I get a day of rest, today.

No hauling no prepping no serving no nothing.

In fact, I was served breakfast in bed. The Husband did his famous dark toast and crispy eggs that I have learned to love so much. He calls them Juevos Con Crispos in an effort to mask the fact that the dear man thinks all food should be cooked on high. (Thank God for non-stick)

And why all this fabulousness for me on an average old Friday?

Because today is no average day.

Today is my birthday.

I am not even going to bitch about the group of 15 who complained that.... wait... never mind. I said I wasn't going to bitch and I meant it. The story will keep for another day or more.

I am going to walk around happy and excited that today is my special day.

And more importantly - I get gifts! And a cake, I bet. Yes. I bet there's a cake!

Ohhh and lemon drops. There will most certainly be lemon drops.

And gifts!

And...

They lie.

It doesn't always rain, here. I mean, we get plenty of rain. But I do think it's just one of those things the media pushes as to keep the influx of outsiders from moving in.

Bottom line - it's hot. And I love hot. I do. But right now, in the house with no Air Conditioning, I am sitting with a fan blowing at my legs as to try and prevent the inevitable sticking of my thighs to the chair. Even without the sticking, the backs of my legs are going to look like a small-ribbed washboard from the bamboo reeds wrapped around this seat.

It's like some kind of torture, really. I give up basic comfort like small-ribbed, washboard-less thighs so I can have the damn bamboo chair.

Of course, the painful peeling of the thighs may be just the thing to take my mind off that bead of sweat dripping from my neck down to my back.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Even The Husband is exhasperated. Though I have to be totally honest and say that it has nothing to do with the heat. I think he's finally reached his peak of not understanding how a woman can be so focused on the job, and yet so completely retarted in her every day life. (Welcome to my world, Pal.)

Anyway.

I had a Trick on Sunday and during the prep I could not, for the life of me, find my wedge of Parmesan cheese. I searched every tote and bag and nothing. I had enough time to call one of my workers to pick some up at the grocery store on her way out. But I was totally perplexed. I knew I had just bought that wedge and it simply was nowhere to be found. I assumed I would find it in the back of the cooler or quite possibly in my own refrigerator and I just didn't give it much thought.

So, The Trick went fabulous - a nice treat, indeed - and I forgot about the cheese.

Now, cut to this morning. And to give you a little back story, I hadn't driven The Car in a few days as The Husband has been working from home and I've needed his vehicle to do some hauling. I thought enough to put one of those window visors on the dash on Monday and even cracked the window, a bit. Just, you know, to keep things fresh. The Car has been good to me, though I can't say I've been so good to her.

Yeah, yeah. I know.

Those of you who know me well enough can about imagine what I am about to tell you, next. It's a totally predictable thing, my problems.

I was running late for an appointment this morning and I ran out to the car, opened up the door and staggered back.

It seems The Mysteriously Missing Parmesan had not, in fact, gone missing. It was simply mutating under my driver's seat. And when I say mutating, I mean weeping and curdling in all the heat and creating a smell so vile and so overbearing that even maggots would turn their noses. Do they have noses, maggots?

I did the only thing I could do at that point. I shut the door on the car and took The Husband's to my appointment. The Husband was on the treadmill so I called and got the machine. I informed him, in my most cheerful of voices, that I took his vehicle because The Car was having some problems that I would take care of when I got home.

I sort of assumed that The Husband wouldn't think much of it but his manly curiosity got the best of him, and by the time I returned from my appointment he was standing by my car with that "look" on his face. And by "look" I mean, "My God, woman. How do you do these things, HOW? This isn't the firs time!"

Hey, buddy. I ask myself that each and every day.

So, anyway. The car - it smells. And I say smells because it still smells. A good vacuuming and can of Lysol didn't cut it. Febreeze only made it smell like Fresh Laundry hanging next to weepy and curdly (curdely?) Parmesan.

It's just not good in there.

The Husband threw in a couple of those Fresh Pine car tree thingies. (While swearing, I might add) And now it just smells like Fresh Laundry in a Fresh Pine Forrest with a curdly (again, curdely?) chunk of Parmesan.

Maybe, perhaps, I should hang a head of Romaine from the rear-view mirror and throw a few croutons around the car. And maybe, perhaps, I should get a personalized license plaet that says, "Caesar".

Or maybe, perhaps, I should just never leave the house, again.

Ever.

Although I am pretty sure I overheard The Husband saying something about selling me to the Gypsies.

As long as they drink Lemon Drops, I am totally ok with that.

95% of the time, the calls I take from Clients are pleasant and witout issue.

But it's the other 5% that's going to kill me.

Like today, for instance. I still don't get people who wait until the 11th hour to make arrangements for things.

Here we are the 26th of July and I just took a call for the 27th of August. THE 27TH OF AUGUST!

And it's a wedding - not some imromptu business function or family gathering. This is a wedding that's been in the planning since February. FEBRUARY. But they just thought, "It would be no problem since it's an entire month away..."

Now, when you're waiting for a vacation or for your birthday or something like the Semi-Annual sale at Nordsrtom, you can say things like, "It's an ENTIRE month until I finally get to go on vacation!" or "I have an ENTIRE month to wait until I can get those Cole Haan boots I've had my eyes on."

But when it's something like sceduling a caterer - the person who's going to actually make your reception fabulous, you are only entitled to say, "It's ONLY a month away. I need to get my shit together!"

Who does this? What kind of moron sits back and says, "Well, all we have left is to make sure we have food to eat..." COME ON!

So of course I had to say, "No, I am sorry. We are booked", and give the lady advice on where to turn, next. All the while she's just freaking out at the prospect that it might, in fact, be too damn late.

What I wanted to say was, "Just get back on The Stupid Train, Lady. Because the next stop is Get A Clue Town!"

And no - maturity is not my middle name.

A good portion of my time is spent making food look good. The food already tastes fabulous (I am totally arrogant like that...), but in my line of work, it has to look fabulous, too.

So we've got shelves full of props; vases, candlabras, tiered dishes, urns, flower pots, etc. etc. etc. We've got fancy linens and casual linens and table skirts and we've got an old saddle and cowboy boots for that person who wants all things Western. It's endless, really. But all of these things help in creating a tablescape that is not to be forgotten. Well, maybe the guests go home and don't give a damn, but we get a real rush out of it.

However, we are careful to stay right on the edge of going overboard, never entering into the world of tacky excess. No one likes to fish a raw oyster out of 10 yards of silver lame'.

It's a lot of work, but that's what I get the big bucks for.

Which is why in my "real life", I appreciate the simple things.

Yesterday was spent at a family reunion and I am happy and exhausted from a day filled with old stories, watching new babies, meeting new spouses, catching up with loved ones - and eating myself silly.

The Great-Aunt, never one for flashy excess, has an old dining room table that could easily seat 16 people. She purchased it years ago with family gatherings in mind. The finish is worn and there are spots from too-hot casseroles and scratches from wayward carving knives. There are a lot of memories attached to that table and today was no exception.

When I stepped into the kitchen to give hugs all around, I yelped excitedly as I saw Aunt Carlene mashing anchovies into olive oil, preparing to make her fabulous Caesar salad. And over by the stove Aunt Betty was putting the finishing glazes on her famous ham. And on the banquette Aunt Sadie was tearing apart her melt-in-your-mouth potato rolls while Aunt Katrina put the finishing touches on her antipasta platter.

When all was said and done that worn old table was groaning under the weigh of that ham, that Caesar salad, those rolls, that antipasta platter and... herb roasted chicken, fresh pasta with pine nuts and olive oil, creamed corn, spinach salad, lasagne, grilled asparagus, grean beans with bacon and shallots, focaccia bread, prime rib, fruit, glazed carrots, pickled beets, roasted red potatoes, herbed cucumber salad, carrot and raisin salad, cabbage salad, greek salad, hummous, leg of lamb and I don't know - I can't remember it all. It was completely overwhelming.

And it was beautiful.

And not because it was displayed so beautifuly or layed out just so - but because each dish was an old baking pan or an old casserole filled with food made by the most loving hands anyone would ever have the pleasure of knowing. Each family made their favorite dish and every person in that house ate like it was The Last Supper, moaning and groaning for the sheer volume of it all.

As The Great-Aunt called on The Great-Uncle to gather everyone around, I told her how stunning the table looked. "Stunning? Sweetheart, don't be silly. That ratty old table and those ratty old linens and these old worn-out dishes are just good old family wares - not fancy, but made with love."

"Exactly", I said.

Never in a million years could I create a table so fabulous.

There was no blood and I have no scars but there was, in fact, a cascade of potatoes rolling down my stairs.

And there were F-Bombs dropped.

I got to the top and realized I needed to put the potatoes down to get my key in the door. About that time the twistie tie at the top of the bag came loose and there was shifting of spuds and then one by one they all went cascading down the stairs.

There were two left in the bag but I threw them to the bottom of the stairwell for good measure.

The Husband came to see what all the comotion was, and he took one look at me, looked down to the potatoes, looked back at me, grabbed the bag of vegetables and sighed.

And then I regained my compsure (read: Made a lemon drop) and went back down to retrive the little red bastards.

My downstairs neighbor was heading into his door as I was bent over picking up the spuds when he asked, "Did you fall? Is there blood?"

"No." was my reply, through clenched teeth.

"Well then in your world I would say that you actually faired pretty well, right?"

He knows me well, my neighbor.

In my left hand a brown paper sack with fresh vegetables from the organic farmer.

In my right hand a large bag of red potatoes.

Anyone wanna bet I made it up the stairs without incident?

It's rare I can get through a meal without some sort of spillage taking place during the course of the meal.

Which is why I wear a lot of dark colors.

But it's summer and the weather is grand and I was invited to a luncheon for a business group I belong to and I decided to throw caution to the wind and don my pretty white linen tunic. There are beads around the neckline and I sort of had in my head that the beads would be a great hiding point for any stray schleps that happened to fall on my shirt.

But imagine my horror when I realized the menu consisted of gazpacho, followed by shrimp scampi salad, followed by meringue islands floating in a berry coulis - that's a lot of drip factor there. And a lot of red drip factor, I might add.

And there's this entire faction of conversation while eating is just another level of fear.

I made it through the gazpacho just fine. And it was delicious, by the way.

The Scampi salad - wonderful. Light vinaigrette - no spillage. No spinach in the teeth. No stray parsley floating around the lips.

Conversation was wonderful, I hadn't spilled and I was feeling all full of my bad self. Triumphant, if you will.

And then the dessert came.

It was so pretty. These light clouds of meringue floating in the brightest red sauce. I too my first bite and it was divine.

And I didn't spill.

Which was wonderful - fabulous.

And then an associate came over to the table and as I reached out to shake her hand my sleeve dragged right through the sauce.

So.

Close.

Remember This Lady?

Six phone calls today.

Six.

The last one went a little like this:

"Hello? Yes. I have it down here that you will be on site for 3:00 arrival. Are we still on schedule?"

I had to think for a minute what on earth she was talking about. And then I looked down at the bottom of my notes where I circled the words, 'This one's going to be a mondo pain in the ass.'

"Yes, we are still on schedule."

"Which brings to mind - whomever you get to light the candles, please tell them to be mindful of the flowers."

Below my aforementioned circled notes I wrote, "Stupid Cow, Sink the floating flowers" and ran over it a few times with yellow hi-lighter pen.

Friday was a particularly hectic day. I seem to be having a lot of those and I am begining to think bad things happen in 10's instead of 3's.

Such is my life.

After blogging about The Aforementioned Client I got to thinking about having to turn her down for her Trick and was a combination of bummed, relieved, and pissed off about the whole thing. I decided to get my mind off things by going into The Restaurant and reorganizing the walk-in cooler. My house has been cleaned, rearranged and cleaned some more and The Husband decided it was time I stop when he did a Dick VanDyk over the ottoman when he got home the other night. (For those of you who don't remember the Dick VanDyke show, or in my case the re-runs, the opening sequence of the show starts with Dick coming home to Laura and tripping over the footstool in the living room.) I have to say, though, it was the funniest damn thing I had ever seen. He was rushing to the TV to turn on his favorite show and he clipped that ottoman and went tumbling to the floor. I shouted, "8.5 for form!" as he lie there wondering when I was going to stop moving furniture around.

Anyway.

So I set out on my mission of organization by first opening the outside doors to the cooler (there's two doors on one side of the cooler giving us quick access to the shelves inside). I knew from Thursday that things were a mess when I tried to find a prep container of tomatoes. And I could see that someone had crammed too much on the top shelf because a carton of heavy cream was getting smashed and the corner had a tiny hole that was leaking. So I nudged the carton a little bit to push it away from the door and then I heard something splat. I stood there for a minute not wanting to know what happened but I closed the door and went around to the inside of the cooler and my worst fear became a reality: An entire 1/2 gallon of heavy cream was now rushing all over the floor. It was my fault for nudging the carton but some fool actually put an open carton of heavy cream on top of another carton in an effort to make more room on the shelf. And I knew this because 2 other cartons were stacked in the same fashion.

I was too defeated to scream or even mutter an explative. I simply went to the back hall for a bucket for hot soapy water, grabbed a couple rolls of paper towels and a handful of bar towels. One of the cooks asked me what happened and I turned around and said, "It's best if I just have some alone time in the cooler."

By the time I got in there the cream had stopped moving across the floor but it had done enough damage. I had to take apart two bottom slat shelves to clean the floor underneath and I had to wipe down everything that got splashed - including a roasting pan full of ribs.

People kept peeking in the door only to be met with a raised eyebrow from me and luckily they were smart to just keep moving. I used two entire rolls of paper towels to sop up that mess and let me tell you - heavy cream on a cold floor is a bitch to clean up. I kept wiping and sopping and wiping and pretty soon I swear to you it started to make butter right there on that floor.

And that's when I started to cry.

It started out slow tears that I tried to fight, but before long they turned into full-on sobs as I sat on my haunches, feet dripping with cream. And I cried and I cried and I cried. And then my face got cold and I realized I needed to get my shit together and get the job done.

A bucket of soapy water, 7 bar towels and 2 rolls of paper towels later, the task was done. As was the crying. And amazingly, I felt like a new woman. And I hate to admit that - I hate to admit that I cried over spilled cream. Obviously, though, I needed it.

So the moral of the story is to go ahead and cry over spilled cream. It will do you some good.

A nice lemon drop after the fact won't hurt a bit, either.

Or, you know, two.

Ok, fine.

Three.

Three weeks ago I took a call from a potential client who's daughter is getting married. The Trick is a large weddding; 450 people, sit down dinner, full bar, and all the trimmings. And money was no object.

A thrilling prospect.

The Client's mother-in-law is (MIL) a very well known party planner but The Client was planning this function behind her MIL's back in an effort to "prove herself". The MIL is a very controlling woman, I have dealt with her on many occasions. But quite honestly she has to be controling to be in her line of business. Although I will admit that my controlling nature and her controlling nature have clashed on more than one occasion. Her control flows over into everyone else's business and I get irritated (read: Bitchy) if someone tells me how to run my kitchen, which she has done more than once. And because of this we've had a few heated discussions, but I respect her. She's the best at what she does.

So The Client, knowing full well I knew her MIL, approached me with the argument that she was doing this without help in an effort to prove she could do it and also in an effort to give her MIL some time off.

Fine. Whatever. I don't ask the why's. I just ask the when's, the how many's, and the what's, and then when are you going to pay me's.

We talked for nearly an hour on that initial call and decided we would talk more after I had time to get some menu ideas down on paper. And it wasn't 1/2 hour after I hung up with The Client's MIL called. Her call was for another client, another function. But she managed to slip in the question asking if her daughter-in-law had called me. Because she assumed she would.

I told her I hadn't heard anything. Because A) It was none of her business and B) I am just anal when it comes to customer privacy. The Partner and I have had a long standing agreement that we don't even admit to catering a Trick until people actually see us coming out of the kitchen. We deal with The Clients, only. And we leave the rest of the world guessing. We think it's just good business. We also like to torture the nosy-ass people of the world.

Anyway.

The MIL persisted and went on to tell me that her daughter-in-law was very disorganized and that I needed to stay on top of her. Again I acted dumb and skipped over her comment to redirect the conversation back to other business.

I hung up disgusted. Because I knew this little game The Client and her MIL were playing would somehow come back to bite me in the ass.

So the very next day The Client called me and and we discussed some menu ideas she had and then she changed the course of the conversation to her MIL. Apparently her MIL had called her and told her to get more organized and call us to book us, and The Client wondered why I lied and didn't tell her MIL the truth that she had, in fact, called.

And here it started.

What happened over the next three days was a series of "she said/she said" phone calls. And what became clear in those 3 days was that The Client and her MIL clearly have a very unstable (read: immature) relationship. And The Client was using us as a middle-man pawn to drive her MIL crazy. And the MIL was doing to same. The phone calls becaume ludicrous and my stress level was going through the roof.

So I put an end to it because I could see the writing on the wall. We were going to battle this until the last plate was served and I refuse to Trick like that. So I pulled our proposal and told The Client we would be unavailable to work for her. She was floored. And angry. And upset. And then felt foolish when I told her why. And I think mostly mad because her stupidity screwed it up. But it was too late for her to talk me back into it - I was just done.

And honestly, I hated to do it. The Trick was going to be a good money maker. But it's not always about the money. In this case it was about working without hassle. And we weren't going to be in a stupid high- school duke-out between Mother-in-Law and Daughter-in-Law.

We've got better things to do with our time.

I, for one, could use a night off to devote to lemon drops.

Insane schedules make for empty refrigerators.

I knew it was time to go to the grocery store last night when I hunkered down to make breakfast for dinner. The Husband was craving some crispy bacon and thick toast with over-easy eggs. And I was craving corn fritters.

But I had no bacon, no eggs, no thick toast. And no damn corn.

So off to the store I went.

My goal was to get in, get out, and get home as quickly as possible. My last trip there I ran into Jabby Janelle and wound up having to put my ice cream back because it started to melt before I could even check out of the store. And I was just in no mood for meat counter chats or baking aisle gossip. So I made my way to each item I needed but then my back started to itch. And it was that kind of itch in the very geographical middle of my back that I could not reach no matter what I did. And I tried. But I'm just not that advanced in my yoga skills yet and it was the kind of itch that needed straight on contact with something sharp.

Anyway.

So there was this hanging display thingy over by the olive oil. It was one of those things they attach to the regular display shelves and it had those nice plastic covered bar sticky-outy things. Perfect for getting that spot on my back.

I looked around to make sure no one was watching and I put my back on that thing like a bear on a tree. I thought just a quick rub would take care of that pesky itch and I could be on my way. Only, I pressed too hard and the shelf kind of came off it's clips and shifted enough to knock free all the packets of dry Italian dressing it contained, and then it knocked a bottle of olive oil to the floor.

And, yeah. It broke.

I am pretty sure this is the Universe's way of keeping my ego in check. For every bitchy thing I do I get my feet knocked out from under me.

Karma, it seems, is a bigger bitch than I am.

I am the 3rd generation of my family to be involved in the food industry in one form or another. And it's been drilled in my head over and over and over that "The customer is always right." I actually think I spoke those words before I could say, "Mom" or "Lemon Drop."

And in that system of belief I've had to suck up some pretty shitty treatment at the hands of those I serve. But times are changing, people are changing, and the entire thought process that the customer reigns supreme is just a bad case of bullshit.

If you want to eat in my restaurant or have me Trick your function, you can either play by my rules or just find somewhere else to sit your ungrateful and demanding ass. Because I would rather have to cut back the budget and wash dishes myself than to make one more insane concession to make a miserable person happy.

We had a lady in for lunch the other day - we'll call her Miserable Mildred. She requested her prime rib sandwich be sans tomato and have a "very frugal covering" of the "special sauce". Well, due to a simple oversight in the kitchen the sauce was the right amount but the sandwich went out with a tomato on it. Which - I mean, I get it. In my world I would have taken the tomato off and not been the least offended. But in her world it apparently caused great pain and suffering because she demanded - after a brief meltdown - the waitress take it back to the kitchen.

With a smile the waitress returned to the kitchen where the offensive and life changing tomato was removed and the meal was returned to the customer in what could have been no longer than a 45 second round trip.

The unfortunate issue in that 45 seconds was that the sandwich became "so cold it was if it had been refrigerated", according to Miserable Mildred. So back into the kitchen it came. To save any further issue a brand new sandwich was made and out the kitchen it went, in perfect form.

This time I went out to make sure all was ok and I found Mildred cramming the last piece of breadcrumb into her mouth. "How was everything?", I asked.

"I thought I would like the sandwich more than I did. And it was a lot of hassle to get it exactly the way I wanted it. So I don't feel I should have to pay for it."

"Yes I did. But it wasn't the best sandwich I ever had and I don't feel I have to pay for it."

Her dining partner was mortified and was quick to try and interrupt to say she thought both the food and the service was fabulous. But Miserable Mildred wasn't budging.

And neither was I.

"You know, I am so sorry you weren't satisfied with your meal. We tried 3 times to make it right and clearly we failed each time. Which leads me to believe that this just isn't the restaurant for you. You haven't seemed satisfied with anything, today. From the meal to the way your coffee was delivered to the amount of ice in your water glass. So I think for all parties concerned it's just best you don't come back here."

The look on her face was one of total disbelief. "Are you telling me I can't come back?"

"I am saying I think it's best you don't. I can't promise we're going to make you happy next time. And I would hate to fail you twice. So today's meal is on me. Have a nice day."

I walked back to the kitchen proud and tall and really quite full of my bad self, daring anyone else in the palce to screw with me. Until, that is, one of the workers pointed out that the button had apparently fallen off my jacket and you could see right down into my bra.

I was called out to a customer's table last night.

"You raised the price of coffee."

"Well then in all reality, you're only paying $.38 cents a cup and I would say that's one helluva deal considering you don't have to make the coffee or wash the cup. You don't even have to clean your own table or wash your own dinner dishes."

His face got red with anger and his wife covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Just then the busboy walked by with a pot of coffee.

"If you get another refill it will knock the price down to $.30 cents... wanna give it a go?", I asked.

And then I patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

Some days it's really rewarding to be a smartass.

One of the things I do love about Tricking is the people watching. I love to do that anywhere, actually. But Tricks are a much more personal way of observing human nature.

And what I love about people watching at Wedding Tricks are the Single Girls Looking to Hook Up species. They create lots of fodder for the kitchen staff.

There's always that group - you know them. They dress to try and outdo the bride. There's always cleavage and good hair. And they smile big and laugh loud and even have a cocktail or two while trying to garner the attentions of any single groomsmen. Or they go for the guys who will most likely try and avoid the tradition of catching the garter should it be tossed. Their entire goal is The Hook-Up. (The Friend in Texas will appreciate the memories from those times...)

Anyway.

If there is one piece of advice I could give Single Girls Looking to Hook Up it would be to wear sensible shoes. Now, I get that every woman wants a sexy shoe. Despite my new foud love in Crocs, I, too, like a sexy shoe. But a shoe ain't sexy if you fall on your face in front of the bar or if you can't hold your own on the dance floor.

And the thing is - unless you can take a long, stable stride in a shoe, it's not the shoe for you. And if you can't take a long, stable stride, watch yourself in the food line.

One of my staff was stocking the breads when one of the Single Girls Looking to Hook Up came through the line with her plate and dressed in a pretty Jimmy Choo looking heel. And the floor was a little slick and Single Girls Looking to Hook Up had a glass of wine in her hand and the next thing you knew she had teetered into the back of my employee.

Fortunately no one was hurt and fortunately for Single Girls Looking to Hook Up the food line wasn't too big and visual proof of the incident was minimal.

But we saw it.

And we mocked the Hell out of it.

When I first started out in this business one of my favorite things to do was watch from the shadows as people ate my food. I got total pleasure from watching people's reaction as they enjoyed the fruits my labor. I loved their smiles and their "oooohs" and "aaaahhs". It was all kind of romantic, really.

And now the romance is dead. I just can't watch. I might vomit if I do.

Because the thing is, people are fucking pigs.

I cannot begin to describe to you how utterly disgusting people can be when they stand with a plate in their hand scouring over a buffet like a vulture over a dead cow. I watched in horror on Saturday night as a man took three chicken breasts. Three. Apparently the 10 oz. of beef covering the other half of his plate just wasn't going to satisfy his hunger. Nor was the stack of grilled asparagus or 10 lbs. of roasted potatoes he had teetering on the rim.

And the worst part? He was eating as he was going through the line so as he was putting food on his plate he would pick a chunk with his fingers and cram it in his mouth. And no one around him seemed to mind. They were all quite jovial and seemingly unbothered by the fact that their friend/husband/father (whatever he was) was making a complete and total pig of himself.

And no one cared. And do you know why? Because people lose complete and total sense of manners around food. It doesn't matter how old or how young, how rich or how poor. It doesn't even matter man or woman. When you give some people an empty plate and a buffet they completely and totally lose any sense of decorum and class they may have.

Did you ever see (or remember) the movie Trading Places with Eddie Murphy and Dan Aykroyd? And that scene were Dan gets all dressed up as Santa and heads to the Christmas party at the offices of Duke & Duke? And he gets all drunk and starts shoving food into his Santa pockets and in his Santa jacket? And remember how that big slab of smoked fish gets all caught in his beard?

THAT is what it's like watching people make pigs of themselves.

And you know, it goes beyond manners. What about brains? Do they honestly think there's just an endless supply of food coming out of the kitchen? Unless you're Shaquille O'Neil or even the fictitional (or not) Sasquatch, a caterer doesn't plan 3 pieces of chicken per person. Nor does the caterer plan for you to stand there and fill your pockets full of bread and butter because they don't fit on your plate. NOR does the caterer plan for you to take 14 chilled shrimp to "save yourself from making 2 trips".

(My God. Why do I do this, again?)

The only thing the caterer plans for is the pitcher of lemon drops when she gets home. Sometimes it's just the only thing that makes her job worthwhile.