WTF, Dog??

So the impromptu I-didn’t-know-I-was-having-it party on Saturday was a lot of fun. Only a few of the invitees were able to come and I ended up extending the invitation to a few of my family members and friends, and our neighbors dropped by (no – not crazy the asshole neighbors), and it turned out to be a great time. There was drinking and game-playing and karaoke singing and crazy blond wig wearing and terrible, untalented move-bustin. And good food.

And other than the fact that the dog seems to hate my cousin’s husband, John, for no reason – a good time was had my all. Except by the dog. Because he hates wearing crazy blond wigs almost as much as he hates John. (which, seriously – wtf, Dog? Wigs are fun. And so is John. He’s loved far and wide by dogs and kids alike. And the dog used to love my cousin, but he’s not too wild about her either, now that she’s carrying his spawn. So clearly she has to divorce him now, which is too bad because he’s a nice guy. WTF, Dog??) We had a ton of alcohol left over from my birthday party, so it was a good way to get rid of it. Except that everyone brought something to drink and we somehow have more booze than when we started. Isn’t that just awful? I think I’ll go console myself with a glass of my choice of seven different wines. Or a beer. Or a mojito. Or a daiquiri. Or a rum and coke.

Oh – also – for my birthday, Hedge and Rapunzel gave me a blender, since I was lamenting not having one (I have broken two in the past 6 years by making frozen drinks. And not smoothies – big surprise). So anyway, I inaugurated it Saturday night and was feeling all warm and fuzzy about my friends being so awesome and giving me a gift that clearly shows their love and affection for me (because nothing say love like a delicious frozen alcoholic drink). Until I realized that they were trying to kill me. Yes – my dear friends clearly rigged the blender so it would malfunction and cause my death.

You see, I made a batch of daiquiris – non-alcoholic for my pregnant cousin and the kids. And since they didn’t have any extra liquid (rum) in them and I was too drunk stupid to replace the rum with another liquid - like water – they were very thick. I had to spoon them out rather than pour them. I got drinks my cousin and non-drinking SIL (not my BFF SIL, Weenie – by midnight, she was half passed out on the dog pillow – you guess if she’s a teetotaler) and was trying to spoon the last of it out for the kids when the bottom of the pitcher (with the blades) fell off and landed on my foot. At first, I didn’t realize the magnitude of my injury because it just hurts when something lands on your foot. But then, a split second later, I looked down to see my entire foot covered in blood and a growing puddle of it on the floor. My first thought was, “Holy shit, I cut my foot.” My second thought was “Goddammit, I just cleaned this floor!”

Then, I spotted something on the floor. It was pale pink and toe-shaped and covered in blood. And my next thought was “Oh my God, I cut off my toe!” I sat down to inspect it before I got anyone upset about my toe-ectomy and discovered I hadn’t in fact cut off my toe – it was just a toe-shaped drop of extra-thick daiquiri, which was definitely good news. But the bad news is that my toe was still bleeding like crazy. Everyone was running around like crazy with towels and bandages and Neosporin (except for my faints at the sight of blood friend who expressed her concern from the relative safety of the family room). My non-passed-out-on-the-dog-pillow SIL was insisting that I needed to go to the ER, and all I could think about at this point was that if I had to go to the ER, it would ruin this party.

We eventually got it to stop bleeding, after approxmately 10 paper towels, lots of pressure, 16 feet of gauze, 8 pounds of cotton, and 8 Dora band-aids. Needless to say, I didn’t go to the hospital. Which isn’t as stupid as it sounds. Because even though the current version of the story involves almost bleeding to death, an explosion, a desperate dive to safety, snakes, giant, whirring blades that narrowly missed my carotid artery, and – depending on how hungover I am when I’m telling it – insane ninjas, it really wasn’t that bad. Except for the profuse bleeding. And the ninjas.