Make Mine Mike

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.