The night I vacuumed a plate

Last night was supposed to be an easy, yummy dinner.

We got whole wheat pizza dough from Trader Joes, chopped up some fresh veggies.  We chose onions, mushrooms and green peppers. Then we added sauce and cheese to our liking (I like a little sauce and a lot of cheese, MJ likes a lot of sauce and a little cheese) and baked our own pizzas for 8 minutes.  Really, only 8 minutes.  That's all it needs!

Here is our delicious pizza:

Can you guess which side is mine?

 

And then, right when you're about to eat, after you've already served MJ his slice and you're pulling your perfect, personalized slice off the tray, your plate will go crashing down onto the floor and shatter into a kajillion-billion pieces all over your kitchen. 

The good news: no pizza was harmed in the process.  Nor humans.

I looked down at my feet, surrounded by the zillion-trillion pieces of plate and sighed.  And then I crunched across the kitchen (don't worry mom, I was wearing shoes!), got a new plate, served myself a perfect, personalized slice, and crunched my way over to the table, where I joined MJ for pizza. 

After dinner we did the only thing you can do when faced with a gazillion-million pieces covering your floor: we vacuumed the plate.  I first picked up the bigger pieces and when vacuumed the small, tiny, and microscopic sized pieces.  Then MJ swiffered and vacuumed again to make sure we got it all.  This is also how I know he loves me. 

A word to the wise: do not drop a Corelle plate.  It will shatter.  Into a gagillion-fantillion pieces.

At least the pizza was good.  Rest In Pieces, plate.