 323, but man, sometimes that seems like how many minutes it takes to drive to work.

Even worse is that I get lost around there. We're on one of the studio lots, and while it seems cool that other TV shows are in production next door, I can never figure out if we're next to the "Heroes" building or the "Dexter" one, or behind "Lipstick Jungle". If only a cheerleader, a serial killer or Brooke Shields would give me directions.

And if I do find our building, I get lost inside, too. The way I manage to find my bearings is by following the trail of photos of old actors from Hollywood's Golden Age who made movies here. Most of the buildings on this labyrinth lot are left from those days. Hell, judging from the décor, my office was last renovated when films went to talkies.

Anyway I better get back to work... which means turning left at Cary Grant, a right at Kim Novak and go down the hall past Glenn Ford and around the corner at Rita Hayworth.

Don't worry, kids. Marital bliss hasn't kept Mikey from blogging, even if it's been over 5 weeks.

Hey, that means we've have lasted longer than Britney's first marriage (that non-Seinfeld Jason Alexander dude in Vegas before she met tool #2 K-Fed) and Drew Barrymore's, too (some schmo before she met the other schmo Tom Green). We're already gaining ground on their second marriages as well, and if these two go for #3 (not sure who, but we saw Drew's ex, that Mac guy Justin Long having drinks w/Jonah Hill and some other chicks), I'm guessing we'd outlast those hookups from hell too.

Even though my wife tried to kill me.

Well, not exactly. But she did come at me with a knife.

Okay, not exactly either. But she did booby trap the kitchen, causing me to nearly dismember myself with one of our wedding gift butcher knives.

Adelphia lured me in to her dangerous plot by playing the role of the Donna Reed-like dutiful housewife and making me a delicious dinner. I volunteered to clean up, and as I was loading the dishwasher, I suddenly recoiled my hand instinctively, like something had bitten me. "Ow, what the--?!"

"Oh no!" Adelphia came rushing into the kitchen, alarmed. "Tell me you didn't!"

Didn't what? How did she know what I did? I didn't even know yet.

Then I realized I had sliced my finger open. My middle left finger was lacerated real deep. It took a second before the sensation reached my brain, but when it did... all at once, I felt the pain, saw the blood and figured out what happened: The butcher knife was on the top rack of the dishwasher, blade side up. And that fucker was sharp.

"I loaded it that way because I was afraid the sharp end would cut into the plastic rack," Adelphia said, "but I was also afraid that would happen. But I didn't think you would be the one to clean up, so I was just going to remember to be careful."

I clenched my teeth and didn't say a word. I was just wrapping my lacerated digit with gauze, wondering how to make a homemade tourniquet. And dismissing thoughts about getting stitches -- the hospital emergency room would likely leave me waiting for hours, and never meet my health insurance deductible, so my finger would cost an arm and a leg. I could stop the bleeding myself for free.

But not without some anguish. Adelphia couldn't see my injured finger as I kept applying pressure to it, but she did notice my grimacing face. "Are you looking that way because you're in pain, or because you're frustrated at me?"

I stopped clenching my teeth. "Ow! Ow-ow-ow-ow!" I said.

Adelphia apologized profusely, and seemed as relieved that I wasn't mad at her as knowing that I'd keep my ability to flip people off with both hands.

Then I added, "Why would you think I wouldn't clean up? I always clean up!"

This happened a week and a half ago. Honestly, my healing finger hurt when typing, further delaying my return to blogging. But you didn't think I would never blog again, did you?

Although, after this incident, I ain't cleaning up after dinner again.