Either I am seriously old and out of touch with what's considered 'Hip' and fashionable, or I just sat with the world's largest 23 year old twit.

My first clue should have been the gum popping. Anyone who knows me knows that gum snapping can send me into spirals of craziness more intense than Velveeta in my fondue. I have nothing against the act of gum chewing, persay. I like to gnosh on the occasional piece myself. But when a person chews like they are creating energy for a small nation, and they make all those little tiny bubbles that snap snap snap when they chew... seriously, it makes me crazy. Crazy with a Capital C.

Which, I realize that I am sitting on the outskirts of Crazy Town as it is. But chew the gum, blow the occasional bubble, if you will. Just, please, close your mouth when you chew.

And then the hair twisting should have been an indication, as well. Gum Snapper had one hand on her sparkly pink cell phone and the other twisting a large chunk of hair. It was like Britney Spears herself walked into our office.

The Partner and I sat across from Gum Snapper and Her Mother, and before we could even get started, Gum Snapper says, "Like, you guys can do a total dinner, not just like crackers and cheese and stuff, right?"

Her Mother rolled her eyes and said, "Sarah, we discussed this. Yes. They know what they are doing."

"Ok, well like... I want this to be really fabulous. So like you guys can do really fabulous, right?"

The Partner and I exchanged glances. Knowing glances. Voice or no voice, we read one another's minds.

Her Mother sighed and tersely said, "Sarah."

"What, mom? Like, don't get all upset with me. I can ask questions, right? I mean like, this night will be about me, right?"

Her mother smiled and said, "Of course, Sarah", and then looking to us said, "Excuse us a minute, ok?"

We smiled, and nodded.

Her Mother took miss Sarah The Gum Snapper outside for a little chat.

I leaned back in my chair, and The Partner did the same. Before I could speak she said, "Like, we're totally not going to do this one, right?"

Right.

In a twist of fate only seen on strange Indie films and soap operas, my week of fingernail loss and total humiliation have been capped off by a strange turn of health events leading to laryngitis.

It seems I've lost my voice.

And the joyful chorus you hear is not the angels upon high, but instead people like The Partner, The Staff - and though he does not want to admit it even after I saw him do a little rendition of the moon walk when he thought I wasn't looking - The Husband.

One of the wait staff shared this wisdom, "My God. It finally happened. She actually ran out of things to say."

I've been doing limited amounts of soft talking, and a lot smiling. Which seems to not raise any kind of sympathy or kindness in my direction, but instead a little trepidation coupled with private elation.

My not talking, it seems, is somewhat unsettling, but mostly really fabulous for a lot of people.

What they don't know is that all this silence is nothing more than the reprieve I needed before the day I get my voice back.

The day I plan to talk non-stop for 24 self-satisfying hours.

That day is coming people.

It's coming.

So The Husband and I had one of those rare nights when our schedules meshed and we were actually able to have a nice dinner out.

I was craving Thai. Something about a spicy slurpy peanutty noodle sounded really good to me.

The night was fabulous, it's amazing how revitalizing it can be to sit at a table and be served by someone else, eating food prepared by someone else.

And of course because I wore white in celebration of the onset of Spring, I had a slurp go awry and ended up with a nice slap of peanut sauce down the front of me.

Perfect.

As I was dabbing at the stain A Former Client approached my table. "How fabulous to see you here tonight! What a great coincidence, actually. This is my friend Tom. Tom, this is The Caterer I've been telling you about. The one you need to hire for the June Party."

As I stood up to greet him he said, "Well it's so nice to meet the person I've been hearing so much about lately." I had a wet napkin in my right hand so I reached out with my left hand to shake his... and in doing so realized I was reaching out with a nice big bandaged middle finger from the aforementioned (but don't want to talk about) peeler incident.

So there I stand, big peanutty stain on my shirt and bandaged middle finger. Fortunately I was having a good hair day, but I really don't think that was enough of a distraction for the train wreck he was viewing.

What do you think my chances are of having this man believe I'm a good caterer?

Slim to none, I'm thinking.

I can't tell you how many potatoes I've peeled in my lifetime.

Pounds.

Hundreds... possibly even thousands... of pounds of potatoes.

So I could, in all reality, peel them with my eyes closed.

And I bet I could peel them with my eyes closed and not even so much as miss a speck of peeling, or harm myself in any way.

It turns out, however, that when I am angry and peeling potatoes, and am mid rant - that's when all the bad things happen.

The potato was in my left hand, peeler in my right. I stopped peeling so I could wave my right hand around to make a grand gesture, and when bringing the peeler back down to strike the potato in anger, I caught a fingernail.

And if you're like me who, even just now as I type this, you will do that thing where you clench your teeth and suck in air and say, 'Eeesh...'.

Which is what I did when the peeler caught the upper left hand corner of the nail on left middle finger and sliced right down to the skin, ripping the nail off with it. The pit of my gut got heavy and the blood started to come and I kept sucking in air until I had to let a low moan.

What is it about ripping/cutting a fingernail that can drop you to your knees? I have a scar on the palm of my left hand that remains after a trip to the ER and 14 stitches and even that didn't hurt like the now missing and very bloody fingernail thing.

Ouch.

So I am sure you've all noticed by now that I slipped a little Google ad over there on the left.

It's an experiement, and not one I am all too thrilled about right now, as it seems to be insistent on getting everyone informed about gas, flatulence, and bloating based on one entry about a man's inability to hold in the burps.

So appetizing, no?

I've been playing around with the idea of placing an ad or two on my site, but I am hesitant right now. Not because I don't want to have an ad - I am willing to take on a few to allow the site to pay for itself, but I don't want to muddy up the site with flashing lights and a bunch of links for things like, well, intestinal disorders.

So are you all ok with me placing an ad or two? My preference is food-based and/or cooking ads. Which I am working on. But if you've got an idea, let me know.

So the other night in The Restaurant I was called out to a table. The Man at Table 4 had ordered the pan fried oysters and wanted something different. I tried to understand the issue...

"I am so sorry. Is something wrong with the oysters?"

"Well, I don't like oysters. But I thought I would give these a try, anyway. And I didn't like them, like I thought, so I changed my mind. So as I said, I would like another entree', and I don't want to have to pay for the oysters, nor do I feel I should have to pay for the replacement meal."

I was brought back to my college days when I worked retail in the men's clothing section, and a guy brought a pair of jeans back after wearing them for three months. He decided that his lack of dates had made it clear the pants didn't make him "Hot", so he wanted his money back.

"So, you ordered the oysters knowing you didn't like oysters."

"Right. Um hm."

Seems rational, right? *sigh*

"I will gladly bring you another entree'. I want you to be happy. But you will need to pay for whatever I bring you."

"And now you want me to cover the cost of not one, but two meals, based on the simple principle that you didn't like something you already knew you didn't like."

He sat there and stared at me blankly. A look I am sure he's plagued with on a regular basis.

"I will gladly remove the cost of the oysters from your tab. But whatever we replace them with will be charged to you. We want you to be happy, but we're not in the business of giving away food based on experimental dining. Ok?"

He decided to keep the oysters, but wanted a side salad to eat so he could take the oysters back to his cats. Out of a desire to keep the peace, I removed the cost from his bill.

He told the waiter that he was happy not to have to pay for a meal he didn't like, but that he would not be back.

That little piece of knowledge was actually the best part of my night.

Where is Miss Manners when you need her.

Have we as a society become so relaxed and casual about things that we have totally lost all sense decorum?

Now, I certainly don't walk around in white gloves all day smacking hands with rulers and checking for posture. But where I come from we have some basic rules about public behavior. No nose picking (Heads up, Howard), no flatulence, no innapropriate scratching and no burping. Though, as far as burping is concerned, accidents do happen.

So when these things happen in my presence and are of an intentional nature, I find myself full of many emotions. Mostly those emotions run the range of shock to disgust back to shock, and on to completely disgusted.

So imagine how I am feeling right now after Sir Burps-A-Lot just left my office. He barely sat down to discuss his upcoming fundraiser when he let out a loud belch. Out of a desire not to make him feel utter embarassment I pretended not to notice and kept on with a seemless conversation.

But then he did it again. And I didn't sense any embarassment of any form or figure.

He was doing this on purpose.

The second belch wasn't as bad as the third belch, as the third belch actually stopped me mid-sentence, and forced me to look up to see if I could find any fleck of remorse in his eyes. But like the embarassment - it was just non-existant.

Who does this?

I mean, he was nicely dressed. His fingernails were impeccable. His hair washed, and he had a nice Ralph Lauren Polo smell to him.

But the man was a chronic belcher. And an unapologetic one, at that.

It was after the fourth belch that he felt the need to explain that he had just finished a lunch of roasted garlic chicken. Which, let's be honest, all of the belching left no room for curiosity - there was an unmistakable garlic 'tone' in the air. And apparently, "Garlic makes him gassy". My thoughts? Grab a Tums on the way to the car or stop at your local Wallgreen's for a nice box of Gas-X. Or here's something wild and crazy, how about we just skip the garlic all together. Or at least save it for a home-cooked meal where you and your family can have a nice 'burping for dollars' contest.

I mean seriously, people.

Seriously.

The thing about the big caterings is that you have little contact with the guests.

Well, until they come trapsing through the kitchen, that is.

It's rare that I get on the floor to collect china or mingle. A lot of it depends on my mood, or how dirty I've gotten in the kitchen.

But when you do intimate affairs inside a person's home, you are right in the middle of it all. And sometimes that's a nice interaction.

And sometimes it's just not.

The kitchen was gorgeous, very open, very plain but very funtional and very well planned. The island was a working island with a sink and a stove, and also the place they wanted appetizers served from. They wanted the night to be casual, and to give the guests the ability to see their food prepared.

Which is fine. We've done this game before and usually have a very good time. A glass of wine each was poured for The Partner and I as we set about sauteeing, plating and putting on our little show.

In the middle of it all my nose began to itch, and glove or no glove, no one wants to see their food being prepared by a nose itching (or any other itching, for that matter) fool. So I removed my gloves and excused myself from the room. It's allergy season and the itching, while annoying, was a welcome reprive from the inscessant sneezing.

So I came back and set it with the shrimp when a man came up to the counter to make small talk. And in the middle of our conversation he began to pick his nose. And it wasn't a mistaken "Seinfeld" type pick, it was a full-on 'digging for gold get a little brain matter' type of pick.

I stood mortified. What the Hell was I supposed to do? You can't just shout, "Hey, Pal. Let's search the Bat Cave in private, shall we?", but oh my gosh did I want to. Here I was worried about an innocent itch and this man was in grave danger of dropping little green men on my marinated olives. And it's not like you can just shoo him away like a hungry pigeon, you have to engage in a way that shows total oblivion to what he's doing.

The Partner was stepping on my right foot so hard I was torn between yelping and busting out with a guffaw.

I tried bland conversation hoping my engaging him would make him realize the error of his ways. But my voice only seemed to intensify his need to dig a little deeper in the well. I realized at that point the only choice I had was total body interference - I came around the bar and made an excuse about having to adjust a platter, thereby putting my body between his vagrant finger and my food.

Just then his wife came over and in a low grumbly voice through clenched teeth said, "Howard, get your damn finger out of your damn nose right damn now."

I pretended to hear nothing as I adjusted the olives. I looked up to catch The Partner's eye across the island and we both immediately had to drop our heads before busting a gut in a fit of laughter.

As I came back around the island Howard was headed down the hall to the bathroom. His wife came over next to me, "I am so sorry. That damn man... it's like he thinks no one will notice his finger shoved so far up his sinus you only see a knuckle."

The Partner and I laughed and assured her that his picking was not the worse we have ever experienced in our days.

"My God. You must have seem some horrific things."

"Will do."

Poor Howard.

It was a crazy night at The Restaurant. Things went well, except for that small mishap with a bottle of red wine in the back hall. (Yes, I dropped it. And no I don't want to talk about it.) And the steak that was sent back three times to achieve "perfect pinkness". (I hate people)

After the last customer was gone we locked the front door and turned the lights down and set to cleaning. And after a while we noticed that a vehicle parked out front was still there, lights on and clearly running. We didn't give it too much thought, other than the dishwasher sharing his conviction that we were being cased by secret CIA Operatives, and that at any minute one of us could be taken into custody. (I clearly did not check his resume' close enough)

So we got back to it, and a half hour had passed when a member of the wait staff came in the kitchen to let me know the car was still there. It had been 45 minutes, and we all had a collective opinion that the situation should be checked out. We all had theories, besides the CIA one, I mean. It could be a non-issue, it could be someone having trouble, or it could be they got sick from something they ate in The Restaurant, in which case we all agreed to deny any knowledge of the car and how long it had been in the parking lot.

A very close friend of The Husband is in law enforcement so I went ahead and gave him a call to get a little advice. I mentioned the vehicle, the length of time, etc. and asked if we should go out and check, or if that's something the police should be doing. He took a description of the vehicle, and asked that we please not go check ourselves. "Just to be on the safe side."

Within ten minutes two police cars were out front while we all tried to hide behind curtains and dark corners to watch it all go down. Someone in the room started singing, "Bad Boys Bad Boys Whatcha Gonna Do..." and we all broke out into a round of laughter when there was a knock on the door. The car was gone, and The Husband's Law Enforcement Friend came to give me the run down.

Apparently when they came up on the vehicle and shone the light in, a man was in the driver's seat, and his girlfriend had her face...in his lap. It took me a minute. The Husband's Friend stared at me with his eyebrow raised waiting to see my reaction... and then it hit me. And I was half laughing and half ticked off. "Did you tell him to park somewhere else from now on?"

"No, I am sure not."

And I began to giggle. And when I told everyone what they found, one of the waitresses said, "Oh she must have been so sick to be laying there like that, the poor thing."

I was in no mood to disagree with her, nor was anyone else.

It does explain why they were in a hurry for their check.

And decided to skip dessert.

*sigh*

We're getting things taken care of. It looks like I will lose some of February's posts, but I don't see that as the end of the world. I am thankful, actually. It could have been worse.

It gives new meaning to things, "Gone to the dogs", "Three Dog Night" or "Hair of the Dog", no?

Anyway.

So I started off my day behind the proverbial 8-Ball after spending the majority of my night trying to become tech savvy. I had a meeting right off the bat at 8:00 this morning, and I should have taken good warning when the woman said 8:00 was better for her because she didn't want to have to get a babysitter. I sort of blew right past that phrase in my efforts to figure out how much coffee I would have to syphon into my mouth before she got there.

Now, let me preface what I am about to tell you with the fact that I do love children. Love them. So the following rant is not in any reflective of my love of little kids with sticky fingers and tiny attitudes.

However.

This child this morning... I don't know if he was practicing to be the next star in Damien Spawn of the Devil IV, or if he ate an entire box of Cocoa Puffs on his way over in the car. But if it was in my office, he touched it. If it was on my wall, he tried to get it off. If it was on a shelf, he tipped it over. And if it made a beeping sound - like my credit card machine - he pushed every button within his reach. I will have to call the bank to make sure the little shit didn't transfer $5 Million Yen into a bank account off the coast of South America.

And his mother, his mother was soft spoken and very focused on her menu ideas and decorating ideas. I kept smiling in my efforts to be polite and not be one of those 'Childless people who doesn't know what it's like to be a parent', but oh man did I want to take Terrible Timmy and give him a giant Pamper wedgie. Because the screaming - the screaming was the worst part. It was part horror movie damsel, and part pterodactyl. Some of the screaming was so high pitched that I saw 5 dogs drop to their bellies outside my window.

All the while mommy is discussing the finer points of mini prosciutto pizzas. And I am trying to take notes and refrain from grabbing Terrible Timmy and locking him in my file cabinet.

But Timmy's mommy didn't flinch. Even when her son was acting like a jacked up hamster in a bag full of pellets she was stoic. She didn't even so much as have a stern sound in her voice. She was soft, "Timmy, honey. Please don't do that..."

This lasted for over 45 minutes. Actually, to be fair to the little devil, he did take a few breaks, each time raising my hopes that he had dispelled of all the sugar in his system. Only to shatter me when he would fly through the air like rocket man to pluck yet another item off my shelf.

Finally the meeting came to a close, and Timmy's mommy said to me, "I am so looking forward to this." And I couldn't resist... I tried... but I couldn't...and I said, "Will Timmy be there?"

She smiled sweetly and softly said, "Oh, no. This isn't a party for children. Besides, after today's little display, Timmy will more than likely be sold to the circus."

"Good decision", I replied with a smile.

Good decision.

So you can see the site has issues.

It's being worked out. I am trying not to panic and throw things.

CORRECTION: I am trying not to throw more things.

Bear with me.

UPDATE:

Ok so you can see. Well. Shit. What can't you see. It's all gone to Hell.

The good news is I have it all backed up and can restore it. The bad news is that it's going to take some time. We're in the process, but it's tedious.

Things like this are good. Right? They give a person a time to reflect on life and what's important.

They also give a person a chance to be Greek and break every dish in the house. Well maybe not every dish. But every dish you wanted broken, anyway.

So all is fine. It's good.

I'm fine.

I'm good.

The box of lemons my good friend Veg sent me from her lemon tree are no longer going to be preserved, The Husband is currently juicing all of them for emergency lemon drops.

Lots of them.