The down side to being The Food Whore is never having a weekend off.

But one of the great things about being your own boss is being able to set your own schedule and work when the heck you want to.

This weekend is my first of 4 weekends with absolutely no tricks. We have a few mid-week ones but they are light and simple.

We book ourselves out every November so we have time to relax after a hellacious summer schedule and so we can enjoy the coming holiday season starting with Thanksgiving. And it also allows us and our staff to gear up for the equally hellacious month of December filled with The Holiday Tricks.

So last night I did a little dance in my kitchen in celebration of an entire Month of Weekend Freedom. The Dance was simple and poetic, somewhat of a ballet if you will. And I will say it was all quite graceful and light until I did a deep bend with one leg in the air and lost my balance. Mid stumble my leg came down and my slipper caught on the chair, which made the other foot slip and slam into the table leg. Which, is really not surprising considering what normally happens when I dance in my kitchen.

Son of a bitch that hurt.

I landed square on my arse and there I sat rocking back and forth holding my throbbing foot. The Husband sighed and walked over to pick me up off the floor.

"Sweetie. You're so pretty. But maybe we should save the ballet for The Nutcracker, hm?" His head was tilted in that loving and so so exhasperated with me way.

"I'm a good dancer. It's the slippers. They were all wrong for this piece."

"Yes, dear. It's the slippers." As he patted my hand.

(Ripped the toenail off my pinky toe, by the way.)

Anyway.

So The Husband had to get to his meeting. And it was really stormy outside which made it a perfect night to stand over my stove perfecting a couple of recipes for The Holiday Tricks.

I wanted to perfect my gorgonzola creme sauce and in the middle of whisking in the last bit of cheese - poof - the power went out.

And it was total darkness.

I stood there for a minute thinking maybe it was going to flicker but I got nothing.

Just total eerie darkness.

I didn't move from my spot because - frankly - I wanted to finish whisking. One last stir - in the dark - and it occured to me that I had no idea of where the flashlights were. And it also occured to me that I was totally alone.

And here's a little secret - I am totally and completely scared of the dark.

So I shuffled two steps to the left to pull open the proverbial kitchen junk drawer to fish out the stick lighter I just knew was in there. And Viola! There it was.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Nothing.

Out of juice.

I did that side to side glance you see in horror films when the stupid people getting chased by the ax-wielding freak stop in the middle of their escape to look around.

Look right - blink. Look left - blink.

I shook that stick lighter with vigor hoping to roust up some fumes and then - click - Viola! We have light!

I really didn't know where to start other than remembering I had just put a bag of tea lights in the storage closet. So I made my way to the storage closet and flicked the light switch... why do people flick light switches when there is no power??

Anyway so I grabbed a handful of lights. I put them all on the island and lit them. I realized there in the total darkness that instead of calling them tea lights they should call them Teeny Tiny No Good Blobs of Wax In a Metal Cup. I get more spark and light from my clothes when I forget to put a Bounce sheet in the dryer.

So in my efforts not to panic, I tried to call The Husband on the cel phone.

No dial tone.

I was just sure someone had cut the phone lines and a bloody scar-faced man was waiting for the opportunity to break down the door and drag me kicking and screaming to my doom. (I know it seems dramatic, but tomorrow is Halloween, afterall.)

And them I remembered that we have cordless digital phones and they don't work without power.

Idiot.

So I go from cupboard to cupboard rummaging for a flashlight and I find nothing. And then I start to curse The Husband's name for being gone and for not putting the flashlight in a place easily accessible to me.

I stood for what seemed like an hour in the middle of my kitchen, holding that flame up like a dedicated fan at an AC/DC concert, when it occured to me that the lights weren't coming on any time soon and I needed to save what fumes I had left.

I made my way to the bedroom, stubbing my already bleeding toe on the couch along the way.

And son of a bitch that hurt even worse the second time.

I crawled into bed and put the covers over my head and waited. It wasn't about 20 minutes later when The Husband came home, flashlight in hand, calling out my name.

"Babe? Honey?"

"Oh you mean like when the power goes out?!?!"

Sensing my displeasure he asked, "Well didn't you find the flashlight in the storage closet?"

"When I was in there the other day, I noticed it tucked under a bag of candles in metal cup thingies."

Damnit.

Can someone please tell me what in the HELL happened to October?

I had a migraine last night.

A bad one.

Although is there such a thing as a good migraine?

I think not.

They are evil bastards.

The morning after a migraine always leaves me a bit on the rummy and stumbly side. In the words of The Mother, I look like I was pulled out of a dog's ass. (And since she's a fellow migraine sufferer, she completely says that with love and understanding.)

And the crazy thing is, I always wake with a craving for something sweet and something oh so bad for me.

So I stood at my breakfast pantry this morning with mascara remnants under my eyes, and hair like medusa, and mismatched slippers (one grey one belonging to The Husband, the other leopard print belonging to yours truly .... grrrrr....) I scanned over Grape Nuts, Honey Nut Cheerios, Quaker Old Fashined Oats, Grits, Cream of Wheat - and I was dejected.

"*Sigh*" Messy Hair Head hanging down.

The Husband came over and said, "What the matter, Sweetie?"

"There's nothing bad for me in here. I totally need bad for me."

"You're so good to me.

When he left I shuffled over to the couch and did a face plant.

Within 30 minutes I was sitting down to a bowl of the sweetiest most crunchiest most...

"Ouch!"

"Oh, yeah. I am totally going to eat the whole box."

Ok so I ran by the deli this morning to pick up some proscuitto and genoa salami. Moustached Counter Girl was helping a customer as I came in.

I was checking out (Ok, squeezing) the mini pumpernickle loaves when I heard Moustached Counter Girl speaking to someone in a very distinct British accent.

Now, Moustached Counter Girl not British.

I stood back for a moment wondering if maybe I heard her incorrectly. But then she spoke to the customer ahead of me like she was Olive from the old show On The Buses (No comments about my age, damnit. My family enjoyed the re-runs.)

So Business Suit Man comes in behind me and we're listening to her ramble on about honey ham when Business Suit Man leans in to whisper, "Since when is she British?"

"I have no idea. I don't know if she's just goofing around or if she's totally gone off the deep end."

So it's my turn at the counter and I get a, "What can I get for you, Luv?"

"Ah."

Freak.

What is it about society that dictates how we feel about people doing things alone? There appears to be a stigma for being independant and self assured.

It's as if you're walking around with the word "LOSER" stamped on your forehead.

So The Husband and I are on crazy schedules right now. I was alone last night and decided to treat myself to a nice dinner at the Greek place down the street. I was craving souvlaki and did not want to hassle with having it delivered. I figured I would just gather up some Tricking notes and walk down for a nice treat.

"Table for one, please."

"Oh goodness no."

She looked at me with a combination of disbelief and pity.

"You're waitress will be with you shortly."

"Thank you!"

I set to looking over some notes when Perky Stacy arrived.

"Hi! I am Stacy! Did you want to wait for the other person before you order?"

"Oh." Look of dejection.

"Well, gosh that's ok."

"Well good for you. I mean. That's great." She had her head tilted and she spoke to me as if I was a member of AA and was celebrating my first year of sobriety.

"Indeed. Good for me. What's your special tonight?"

So my food came and I was busy eating and going over my paperwork when I noticed the people at the next table staring at me and whispering. I tried to discreetly check my nose to see if anything was hanging out or if maybe I had food on my chin.

But I was clear.

And then I noticed another lady staring at me from a table across the way. But it wasn't so much blatant staring as it was looking out of the corner of her eye.

I've seen this kind of behavior before when The Husband and I were dining out and the next table over was a man dining solo. People all over the place were staring and whispering. And I am sure they were making up gradiose stories about him being a drifter and a possible serial killer having a nice meal before hunting down his next victim.

It's craziness.

Next week I am going to go out again but before I go, I am going to make myself a nice, big fake booger and perch it strategically at the edge of my nose.

If people are going to stare, I want to give them good reason.

Ok so I stopped by the grocery store on my way home to pick up milk for The Husband. There was nary a drop in the refrigerator and when he went to make himself a bowl of tasty Honey Nut Cheerios this morning, he was devastated. (Seriously, The Husband loves his O's)

"Ohhh nooo... God noooooooooooooooo"

"Sigh"

Anyway so I am at the grocery store and Sweet Old Sampler Lady is giving out rings of sausage on tooth picks.

"Sample?"

"Oh, not today. Thank you." Big smile.

"You don't like Bratwurst?"

"TRY IT."

Seriously, she scared me.

There she stood in her little black cardigan and latex gloves, red lipstick slightly askew, right hand holding out this nub of Bratwurst on a toothpick.

And she was intense.

Her right eyebrow was up.

So in retalliation I raised my eyebrow.

We were like two gunfighters at The OK Corral, waiting for the other to flinch. The only thing between us was my grocery cart full of fresh produce and milk.

"Fine."

I grabbed the Nub of 'Wurst and swung my cart around.

"So?"

"Eventually."

As I was walking toward the seriously overpriced cheese, I turned to look over my shoulder and she was staring at me. Watching my every move.

I turned the corner, looked back, raised up the Nub and smiled.

I left the little Nub of 'Wurst perched next to a can of refried beans on aisle 9.

Take that, sample lady.

When you're The Food Whore, it's rare to have a weekend off. Your life revolves around making fabulous food for fabulous parties. (And in my case, swearing at all the guests...) And these fabulous parties always happen on the weekends.

But this past weekend was a rare one - a weekend off.

I have been salivating over this one for weeks, excited at the possibility of doing something wild and crazy like staying home and watching a good movie. Or lying on the floor staring at the cieling. Or running the streets shouting, "I have a weekend oooooofffff!!!"

Alas, that is not how I spent this past Saturday night.

I made the mistake of answering the phone on Tuesday night.

It was The Relative.

"Oh great, you're home!"

Damn.

"Ok, this Saturday is our turn!"

"Oh yes. We insist! We will take you out for a belated anniversary gift!

Damn.

"Our place is a mess - we are currently redecorating so we thought we would just take out out, instead."

Damn.

"Hello? Are you still there?"

"Yes. I hope that works for you because our schedule is crazy and when I spoke to you a couple of weeks ago you were talking about how nice it was going to be to have a Saturday night off and I noted that on my calendar - that you had this coming Saturday off - and I just knew it would be the perfect time for us to pay you back!"

Me and my big damn mouth.

"We're thinking Thai food. So we will meet you there at 7:30 on Saturday night. We can't wait!"

Why is it that I can find all the words needed to scold someone for stealing shrimp from a buffet line but when it comes to things like this, I find myself dumbfounded?

Anyway.

So on Saturday night at 7:20 we arrived at The Thai Place and waited…and waited…and waited… and at 8:00 They arrived. “Oh you’re here? Are we late?”

“Oh sure. Whatever. We’re here. Isn’t this place fabulous?”

We ordered our food and a nice shaker of lemon drops. There were enough to share, but like that was going to happen.

So we're making small talk and I notice The Relative's Husband staring at the television hanging from the rafters above the bar. He had a direct view and was fascinated with The Yankees beating the pants off The Redsocks. (The Friend in Boston has my sympathies)

Small talk was taking place between Us Ladies while The Husband interjected his tidbits of wisdom. Every once and a while The Relative's Husband would turn his head and say, "Wha..? Oh. Um. Yeah. I don't know", and go back to watching that damn game.

Our food came and he systematically stabbed his scallops while mindlessly put them in his mouth ... while watching that damn game.

The lemon drops were gone, The Husband was chewing on the last bit of squid tentacles when The Buxom Waitress came buy to ask if we wanted dessert. We all declined but The Relative's Husband said nothing. So The Buxom Waitress waited and said, "Sir, nothing for you?" and he got this disturbed look in his face.

I smiled at The Buxom Waitress and said, "We'll take the check, please" and turned to The Relative's Husband and said, "I am sorry, are we bothering you?" I heard The Husband mumble, "oh shit...", while The Relative got red in the face. The Relative's Husband looked at me and said, "What? I wasn't paying attention."

The check came, and silly me thought since they wanted to take us out for our anniversary that meant they would pay. Instead they added up their portion and pushed the tab to us.

Next time they call, I will simply get in my car, drive to their home, knock on the door, give them $60, and say thanks for the wonderful time.

And then I will be entering The Witness Protection Program so that no Relatives will ever find me again.

So I had a trick last Saturday night. I wanted to tell you about it but with The Fabulous In-Laws here, it was difficult to find a free moment. And having to explain to The Fabulous In-Laws that I call myself A Whore seemed like a moment better suited for the time I can say something like, "We're giving you a grandchild to carry on the family name! ...andIcallmyselfawhore...." (No - no babies. Everyone relax.)

So I made coconut prawns for them, instead. That's my game - ply everyone with food and make the world a better place.

Anyway.

So I had this trick. And the Trick was especially tricky because The Bride is a member of The Friend in Texas' family. So I promised long ago not to tell anything personal or bitchy about The Bride and Groom - I did this out of my love for The Friend in Texas.

However.

I never promised to leave out details of The Guests; they are fair game.

It was a frustrating night on a lot of levels. I really should have known how it was all going to go when I stepped out of the van upon our arrival. I landed in a great big mud puddle, the kind that has the quicksand like mud in the bottom where your shoe has no choice but to get sucked down deeper, thereby filling your catering clog with muddy, slimy water.

Yeah that was nice.

The Venue was particularly beautiful - but particularly small. Like "average home living room" small. So it was impossible to move freely. And when you're hauling platters of hot food, moving freely is the key to happiness.

Well, at least my happiness.

So the night started out pretty well and then the chaos happened. 2 cork screws... broke. The wine - a cheap but acceptable brand - had freakishly strong corks. I mean, if I were ever on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and the boat sprung a leak, I would want these corks to ensure my safety.

So there's a mad dash to the kitchen with me rummaging through every cupboard and drawer imaginable to find a damn cork screw. In the mean time, people are lined up 50 deep for another glass of wine.

And I don't think I need to tell you what I said as I was rummaging through all those drawers and cupboards... that's right,fuck. As in, "This is un-fucking-believable."

So someone finds a suitable replacement for the cork screw and things start to settle a bit. But then I turn to see one of my staff on their hands and knees in the middle of the floor, with The Sound Man handing her towels.

Apparently some Sloppy Drunk Guest dropped his beer, and instead of say, taking care of it himself. He simply laughed and walked away. Fortunately for him, I didn't see it happen and never knew who it was exactly. There would have been a scerfuffle, I am sure.

So it's time to set up the serving station and one of the first things I put out was the chilled shrimp display. I should have known better but my mind was more on the logisitcs of getting the food through the throngs of people in my way, I wasn't concerned about dumbshits eating from the buffet before it was set to be served.

Yeah and that was dumnb.

I come back from the kitchen with my tray of steamed asparagus and there are two elderly gentlemen EATING MY SHRIMP. And I say that with all caps because as I was putting the platter of asparagus down, I was shouting "STOP EATING MY SHRIMP!", in my head.

It's exhasperating, really. I don't know what posesses people to lose all sense of decorum when food is placed on tables, but as The Food Whore, I can only stand back and wonder what in the Hell makes people so stupid...and wonder how I can drag their sorry asses into the coat closet without anyone else noticing.

I looked, but let it go. It wasn't a battle I had time for at the moment. We still had more food to bring out. But on the second trip, it happened again. And this time I couldn't ignore it. I think it was the fact that The Old Man actually stuck his finger in the cocktail sauce to see if it was to his liking.

It's at these moments that make me either want to pass out from the frustration of it all or scream explatives at the top of my lungs. Get your damn finger out of that bowl or so help me God I will drag your sorry ass out to that giant mud puddle in the back! But I can't. I have to smile and be discreet. Discreet is the key, actually. And in this situation, instead of screaming explatives at the top of my lungs, I turned my back to the room, made eye contact with The Old Guy and gave him The Raised-Eyebrow Stare of Death.

I sort of lost my cool for a minute, though, because I am pretty sure The Stare was accomanied by flared nostrils. And I know this because his eyes got big and he went over to his wife and pointed at me.

At that point I excused myself to the kitchen to regain my composure. It was then that The Partner came through the door and said, "I just had to stop some SOB from sticking his finger in the shrimp and yet ANOTHER dumbshit spilled his drink in the middle of the floor and fled the scene. These people are freaking ANIMALS." (I use the "all caps" because she shouted the word ANIMALS)

In the middle of her shouting, The Sound Man came into the kitchen and said, "Well dressed... but those are some rude-ass freaking PIGS out there." as he got the mop out of the closet. (Again - all caps for the actual shouting..)

And honestly, if you've gone so far as to piss off The Sound Man, you've got problems. Pissing off The Caterers is easy - they showed up with an attitude. But when you piss off The Fun Loving Music People, you're just a special kind of stupid.

So I went back out to give the OK to start sending people through the line and decided to park my butt in front of the shrimp. I felt like I was part of The Secret Service, ready to give my life for the Safety of The Shellfish. And as I was standing there while The Master of Ceremonies was giving the opening greeting, The Cute Boy Guest reached behind me and grabbed a shrimp. I chuckled at the irony and said, "I so cannot believe you just did that while I am standing here."

"Well just think of me as The Food Tester. And if that shrimp is any indication, the food rocks! And have I told you that you're gorgeous? No, really. You're stunning."

I was gracious while I chuckled and shook my head. "Your compliments are received with gratitude. But if you take another shrimp, you understand that I will be forced to cause you great physical harm, right?"

He laughed, "Point taken my new beautiful food friend. Point taken."

From there things went incredibly smooth, but for some reason the buffet line never got smaller. It was the craziest thing. We knew how many people where there, had a plate count, but it just kept getting longer and longer.

And do you know what we discovered? People were going through for seconds and thirds before some people even went through for the first time.

And that's not something you can police, you can't force a person to use the brain the Good Lord gave them. All you can do is ensure you have enough food, a smile on your face, and a very private place to scream explatives at the top of your lungs.

Approximate time for a egg to fall out of my my hands and crash to the floor in a disgusting splat of shell and gel?

.0025 nanoseconds.

Approximate time to clean up disgusting splat of shell and gel?

25 minutes and approximately 47 sheets of paper towell and a thrice-rinsed dishrag.

And a lot of swearing.

A lot.

Damnit.

At 4:00 a.m. yesterday morning we bid farewell to The Husband's Fabulous Parents.

And now the house is horribly quiet except for the sounds of Jill Scott and the freezer ice machine dropping ice.

You don't realize how quiet a 2-person house is until you entertain 2 additional people for a week and then they are gone. The dishwasher runs less, the TV is not quite so loud and there are 2 less people in this house telling me how fabulous I am.

And let's be honest, it's all about people telling me how fabulous I am. (Arrogant pain in the arse that I can be)

But it was wonderful.

They have a genuine appreciation for food and I made every moment they were here about The Food. As did The Mother, The Sister and The Aunt. Everywhere they turned they were being offered fabulous plates of food. Roast barron of beef, oven roasted vegetables, baked squash, plates of pumpkin bread, baskets of fruit, pasta with beef ragu', chicken and smoked mozarella ravioli in a fennel cream sauce, biscuits and gravy, bacon, smoked ham, carmelized onion dip, beer battered halibut, pound cake with berries, and on and on and on and on.

We saw the sights, ate more food, shopped until we dropped, ate more food, watched movies, ate more food, laughed ... and ate more food.

I miss them terribly.

Everyone raise a glass to The Husband.

Seven years ago today he married the craziest, most difficult woman in the world.

(He's totally the luckiest guy on the planet)

The Fabulous Mother-In-Law and The Fabulous Father-In-Law were relaxing on the couch last night.

The Fabulous Mother-In-Law was reading a magazine and said, "My goodness."

The Fabulous Father-In-Law said, "What's that, baby?"

"A Gossip Whore. Why would anyone want to call themselves a Whore?"

D'Oh!

Did I ever tell you I had A Twin?

Not a blood twin. No relation, whatsoever.

This girl and I look so much alike it even scares me. It's like they did an evil human cloning experiment somewhere deep in the mountains of North Dakota and we are a walking billboard for their work.

It's uncanny, really.

And while we may look alike; we're nothing alike. For lack of better descriptives, she's a skanky 'ho bitch. A slut. An easy piece of meat. Ready and willing.

I worry sometimes that she will be out doing something naughty and people will think it's me. Ironic, really, considering I call myself A Whore.

Her name? We will just call her Easy Esther.

I have lost count of how many times how many people have said, "Wow. You look just like..."

"A giver of free love? Yeah."

I have even run in to her a couple of times and she will say, "People think I am you."

Well, wonderful.

Anyway.

So I went shopping at Costco last night. I had a few things to get for the parental arrival and for my Trick this weekend.

And there I am, minding my own business at the meat counter when I notice this guy winking at me while his wife has his back turned. I look, raise my eyebrow, roll my eyes, look away.

Pretty soon I am over in the cheese section when there he is again, but this time he's alone. And I see him looking, smiling. I ignore him. But make up my mind that if he so much as takes one step closer, he will take a wedge of parmesean to the head.

In an intense whisper, "Psst. Esther."

I ignored him, but in my mind it hit me - he knows Esther.

"Psst... Esther!"

He started to come closer and I raised my hand and said, "Hey, pal. I am not Esther." He was perplexed.

About that time His Wife came around the corner and because I am who I am, I said, "So, exactly how do you know Esther, anyway?"

His face turned 5 shades of red and he looked like I had punched him in the gut.

Bastard.

The Mother was an amazing force in our household.

She was a Martha Stewart way before Martha even knew what it meant to be Martha.

Beyond being a career woman, the house was spotless, the meals always perfect and the creases were always sharp.

Yeah.

The creases.

The mother was - and still is - militant about her ironing.

The Father was the only one on his crew to arrive to work with creases in his Levi's 501's. He was mocked relentlessly until he opened up his lunch box and then all of the men would stand in wonder. "That's right, boys. I might have girly creases in my jeans. But I also have a prime rib sandwich with fresh potato salad, homemade chocolate chip cookies and an apple from the tree in the back yard."

And the woman can starch a collar like nobody's business. Like "stand up straight for 12 hours" starch. Like "use the collar to slice a tomato" starch.

I always had it in the back of my mind that if I got in a freak accident where my car plunged off a ravine into some body of water and I was trapped, I would rip off my shirt and cut a hole in the windshield with my collar. And I would be that girl on the Today Show doing a remote feed Matt Lauer and The Mother and she would share with the world how a properly starched collar saved her daughter's life. And I would be sitting next to her nodding, with large bandages around my neck covering the slashes the collar had given earlier in the evening while I was at the high school dance doing my infamous Boy George and The Culter Club imitation.

In The Mother's opinion, the sign of a good woman is the woman with a sturdy ironing board, a good solid iron, a bottle of linen water and a can of Niagra Spraystarch. Anything less made you and infidel.

She has a famous saying, in fact. Well, famous amongst The Sister and I, as we are careful never to tell victims of the saying that the saying was actually said about them.

If the mother sees someone with wrinkled shirt or a less than perfect crease, she will describe the offending outfit in a manner such as this; "That shirt looks like it was pulled out of a dog's ass."

A wrinkled apron is the one offense that is nearly unforgiveable when you work for The Mother. I have seen her staff arrive late, have an attitude, or not show up, even. Those things can be dealth with. But I once witness the rath the poor buss boy took when he showed up to work with his apron *gasp* tucked in his back pocket.

One year along with Christmas bonus checks, each employee received what? That's right, an iron.

So cut to a couple of days ago and I was in the prep kitchen getting my food ready for a Trick. I ran short of fresh basil so I had to make a mad dash to the grocery store. I was a sight for sore eyes. It had been a long day and I was ready for it to be over.

So I am in the produce section and whom do I see? The Mother. And my apron was not only stained - it was wrinkled.

Shit.

So we chat, touch base on my prepping progress, touch base on her projects and go our merry way.

"How does your week look, mom?"

"We sure are. I will talk to you then."

"Oh one more thing, sweetie..."

"That apron looks like you pulled it out of a dog's ass."

I love you, Mom.

Ok so I pulled a shift at The Restaurant last night.

Things were running along smoothly until about 8:00 when The Fussy Lady came in and ordered the steak salad.

Just so we're clear, the steak salad is a mixture of romaine and spinach topped with chopped tomatoes; fresh spring onions; gorgonzola cheese crumbles; fresh avocado; tempura fried onion strings; and strip steak, cooked medium rare and cut on the diagonal.

It's a fabulous salad.

So the waitperson comes to the cook station biting her lip. "Um, I have an order for a steak salad."

"Yeah. Um. Well let me break it down for you."

I stood there with a chef's knife in my hand and my eyebrow raised, poised to receive what was certain to be the kitchen mockery for the rest of the night.

"Ok. One steak salad, no spinach, no tomato, no avocado..."

At this point I set the knife down and leaned both hands on the prep station.

"...no gorgonzola cheese. She wants cheddar, instead..."

Eyebrow higher, "Cheddar?..."

"Yeah. Cheddar."

Big sigh.

"And she wants no avocado. She would like a boiled egg, instead. And she wants the steak well done. Oh. And she wants 1000 Island dressing."

The fantasy was to walk out of the kitchen to pull The Fussy Lady out of her chair and toss her sorry ass to the curb.

But I didn't.

But I wanted to.

I really really wanted to.

Cut to about 11:00 last night as I am sitting in my offices doing paper work and checking my phone messages.

This is what I hear.

"Hi, Food Whore? Yeah. This is Suzy. I am getting married in March and it's CRUCIAL that I talk to you. I mean, I is VITAL we get this down on paper immediately. Time is running out. Call me as soon as you get this message. Please. I am freaking out."

I hate people.