I seem to posess what I like to call, "Domestic ADD".

I start a project like, say, cleaning the bathroom, and before you know it I have done something like go to retrieve the mop and I will notice that the broom closet is in disarray. And then I will take the time to clean that and then in the process of taking the mop back to the bathroom I see that Giada DeLaurentis has a new show on so I sit for a bit and watch that and then in the process of that I notice I left my slippers by the couch so I take those back to my closet. And then figure while I am there I should re-arrange my closet and clean under my bed. And then I will remember I have to mail a package so I run out to do that and then end up stopping at a friend's for coffee and by the time I get home it's time to make dinner and then I realize that the primary objective of cleaning my bathroom never happens.

Which could be subconcious. I hate cleaning the bathroom. I would rather wash 1000 caked-on, greasy dishes - by hand - than have to clean my bathroom. And the horrible dynamic is that I am obsessive about having a clean bathroom.

I really should be medicated.

Anyway.

So I was doing laundry and decided I would just go ahead and scrub the tub (The Toilet is The Husband's Task) and mop the floor even though I just did it over the weekend. But I have an insanely busy weekend and wanted to have it all out of the way.

But in the process of doing laundry I found a recipe in the pocket of my fabulous new mocha colored linen capris. It was one I quickly jotted down for cinnamon rolls on Easter Sunday and told myself I would make a batch before the week was out. So I did a mental inventory if ingredients I had on hand and made my way to the kitchen to start proofing the yeast.

My logic here was that while the dough was rising I could tackle the bathroom and kill two birds with one stone.

Yeah. Whatever.

So I am mixing and kneading and trying to mainting decorum in the presence of my arch enemy - flour. When, as fate would have it, my apron caught on the garbage can below my prep island and tipped it just enough to spill out the flower I had just scraped off my kneading board. And, as fate would have it again, the flower landed on the puddle left behind by the icec cube that went flailing out of my hand when pouring myself a nice glass of grapefruit juice.

Which, yeah, now I had a paste situation. (Or as Ross Gellar would say, "It made a paste, man!")

Anyway so I scraped up that mess and realized I should just mop the entire kitchen floor - and I did.

And then while heading back to the bathroom the phone rang and it was The Sister and we spoke for a good 45 minutes, which was just about the time the dough would be ready for rolling. But I told myself I needed to get that tub scrubbed out and it wouldn't take long to do that an run a quick mop over the floor. But then I realized that I didn't want to have bathroom-y smells on me when I rolled out the dough so I would just do that first and then when the rolls were baking I would head back to the bathroom.

So I rolled dough and I brushed with butter and I loaded with brown sugar and cinnamon and walnuts and raisins and I rolled and pinched and sliced and got the rolls into the oven.

I washed my hands and I was heading back to the bathroom when I rembered I had to jot down some menu ideas for a trick coming in June so I went over to my computer and cranked that out, which then caused me to use up all the time during the baking of the rolls.

Into the kitchen I went to brush with butter and glaze with glaze and then I thought I would put them aside to cool while I quick took care of the bathroom but the smell - oh the smell. I convinced myself to try a little roll with sweet and sticky glaze and melting butter and an ice cold glass of milk.

There I was, cozied up on the couch with my treats and watching a Sex & The City re-run while simultaneously reading up on the dining hotspots of the Florida Keys.

And I got so cozy and so full of lovely sweet goodness... that I fell asleep.

I can't believe I fell asleep!

The Husband got home a while later and when he woke me up he was licking icing off his fingers.

"What's the special occasion for the cinnamon rolls, Babe?"

"Oh, I was cleaning the bathroom."

I really do have a fabulous clientele - for the most part, I mean.

More often than not people request a certain menu, ask for a submittal, sign the contract, and off we go.

And we do have our share of people on a tight budget. And I am all about making it work for people. Everyone deserves a wonderful event, whatever that may be, and we have great menu choices for those who can't afford the prime rib dinners. We have a trick coming up next month, in fact, for a young bride and she's paying for it all herself. She's on a tight budget and is completely willing to do whatever it takes to stay within her budget and not make our job impossible at the same time. For her - we will throw in extra fabulousness because she deserves it.

And then we have people like the lady I spoke with today. I almost told her not to bother because I have dealt with her before and it's the same every single time. I am sure I have even blogged about her before.

And the thing is, it's not a budget issue. She and her husband have enough money to buy China - and I mean the country, not the service ware. But they will try and nickle and dime you to death.

"Is the fruit cheaper cut up and tossed together like a salad or on a big display?"
~ It's actually cheaper if I drive my van by your house and throw it at your car.

"Is the chicken cheaper served sate' style or the whole breast?"
~ How about we just put a coop on the table and anyone fast enough to catch and kill the bird gets chicken that night.

"Are the potatoes cheaper mashed or served cut up and roasted?"
~Hm, how about Stove Top, instead?

"Is there any kind of menu I can get for about $5.00 per person?"
~Yes, I belive it's #2 at McDonald's.

"If you opt not to wash your hair and wear make-up that night, can we get a cheaper rate on the service?"
(Ok that was made up in a fit of dramatics)

Blah blah blah BLAH.

I once sat across from her and her husband in a restaurant and watched them try to order the salmon dinner, but they wanted it split. When the waiter informed them of the $2.50 splitting fee, they opted to just order one dinner and eat off the same plate. And seriously, they could have actually put half the food on her diamond ring, it's so big.

But I mean, who does this???

It makes me want to scream.

Her husband is a tax accountant and I am completely tempted to call and ask if it's less expensive for him to dictate the numbers to me over the phone or actually write them down on paper.

Cheap bastards.

Since food is my life, I am pretty aware that food, just like clothing, has "fads". Things like pesto come in and out of fashion like the Louis Voutton purse of the month.

So they say.

I have never been one to figure food in when I am talking about latest trends. If it's something I like, it's always in fashion at my house.

So I am at the grocery store and while in the produce section I reached for a jar of sundried tomatoes sitting atop the vegetable display. Just as I was putting the jar in my cart, a woman pulled her cart up next to the broccoli, looked at me and said, "Oh - they still sell those?"

"I mean, those are so out of style. The sundried tomato hasn't been a hip thing for what, 4 years or more?"

This coming from a woman with 5 Lean Cuisine Entree's in her cart.

Chuckling, "Well, I've never been one to be concerned about what's in and what's out in food. If I like it, I buy it."

At this point I tried to just ignore her and keep on shopping. But she was insistent in schooling me.

"Well you must not be a foodie. Foodies know all about the trends. Do you watch Emeril?"

"Oh... yeah. See. That's your problem right there. You can't possibly be up on the latest if you don't watch Emeril. He's brilliant.

This is where I realized I was at a crossroads.

I could smile at her ignorance and go on about my shopping. If she was sweet-faced and simple, I would have let it roll off my back.

Or, since she was actually pretty snotting looking I could take a moment and be smug and say something sarcastic and make her feel silly. Do the ole', "Sink to their level..." trick.

So I said, "I see food a lot like I see shoes."

"Take for instance those 5 inch platform flipflops with sparkles you are wearing. I believe it was, um, Britney Spears or someone of her caliber who made those popular about what was it - 4 or 5 years ago?. Anyway. And while I know you can still buy them in Victoria's Secret Catalog, I consider them out of style. But clearly, you like them. And by the way, good on you for wearing them at your age. But my point is that's pretty much how I feel about the sundried tomato."

With that I smiled and told her to have a nice day.

She seemed stunned for a minute but ended up scoffing and saying, "Whatever",while walking away.

And you know, there was a time when I would have said that The Friend in Baltimore would encourage me to be the bigger person. But I see a change in her - perhaps it's my influence - and I feel as though she would approve of how I really handled the situation.

And while I know it was not mature...

...eh. Who cares.

"Hello?"

"Can I pick it up in the morning or would tonight be better?"

*sigh*

So, when your not feeling well and you ignore it and you work through the fatigue and constant headaches and you convice yourself that some allergy medicine will make it all better... well... you get slapped upside the head with a sinus infection so deep and so bad that the post nasal drip makes you cough so hard you realize that they sell Depends for a reason.

And then you shock yourself by being completely willing to be in your bed or on your couch for two whole days and in the middle of all that your husband finds you sluffing around the house in bad clothing and Medusa hair in a complete state of delusion as you search the coat closet for the blankie your mother threw away when you were 5 - an act still not completely forgiven - and he guides you back to bed where you lay for hours on end flipping channels to watch mindless television programs like The View (what a bunch of hags).

And then you roll over and go in an out of conciousness and when you wake up you have to ask yourself if you did, in fact, see Paula Deen make a bread pudding out of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, fruit cocktail, and sweetened condensed milk. And you have to ask yourself how many drugs you are on when you say to yourself, "That actually sounds good right about now."

And you are completely willing to forsake the homeopathic medicines your grandmother taught you that take days and days to treat what ails you and are in complete favor of calling your doctor and begging him to give you a large shot of something or to just roll a 5 gallon barrel full of pills in your general direction.

So that's what's up.

I am sick.

I am being a lazy bum.

But I have drugs.

Soon all will be right with the world.

So we decided to just hop in the car and go for a nice drive yesterday. We had no particular destination other than I had heard of this little Mom & Pop Pizza Place a good distance away and I wanted to check it out.

I have been a pizza snob since childhood. The Father always taught me that good pizza was worth a long drive and a long wait, if that's what it took. Many a weekend was spent driving great distances to check out a new place. And it was very common for us to head to the bad part of town and hang out in a place not fit for children to order up some of the best pizza known to man.

And I have to tell you, the best pizza known to man can't be found at places like Domino's or Pizza Hut. They will do in times of complete desperation like if you're travelling from San Diego to Tucson and you stop in a place called El Centro and your only options are Pizza Hut or the Chinese Buffet. Or if it's, say, 1985 and you're at a Loverboy concert Downtown Seattle and you find yourself in a hotel room with a group of friends and the only thing you can find to eat is Domino's delivery.

And just so we're clear, in 1985 I was young - very young - and I wasn't so in love with Mike Reno that I owned any red leather pants.

Anyway.

So while I had the pizza in my head, I simply told The Husband that I wanted to just take the back roads and relax for a while. Telling him we were about to drive 100 miles or better for a reputed good slice of pie would have gotten me sigh and an eye roll. The Husband is game for anything, which is good since he's married to me. And it's not that he doesn't appreciate good pizza, but he's pretty happy as long as two criteria are met: There has to be meat and there has to be cheese. And lots of it.

The drive was nice. We avoided the freeway in an attempt to catch some backroad relaxation and maybe catch a few funky farm stands and antique shops along the way.

After a couple hours of driving we finally stumbled across the place and I acted surprised and excited at the prospect of pizza for lunch. The Husband was thrilled, too.

And the place did not disappoint. The crust was that perfect balance of thin, yet substantial. Crispy with a slight give and "chewiness" factor. The bottom was covered in good cornmeal and natural char from the brick-lined oven. It was, by far, the best pizza I have had in a very, very long time.

Well worth the nearly 100 miles of travel, give or take a few.

As we left the place and mapped out our next destination, The Husband commented that it's too bad we had to drive so far for such a great pizza.

Little does he know, we're going back again next week.

So I went to Costco today.

The parking lot was packed and there was nary a cart to be had. Inside, as was obvious from the parking lot, the entire populace of Costcoistan roamed the aisles.

Surprisingly, however, the vibe in the store was a good one. The Bakery Ladies were all in good spirits, the supply of Brie was full, and people standing on line for samples were kind and agreeable.

But then I found myself in the Spice & Oils section and ran into a Russian Couple who spoke as much English as a cab driver in New York City. Which is no problem, unless they are trying to speak to me.

Oddly enough, I speak no Russian. Except for Vodka and Borscht. I have always found that to be enough words to get by on.

But whatever.

So they asked me a question - in Russian - and I was a bit dumbfounded. They held up a bottle of Balsamic Vinegar and asked me something that sounded like, "Vischney daught schlenka?"

"I'm Sorry?"

"Vischney daught schlenka???", in total exhasperation.

"I feel terrible here but I don't know what you are asking and I can't help you."

"I am so sorry."

With that they threw up their hands in disgust, said something that I am sure was along the lines of "You stupid fool", and walked away. The man even looked back at me again and rolled his eyes. Which - I don't know if that was prompted by my inability to communicate or the fact that after they walked away I said to myself, "Vischney daught schlenka to you, too" while bobbing my head and raising my eyebrows like a spoiled child.

So cut to later when I was in the Grocery Store. I had just bagged up my organic carrots when an elderly woman said to me, "Well hello, neighbor!" and before I had a chance to tell her that she must have me mistaken for someone else, she went on to ask me about my daughter named Cindy*. And then it suddenly occured to me she thought I was My Evil Twin. She was sweet and instead of trying to correct her and make her feel stupid, I just smiled, said Cindy* was fine, and went about my shopping.

Seriously, I am either going to cut all my hair off and go blonde or I am going to have to move to Russia where clearly no one will know me, nor will they have much patience for me.

So from there I was over in the candy section gathering up Easter "Chock-It" for My Goddaughter, Mary Mayhem, when I got too close to the Easter Basket pyramid and sent 6 of those bad boys to the ground. Thank God nothing broke, but I got stared at and seriously, could my day get worse?

And that's when I found myself back in the safe confines of my car and no - I didn't leave anything on top. But while doing a make-up check in the rearview mirror I found that I had a tiny little crusty booger on the tip of my nose. (DAMN THESE ALLERGIES!)

And I hung my head in despair.

And you people wonder why I drink.

(*Cindy is a ficticious name that I chose because, well, I was thinking about Cindy Brady for some odd reason, and I didn't want to use the girl's real name. Her mother is a 'Ho, the girl has enough stress without being mentioned live on the internet.)

Ok last night two ladies came in to The Restaurant. We were very busy and had to search to find them a table. But the one we picked for them wasn't quite right. They wanted the one closest to the bathroom.

That should have been a clue. Who likes to sit by the bathroom?

Anyway, they just ordered coffee - every waiter's dream - and said they 'might' have dessert. But they would see how their time went.

So I'm checking on tables when I see the two ladies at the table closest to the bathroom pouring over - makeup? Apparently Lady #1 is a Mary Kay representative (I would know that pink anywhere) and Lady #2 was receiving her free makeover.

Now, I have nothing against the Mary Kay brand. I hear it's a fine quality product and know many people who use it. And I am all for free enterprise and the desire for everyone to make a living. But seriously? A makeover? At a restaruant? Don't most people do this kind of thing at home?

And moreover, do we fill up an entire table at a busy restaurant - drinking coffee?

When I approached the table with a pitcher of ice water, Lady #1 said to Lady #2, "Oh my goodness. This color looks fabulous on you in this light!"

And I wanted to say, "This light? Do you really want to gage how a product looks in this light? Are you planning on being a cabaret singer? A waitress? A Hostess? A daily customer?"

But I just smiled and said, "More water, here?"

To which Lady #1 scoffed and gave me a terse, "No", because apparently I was interrupting them.

In our restaurant.

At our table.

Taking up our customer space.

Maybe I should have offered her space for signage - or a nice little blurb in the menu. "Todays's special is honey glazed salmon and for dessert you can have a free make-up consultation at table 7 - on us!"

But I just sighed, rolled my eyes, and went about my rounds.

The day I truly understand people is the day I rule the world.

Of course I will never be able to rule the world if I keep dropping things like back-up pans of Tuscan tomato soup.

*Sigh*

May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings,
Slow to make enemies,
And quick to make friends.

But rich or poor,
Quick or slow,
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.
~ Irish Blessing

May you eat foods only meant to be green.
May you drink drinks that make you feel keen.
May you enjoy the company of friends who love you.
And may you not have a nasty ass hangover tomorrow.
(I know, I know. It's the best I got)
~The Food Whore

So I got a call from a Client who's throwing a little St. Patrick's Day thing and she wanted to know how to make all of her food green.

"Green?"

"I want all of it green. Even the things that aren't supposed to be!"

Now, being of Irish blood myself I can appreciate the idea that you want to make the day special. But unless people are direct descendants of the good Dr. Seuss, I am thinking that a plate full of things that aren't normally green might be a bit off-putting.

But what the Hell to I know. I left a 12 pack of ginger-ale on top of my car this afternoon.

I really need a vaction.

So I got an e-mail this morning scolding me for being critical of The Food Network.

"If you think you're such a hot shit caterer - get your own damn TV show. Those chefs were doing the best they could. Your arrogance is laughible."

Thank you for the lovely e-mail. I might suggest you have a lemon drop and then call me in the morning.

Or perhaps you should check your junk drawer for your clearly missing sense of humor and ask someone to help you dislodge that corn cob from your back side.

Oh, and by the way, it's 'laughable' with an 'a'.

It's kind of ironic when someone who's spelling and grammar are as bad as mine gets to point that out.

I am just saying.

Our entire philosophy centers around four words, "Hot To The Table."

And that means that whether it's on a buffet line or plated in the kitchen, our entire being is centered around every person in the room having hot food. Whether they are the first person to be fed or the last, we want steam rolling off that plate.

The tough dynamic, of course, is dealing with serving times and making sure everything rolls with ease. When you have an assembly line in the kitchen and you're passing plates from pan to pan, you have to be fast or at least keep the food on or very near the heat source if it cools down.

It can make you crazy, really. I know we make ourselves and our staff crazy with it all but it's something we can't compromise on.

So last night I found myself yelling at the TV as I was watching a special on The Food Network. The chef's were getting ready to plate dinners for 200 when they had to hold off getting started because someone else decided to stand up and speak, putting the service on hold. This happens a lot and it's so frustrating. A really good reception coordinator can keep things on a militant schedule but no one in the room wants to be responsible for telling Crazy Uncle Harry that now is not an appropriate time to share the story about how glad he is to be there in light of his recent hemerroid surgery. And that now is the time to sit down and shut up so the salmon doesn't get cold.

So you have to adjust for that in the kitchen. You cover your pans or put them back on the stove or you do whatever it takes to keep that food hot. And you complain a lot of course, which I know those guys wanted to do last night, but with a camera in your face you have to smile and pretend it's all so fun.

But the pans just sat on the staging table and I know it was all about the magic of Television and I wasn't there to actually time it, but they seemed to sit for a really long time. So I started yelling, "Cover the pans...cover the pans...hot to the table. HOT TO THE TABLE!" And I actually threw my hands in the air as a show of disgust.

I looked around the room and even though alone, I was somewhat embarassed of myself.

But it was nothing a good lemon drop couldn't cure.

Somewhere on a hook in a Coat Closet hang 2 young boys who couldn't keep their hands off the fish or the prime rib, and who couldn't stop dipping their fingers in cocktail sauce.

They were given "The Look", and then they were asked nicely. After the third time, well.

If you get close to the Coat Closet you can hear the faint sounds of someone whimpering.

But don't worry. The boys are unharmed. They were given snacks and water.

The whimpering would actually be the sound of their parents...

...who were locked in the broom closet down the hall.

So I am in the venue kitchen this afternoon chopping romaine for tonight's Trick when a very handsome and well dressed man came in to grab some ice. He got a bucket full, set it down, scratched his man parts, and asked me, "So what's on the menu, tonight?"

Now - I love men. I do. And this entry was not meant to be a moment where I offend my male readers by sinking to the depths of being critical and causing them embarasmment in public. So I apologize now for having to sink so low.

But I have to know - what's with the scratching of Man Parts?

Most of my dearest friends growing up were boys and I think we all know young boys have fascniations with their Man Parts. Their excuse was that it was the jock strap (can't believe I just said 'jock strap' in my food blog. Of course I can't believe I am devoting an entire entry in my food blog about Man Parts...) or it was the baseball pants or it was the fact that thier boxers were bugging them or it was - you know, the Earth rotating on it's axis.

Always with the scratching.

And I sort of thought as men grew into boys the scratching would cease. Or at least be done in private places and at private times. (Edited to add: The aforementioned growth of "men into boys" should be reversed. Or, you know, not.)

Such a silly silly girl.

The scratching issue did surface early after The Husband and I started co-habitating but I nipped it in the bud. First of all, if the scratching is constant and becomes an issue, there's medical products on the market. If it's not medical and just - well - general scratching, then it needs to be done in private and out of ear shot.

And never - EVER - make the mistake of entering the Mecca of Food Preparation (my kitchen) with the intent to scratch the Man Parts, or immediately after the scratching. There's lovely soap on the bathroom vanity so lather up and then come see me for a snack. The Husband found this out the hard way and would rather lie on a bed of nails covered hot, skin-blistering tar than make that mistake again.

So tonight when Scratch Man asked what was on the menu, I am sure as I looked up from my chopping that the look on my face spoke volumes. Try as I might to hide my emotions, it was tough not to be aghast at the scratching so close to my work surface. Before I could respond, he nervously said, "Well whatever it is, it smells fantastic and I can't wait to have some!", and with that he grabbed his ice and was on his way.

And I am not cruel or self-righteous that I don't think men have a right to scratch whatever part of their bodies itch. I just beg of you - for the Love of God - keep it out of my kitchen.

So I helped out at The Restaurant last night and had to handle a small customer issue.

First of all, The Lady at Table 7 kept flagging down anyone who walked by asking for more cream. This happened every 5 minutes or so until finally someone spied that it wasn't cream-diluted coffee she was drinking. Her 5 year old was bored and was drinking the cream and demanding more.

I realize not having children makes me a little handicapped in this department. But is it really ok to allow your child to drink small cups of cream all night long? Don't people pack Cheerios and juice boxes anymore?

So when the waitress asked if she wanted a glass of milk, instead, The Lady at Table 7 became upset wondering why she would need milk when her son was completely enjoying the cream.

So then she ordered and wanted the large garden salad. But instead of the crumbled bacon on top, she wanted the grilled shrimp. Which, in our world, is a really crafty way to get around paying Grilled Shrimp Salad prices by using the old "Substitution Trick".

People do it all the time. "I will have the tempura fish and chips. But instead of the cod I want the halibut."

"Why? I didn't order the tempura halibut fish and chips..."

I shit you not. Actually happened. Halibut is considerably more expensive than cod and this person actually tried to get around that by substituting one for the other. As if we would say, "Great! Good call!".

Idiots.

Anyway.

So the Lady at Table 7 wanted the Garden Salad, but instead of the crumbled bacon she wanted grilled shrimp. So the waitperson told her she would be charged for the Grilled Shrimp salad. And the lady - extremely offended - wanted to know why. And the waitperson explained that shrimp and bacon are not an exchangable menu item - it would have to be one or the other.

She did order the salad and she did get her shrimp. And she did get charged Shrimp Salad price.

And she got charged for a glass of milk, too.

She paid the tab, didn't leave a tip. And announced that she would not be back to our establishment.

I simply smiled and said, "I am really sorry you were not happy here. I hope you find someplace that fits better."

I wanted to say. "Good riddance! One less pain in the ass to deal with."

But I didn't. I am growing and learning to use the inside voice.

Damn it's hard.

So I have this Trick already scheduled for the end of summer. And the Client has asked if they can send payments between now and then.

Which is fine, of course.

But they also want to know if there's a discount for paying early. Kind of an "Early Bird Discount."

Now, I realize that some people just don't know these things. But seriously.

I am a Caterer, not the owner of a Senior Citizen Buffet.

Two of my favorite things in all the land have joined together to make THE most wonderful thing in all the land.

Starbuck's Debuts Coffee Flavored Liqueur

My life has a whole new meaning.

Ah, March. Lovely month.

The month where Winter gives way to spring.

The month where the hyacinth and daffodils begin to bloom.

The month where pretty cherry blossoms like the streets in canopies of pink and white.

And it's the month I descend into Allergy Hell.

It hit me like a ton of bricks on Thursday morning as I awoke with swollen, watery eyes and an itch in the back of my throat not reachable by anything but a large shard of bamboo. And if sneezing were an Olympic sport, Yours Truly would be standing atop the podium as we speak.

Sunday night was a particularly low point for me. I was pretty close to taking a handful of Benadryl with a vodka chaser and just hope for the best.

I was unable to reach my doctor until yesterday morning when I begged upon his mercy to give me something - anything - to make it all go away. He kindly informed me that by 5:00 yesterday afternoon, something fabulous would be waiting at the pharmacy for me.

But first I had to get groceries.

My schedule has been so crazy and it had been a while since I had gone power shopping. The Pantry was starting to resemble something from the Old Mother Hubbard series.

For once the store was great - no wackos to contend with. I happily filled my cart with such wonderful items as proscuitto and eggs and chocolate and milk and everything my house was lacking.

And so then I am standing in the check-out line, mindlessly chatting with Mr. Checker when all of the sudden "CLICK FLASH CLICK FLASH".

Someone was taking my damn picture.

When my vision finally cleared enough to get a good look at the culprit, I focused in on the store manager who was laughing herself silly. There I stand, swollen watery eyes and a hunk of tissue shoved up my nose and now it's all on film.

"What in the heck are you doing??"

"You are cruel people."

So everyone had a good laugh at my expense which was fine, keeps me humble. (Bastards)

So off to the pharmacy I go to speak To The Man Who Gives Out Drugs. (Who's also a family friend) He gave me my meds and explained to me that one was a nasal steroid.

"Steroid?"

"Fine, but if my voice drops a few octaves, I am going to hold you accountable."

It occured to me that I should have let them hang my picture in the grocery store. It's probably the last shot of me with a normal size nose as I am certain that by this time next week it will be the size of North Dakota.

When I was growing up, a neighbor who lived down the block did most of her grocery shopping from The Schwan's Man.

And all of the kids in the neighborhood were fascinated by the fact that she bought food off a truck. Many a game of Kick The Can was interrupted when that big yellow truck roared around the corner and we would all run to her house to see what she was going to buy. And she bought it all.

She got pizza, ice cream, meats, pastries - you name it. I remember being so fascinated that she always had pizza - in the freezer! We always got our pizza from a local mom & pop pizzeria in town. (I still miss that place) And any other form of pizza in our house came on top of an English muffin. So pizza in the freezer - whoa. That was big stuff.

So one day The Mother was visiting The Neighbor on Schwan's day and Mr. Schwan was a slick salesman. The Mother's curiosity was peaked. She had heard that Schwan's brand ice cream was delicious so she decided to give it a shot.

Mr. Schwan's was excited at the prospect of a new customer so he took The Mother's information and gave her Reminder Stickers to put on her calendar at home. The ice cream was delicious and we were excited to see Mr. Schwan's come the next month.

And the next month The Mother bought more ice cream and added a few other items to her list. The mother had a problem saying the word "No" so when Mr. Schwan's would tell her about a new product and throw in a little blurb about his son Timmy and wanting to buy him a new bike, The Mother would be so kind and buy a few more things she really didn't need or want. But it was fine, we enjoyed the food and The Mother felt good about helping Mr. Schwan's out.

Until about month 4 when The Mother told Mr. Schwan's she didn't need anything. Mr. Schwan's was stunned. "What do you mean you don't need anything?"

"Well", the mother said. "I just don't need anything. We've got plenty of ice cream and we're doing good on everything else."

"No - but I will see you next month."

That's when Mr. Schwan's turned in to the Food Peddler from Hell. He wasn't mean or nasty but his sales tactics rivaled that of every polyester wearing used car salesman on Earth. But The Mother wouldn't budge.

So he told her he would be back in two weeks - he would catch her on the tail end of his other route. She told him it wouldn't be necessary but he wasn't taking no for an answer. And as he promised two weeks later to the hour he was knocking on our door and this time he was prepared to play hardball - he had a stack of frozen pizzas under his arm.

But The Mother - seemingly spurred by insanity or just complete stubborness - said no.

I was standing behind her in the kitchen and nearly screamed, "For the love of God, woman, IT'S PIZZA!! Just buy the pizza!!" I did everything I could short of that to get her attention but she wasn't buying my sales pitch - or his. And I felt really bad for Mr. Schwan's and I felt even more bad for myself. I wanted that damn pizza.

And two weeks after that he came back. Only this time The Mother wasn't in the mood to say no so she didn't go to the door. So Mr. Schwan's walked around to the front door and rang the bell and when that didn't work he actually peeked in our living room window and knocked on that. That's when I stopped feeling sorry for Mr. Schwan's and began to find him flat out creepy.

So the next month we were gone when Mr. Schwan's made his normal stop so he left a note that he would be back. And at 9:30 that night there was a knock on the door. The Father answered and told Mr. Schwan's that we didn't need anything and that there was no need to stop anymore unless we called.

But two weeks later he was back. And this time The Mother and I were eating luch at the kitchen table and when we hear his truck pull up to the curb, "Get Down! It's The Schwan's Man!", and with that The Mother pulled me under the kitchen table like we were preparing for a tornado.

"Mom, why are we under the table?"

"Yes. And I know I am teaching you a bad lesson but when you are older you will understand. But for right now, just don't move until he's gone."

And with that I started to giggle. I thought my mother had completely lost her mind and it was funny as Hell. And then The Mother started laughing and we sat under that table laughing uncontrollably until his truck pulled away.

And you know, he never came back. And I am so grateful. Because I was worried we would end up in the Witness Protection Program.

So cut to a couple days ago when I was having coffee with a friend on her patio. I heard a large truck pull in to her driveway and she said, "Oh good, he's here. I will be right back, I need my wallet." And before I could ask who 'he' was, around the corner came The Schwan's Man. Not the same man of my youth, of course, but the uniform and truck are stil the same.

And I couldn't help myself and I started to giggle. And the giggle turned in to a Throw-My-Head-Back laugh. I tried to play it off as something I had just read in the magazine sitting in front of me but I don't think I convinced anyone. The Friend looked at me funny and The Schwan's Man shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

Out of sheer guilt I asked Mr. Schwan's for a catalog to browse through to which he excitedly obliged. I ordered about $40 worth of food hoping to make up for the laughter and hiding under the table all those years ago. But when he asked me if I wanted to set up an account and get on his route, I politely declined.

Guilt and stupidity are two entirely different beasts.

So I am out for lunch and while I am eating two ladies walk in to the restaurant. For story clarity, we will call them Lady 1 and Lady 2.

Lady 1 notices that her husband was eating at a table on the far side of the dining room so she went over to say hello. Lady 2 was seated at the table right across from me and received water and menus while waiting for Lady 1.

Soon Lady 1 comes back, whispers something to Lady 2, and when the waiter came over she said, "Just coffee for us, please." And the waiter took the menus and went off to retrieve the coffee.

So pretty soon Lady 1's husband comes over from where he was sitting and he has a doggie bag/to go box in his hand. He leans down, kisses his wife (Lady 1) and drops off the box. Lady 1 then proceeds to open said box and she and Lady 2 began eating the contents.

Let me repeat that so I am clear - THEY ATE WHAT HER HUSBAND HAD LEFT FROM LUNCH.

It took me a minute to register that what I was seeing was actually happening: These two classless tightwads were eating leftovers to avoid buying their own meals. And they did so without any look of remorse or shame.

Not even my open-mouthed, raised-eyebrow stare of disbelief caused them to rethink their plan - they were perfectly happy.

Every day I wake up thinking I have seen it all, but these two women take the cake.

Talk about having balls of steel.

Classless fools.

So I was in The Mall last night.

And I hate shopping malls.

Shopping, I love. (Heads up to The Friend in Texas. I bought a new purse.)

But the gargantuan retail centers known as "The Mall" make me crazy. I don't know if it's all the recycled air or if it's the make-shift art and water sculptures they cram into a rotunda to make you think you're observing a great display at The Museum of Modern Art.

Or perhaps it's all the Paris Hilton wannabees running around in too-skimpy clothing and yacking on their cel phones like they have some major world crisis to discuss.

It's hard to pinpoint where my greatest disdain comes from, really. But give me a fast-paced inner city store over the air-conditioned behemoth, any old day.

Anyway.

So I was at The Mall because The Friend had an eye exam, causing her pupils to remain dialated to the size of saucers for approximately 2 hours post appointment. And I volunteered to drive her and help her run errands, after.

Which lead us to The Mall, much to my chagrin.

I was in need of some caffiene so I made my way to the Land of Communal Eating, otherwise known as The Food Court. Fortunately my Starbuck's fix was a short distance away but the line was long so I opted to do what any other normal, Bitchy Food Snob would do in my position - I people watched.

It's amazing to me how nonchalont people are about carting their food upon carrying trays upon which God knows who or what was spilled all over the top, to a dirty table where God knows who or what was spilled all over the top. There are people running around with bottles of cleaning solution and rags, but unless you have an extra $20-spot to bribe them over, you're going to be hard pressed to pull them away from their conversation over by the garbage cans. Bleh.

From my vantage point in the coffee line I could see all of the food vendors. Chinese, fish, McDonald's, Japanese, Mexican, some pizza place, a Thai place, and a few other obscure places who's names I did not recognize. And people where everywhere waiting desperately for food to fill their trays with mass-produced food so they could body slam their way over to a dirty table and shovel the food in their mouths as it if were The Last Slice Of PizzaBurritoRiceBowlFishStickCornDogOrangeJuilusCalzoneChickenNugget Before The End of All Time.

And I don't know if this is common to all Communal Feeding Areas but I found that the ratio of people chewing with their mouths open to those who were not was uncomfortably high.

I didn't want to stare, really. But it was kind of like watching a train wreck.

Thankfully it was my turn for coffee and I ordered my standard double shot and decided to leave the vicinity so I could stop staring at evyone.

I am sure it's no surprise when I tell you that my annoying snobbishness puts me in a place where I would never allow myself to get a tray full of food and sit at a dirty table and eat.

I would, however, buy something to take outside the Communal Feeding area.

Which is why I got a big-ass Cinnabon Cinamon Roll to cram in my mouth on the walk back to the car.

Which is a double standard, I know this. But I would like to think that my complicated set of ideals are just a part of my charm.

And I don't know if it was fate or retribution for the staring, but I totally got icing in my hair.

I ran out of eggs in the middle of making French Toast batter last night.

So I threw on my shoes and made a beeline for The Grocery Store, still donning my apron.

Which - I mean, is it so bad to wear an apron to The Grocery Store? I have quite a variety of them (aprons, that is), and this particular apron is a lovely brown with wine bottles on the pocket. And when I walked in the door I was greeted with looks as if I was only wearing an apron - nothing else.

People are dumb.

So anyway I needed the eggs. And while I was there I grabbed some kale for tonight's soup, heavy cream, some gorgonzola cheese, a bunch of bananas, a couple shallots, and a bottle of Merlot. I have such a hard time focusing when I go to The Place Which Sells Food. I bounce back and forth through the aisles like a loose pinball finding myself enamored with such things as a new brand of cornichon. "Ohhh - tiny pickles - PRETTY!"

I made it through the check-out line without incident and bid my adieu to the place. And when I got out to my car, I put everything on top of the car to free up my hand to unlock the door. I rushed to put everything on my seat and get back home in time to check on the bacon I had just put in the oven to cook. The Husband was home and I told him to keep an eye on it but the last time I baked cookies and asked him to watch the batch while I was on the phone with A Client, they came out looking like lumpy charcoal briquettes.

Ok so where was I? Oh, yeah, I put the stuff in the car but left the eggs on top so I could put them on the floor behind my seat. But then I again got distracted with something pretty - the brand new BMW my friend drove up in to say hello.

After short but sweet chat I got in my car and I started it up and then began driving way out of the parking lot when SHIT! I remembered that I never put the eggs behind my seat like I had planned so I slammed on my breaks. Which, yeah. But by the Grace of God the egg carton was situated well enough that it didn't slide off the roof of my car - though it did slide hard enough that they teetered like a see-saw between the roof and winshield.

Which, when I think about it, is kind of a metaphor for my sanity. I am always teetering between the safety of the roof or the certain crackage a slide down the windshield would bring. I got lucky this time, though - only one egg cracked.

Which is more than I can say for me.