Did you miss me?

15 07 2006

How in the world have you all been managing to get through your daily lives without your daily dose of Adams’? I can’t imagine. I only hope that it’s been as difficult for you to make it through your days sans updates on Ethan’s pooping habits as it has been for me to deal with The New Ethan. New Ethan has tantrums. New Ethan throws his food on the floor (Old Ethan cried real tears when the food was all gone). This afternoon, New Ethan threw a can at my head. “New Ethan is strong enough to pick up a can?” you ask. Yes, I respond; New Ethan has superhuman strength. And the can was empty.

The reason for my absence (as I’m sure you’ve lain awake at night pondering) is not, as some of you have guessed, that I made good on my threats and ran away to Malibu in an attempt to “rescue” Brit and her babies, and force them to befriend Ethan and I. The reality is that I’ve just been lazy. Though not nearly as lazy as my dear husband who STILL HASN’T FIXED THE COMPUTER. For some reason I’ve been having trouble bringing myself to post on the laptop while the regular comp is under the weather. I think its because we upload all our digital photos to the computer, not the laptop, and the idea of posting on the many events of the last couple weeks WITHOUT ACCOMPANYING PHOTOS OF SIR ETHAN AND HIS CUTENESS is just appalling. My champion nagging will, I’m sure, wear Jeff down soon. Very soon; he’s getting weaker, I can feel it. And when he does finally get around to doing some healing, then I’ll post all about Ethan’s first birthday party, the wedding of the century (Mr. and Mrs. Lobaugh, congrats!), the INSANE heat and digestive maladies in Kentucky, and our interesting road trip home, which, coincidentally, is where we met the long-haired Steelers fan trucker man. Quality people.

Anyway, clearly, I have very good reason(s) for my slacking off. And I’ll tell wonderful tales of them at a later date, when I can make them pretty with coordinating photos. Just wanted to inform you all that no, I’m not in Malibu teaching Brit that it’s okay to brush her hair.

One other thing: tonight, after I dropped the beef that was going to be our taco dinner on the floor, we ordered up some Papa John’s. I, of course, had a coupon and scored us some free cheese sticks (although I would eat creamed corn if I got to dip it in that special garlic butter sauce). When Jose came to the door, he was carrying two big pizza boxes, instead of one big and one little. I thought they must have run out of little boxes. The obvious answer- that they got my order WRONG- of course did not occur to me, and I merrily sent Jose on his way. Then I opened up the mystery box to find a pizza sprinkled generously with ham, mushrooms, olives, pineapples, pepperoni, peppers, twinkies, CRACK; you name it, it was on top of that pie. And good lord, did it smell like vomit.

While we discussed what to do with our crack pizza (me: EW- Jeffrey, call them and tell them we want coupons for free pizza because I did NOT order this garbage!– Jeff: Heck, no! This $18 pizza has my name all over it. Jose gave it to me, I’m going to eat it.), my phone rang. It was Jose.

“Hello, Miss Adams? (Some words I couldn’t understand due to Jose’s thick Spandian accent) wrong one. So I (some more words lost to me) 2 minutes. Ok?”

Um, okay. I met Jose at the door 2 minutes later (man can’t deliver your correct order but boy, is he prompt) with the crack pizza, and traded it in for my cheese sticks. I shut the door. Walked into the kitchen. Set down my drug-free cheese sticks (I opened the box just to make sure). And Jeff and I looked at each other.

Someone was about to unknowingly receive a crack pizza that had briefly been in the possession of filthy, diseased people who get their germs all over everything. Especially when they open their pizza boxes and spit on their pizza. True, Jeff and I are not these filthy people. And we don’t spit on things unless they spit on us first (Ethan). But how do the true owners of the crack pizza know this? They don’t. We could have done anything to that pizza. We could have used it to line the diaper pail. We could have let the dog sit on it. We didn’t, we just let him lick it. But still. Shouldn’t Papa have realized that he made a mistake, and whipped up a new, fresh, unspat upon crack pizza for the rightful owners, and let us keep the stinky thing mistakenly given to us?

Apparently Jose is a tightwad who can’t admit to his mistakes. I know I wouldn’t want to eat a pizza that had previous owners. But then again, how do I know I wasn’t eating second-hand cheese sticks? I guess what you don’t know can’t hurt you. But rest assured- I WILL be writing Papa an e-mail. And I WILL receive coupons for free pizza and/or cheese sticks.

Oh, yeah, and I WON’T ever subject you to the horrors of a post without pictures again, I swear.


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