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.

My tournament was the lead story in a recent NPR piece, an interview with senior GQ editor Mickey Rapkin, whose book, Pitch Perfect: The Quest for Collegiate A Cappella Glory, recently hit national bookstores. (Sorry, Rob bought the only copy at the Borders on State and Lake, so you’ll have to get yours elsewhere. Or you can just have my copy.)

You can listen to the piece here.

Pretty wild, huh? I find it hilarious that I am now learning things about my own business on the radio. (ICCA is pronounced “Ick-uh”? Seriously?) I mean, it makes me giggle to hear the host of an NPR show talking about the tournament’s organizers making this huge decision to amend the judging system that ultimately changed the landscape of competitive a cappella, when in reality what transpired was a 15-second conversation on the plane home from New York City:

Amanda: “Shit, did the Juilliard judge really screw them over then?”
Rob: “Yeah, we’d better start having five judges and throwing out the top and bottom scores.”
Amanda: “AAaaauauuuuuugh. Seriously? That’s so much work!”

Of course, it wouldn’t be my tournament without the aca-drama, so it makes me feel somewhat better that even NPR had to explain itself in the aftermath. Listen here for their follow-up piece that patiently insists that all the a cappella tunes they played really WERE done entirely without instruments. Seriously, Dad, they really AREN’T sneaking drum sets into the studios or playing tiny trombones from in the wings!

… and as turned on his iPod and opened the door, I heard him start to sing along to the music:

“Popular! I’m gonna be pop-UUU-lar!”

That’s right. From Wicked.

We’ve been together for seven odd years, and I don’t realize until ten days before our wedding that I am marrying a gay man.

It is not a good idea to move one month before you get married.

It is not a good idea to forget that you don’t own a swimsuit until exactly one week before you leave for your wedding in Hawaii.

It is a good idea to start using Crest White Strips seven days before your wedding. I’m three hours in, and already my teeth are so sensitive that even the thought of eating makes them hurt. Which is of some consolation when you are trying on swimsuits in a department store dressing room and wondering why you haven’t felt inspired to start dieting until RIGHT NOW.

It is not a good idea to take even one day off from writing thank-you notes for the multitude of gifts from your registry that arrive on your doorstep each day.

If you would like to single-handedly destroy the environment, I would recommend registering at Williams-Sonoma. The amount of boxes, wrapping paper, and bubble wrap used for each shipment is staggering. The sheer volume of packing peanuts alone is enough to endanger at least three species. More often than not, a huge box will yield the tiniest item, but you have to actually break a sweat to get to it. It’s like those Russian nesting dolls. Seriously:

Today’s delivery, weighing 13.3 pounds and measuring 19 by 19 by 18 inches

was full of mostly packing peanuts

and a big white box (which was wrapped, but I forgot to take a picture first)

Inside the big white box were three smaller boxes (and some more packing peanuts)

And inside THOSE boxes was a lot of bubble wrap.

And nestled inside the bubble wrap there were four salad plates, four bread plates, and four pasta bowls.

Elapsed time: 23 minutes, most of which was spent trying to corral the packing peanuts, which go flying in every direction, which makes the dog want to eat them even more.

The big picture:

And just when I’m starting to get half a mind to call Williams-Sonoma and complain about their packaging materials, I spot a notice printed on one of the boxes:

Now there is just no way in hell I’m making a special trip for all these flipping packing peanuts. Rob already complains that I have two garbage cans in the house (one for garbage, one for recycling) and that I want him to help me load up the car with the absurd amount of cardboard boxes we have accumulated between moving and getting married so I can take them to the recycling facility, because Chicago STILL DOESN’T RECYCLE.

So yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to for the past month. Unpacking boxes.

We’re getting married in TEN DAYS!

Rob just read this and said, “I think I got the wet feet.”

You know what I hate doing more than packing and then unpacking all my stuff for the second time in eight months? Putting in shelf paper.

You know who is EXTREMELY ANAL about having shelf paper on every single flat surface within a cabinet? MY FUTURE HUSBAND.

Seriously, a jar of something could open itself in there and cause a massive explosion, rendering the shelf, the cabinet, and the entire home unsafe for human use. Not to mention the irreparable damage to our property value.

I took this post down a few weeks ago because Rob insisted it was boring, but I have since gotten quite a few complaints. So, back by popular demand, here is a post from May 9:

It was kind of quiet around here today, so I figured I’d liven things up a bit.

And that’s just from getting her ears cleaned. You can’t imagine what happens after she gets a bath. Wheaten Terriers aren’t big on hygiene.

Today is Friday, and Friday is the day Brad comes to visit!

Get a load of this story:

Rob moves to Nashville, and the first friend he makes at his law firm is Brad.  Brad had also just moved from Chicago, where he had lived exactly one street away from us and knew and loved all the same Old Town spots.

In law school, Brad dated and became good friends with a girl named Julie, who is from Rob’s home town and of course went to high school with him. Julie lives in Old Town as well and is now dating a guy named Adam.

Adam is in a very good band, so Julie and Adam are moving to Nashville, where Julie will likely end up working at Rob’s law firm, in the position Rob just left.  In his office, even.

Adam’s band is playing tonight at the Double Door, along with a band formerly known as the Redwalls, whose original members went to high school with Rob. In fact, when the Redwalls were freshmen, they used to open for Rob and Barry’s band, which at the time of course was the toast of the town.

After looking at Adam’s band’s website, we discover Adam’s last name and realize that Rob went to high school with him, too. Adam was a senior when Rob was a freshman, they appeared together in the school’s production of Bye Bye Birdie. Rob’s big line (which we’ve heard time and again ever since, always delivered with the utmost in emotional integrity, as Rob is a great actor, don’t you know) was: “He’s coming! He’s coming! Conrad Birdie is coming!” And you’ll never guess who played Conrad Birdie. That’s right: Adam.

Rob even dated Adam’s little sister Jessie when he was a freshman, and they still keep in touch. In all likelihood, she will be at the Double Door tonight for her brother’s farewell gig, along with her music-loving friend Sara, who happens to be one of Rob’s very best friends.

I mean, that just freaks me out. If Rob’s parents break it to him tomorrow that Rob and Brad are actually twins who were separated at birth, I would believe it. I’d believe anything at this point!

I am hereby outing myself as a half-assed vegetarian. That’s right. No meat for me.

I mean, the more I think about it, the more it grosses me out. And then I saw PETA’s “Meet Your Meat” video, as narrated by Alec Baldwin (who I can’t take seriously in this video because I keep correlating his voice with his character on 30 Rock, and that’s just funny). This video is violent and disgusting and disturbing in so many ways, not the least of which is how the cows and pigs trudging pitifully to slaughter look EXACTLY like Molly.

However. I love bacon. I love everything about it - the aroma, the flavor, the texture - except that it comes from a poor little piggy that was born to die and lived its life confined to a tiny, filthy pen. And did you know that a pig is smarter than the average 3-year old? Or that they can experience complex emotions?

And even the free-range ones that frolic in clover until its time to be humanely killed and sent off to Whole Foods, well, they still look like Molly, so that’s out, too.

So after much thought, I have decided to become an ovo-lacto-pesco-baco-tarian. That would be a vegetarian who eats eggs, dairy, fish, and bacon. Though, to be perfectly honest with you, the eggs are going to go soon, because you know my feelings on birds, as well as the fish, because they gross me out too. Dairy, on the other hand, I have decided is OK, so long as it comes from happy cows. Because I truly could never part with ice cream.

Anyway! I did have a point, and my point is BACON SALT.

That’s right. Bacon Salt. Just when you thought salt couldn’t get any better, along comes the bacon fairy, sprinkling applewood smoked goodness all over the land.

And get this: it’s vegetarian, kosher, and noncaloric.

The geniuses behind this product are two self-described “Bacontrepreneurs” who came up with the concept while discussing their mutual love of bacon. And indeed, the Bacon Salt motto is “Everything should taste like bacon.”

As one testimonial on their website puts it, “Why would you have fries when you can have bacon fries?” EXACTLY. This stuff can go on everything. The Bacon Salt blog even has a recipe for a bacon-flavored martini! And they now have a “natural” version that is gluten-free and low-sodium, though I can’t imagine how “natural” it could possibly be. I  mean, no meat, no sodium, no gluten, no calories = no good. Unless of course you put some chemicals in there. Yum-o.

Did your day just get a little brighter? Cause MINE SURE DID!

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!

I haven’t even been in Chicago a week but it’s as though we never left. Scratch that — some things have changed. The bars here are gloriously smoke-free, the Sedgwick L stop is now really nice (as in, there is only an 80 percent chance that you will be mugged, instead of absolute certainty, or at least if you are mugged, it will be against the backdrop of a pretty urban mural on the train platform) and, well, hm. That’s about it. I have been loving every minute of it, though and wondering why we would ever have left in the first place. It feels like waking up from a bad dream. It wasn’t a nightmare, and it was interesting enough, but I sure am glad to be awake now.

I’m going back to Nashville today. No, seriously. The movers come tomorrow morning, and we have a few loose ends to tie up there. You know, the usual things: canceling utilities, selling off appliances, renting a Haz-Mat suit so I can take down the wreath with the poop nest … ugh, it was smelling pretty funky when we left last week. What are the odds that there are no dead baby birds in there? Barf.

So I’m packing a carry-on suitcase in the bedroom, and Molly is watching me nervously. I ask her if she wants to go for a walk, and she goes her usual amount of nuts and then sits by the back door. But the back door, which leads to the garage, means “go for a ride,” and the front door is what we open to “go for a walk.” Molly knows this, but I think nothing of it at this point.

Once we’re outside, she runs right up to a parked SUV and sits by the passenger door, waiting to be let in. And it is only then that I realize: She saw me packing the suitcase, so she thinks its time to go for a ride.

Rob got his job in Nashville just a few weeks after we brought Molly home with us. In the six months that followed, she and I would make the drive between Chicago and Nashville and back again more than a handful of times to visit Rob and house-hunt in Nashville. And even since Molly and I moved to Nashville officially, she has been with me on several trips back up to Chicago.

But I’m flying this time, so she can’t come with me. And I swear she knows this, because she proceeded to sit down in front of every single SUV we passed (not the cars, mind, you, but the SUVs, which look like our Honda CR-V). And when we got to the end of the block and turned around, she practically pulled my arm out dragging me all the way home. Poor dog wants to come with me!

Or maybe she’s just afraid of being left alone with Rob for two days (and I don’t blame her — I’m not sure he even knows where we keep her food). Who knows. I can’t read her mind, but apparently she can read mine. I swear she goes ballistic if I even THINK about taking her to the dog park. It’s totally wild.