I have a lot of fears.

The basics being snakes, mice, rabid raccoons and Velveeta.

And spiders. The fear of spiders borderlines on the irrational, in fact.

So in the initial planning stages of The Trick The Client asked if we would be ok with her providing the flowers and greenery for the buffet stations. She's an amazing Gardener, and we were more than fine with it. Her dahlias are legendary.

When we got on site to set up the tables were full of artfully placed greens and the most gorgeous array of dahlia's I have ever seen. Just - stunning.

So we set about with our duties in the kitchen, and busied ourselves doing what we do. And when it was time to set up the chafing dishes and get our displays ready we noticed that the linens looked dirty. When I leaned in to get a closer look I realized what I was not seeing was dirt - I was seeing spiders. Hundreds of little spiders scurrying all over the linens like it was Mardi Gras.

I gasped and stepped back. The Partner tried brushing them off, but it was just too many to deal with. We had no choice but to remove everything, shake the linens outside, and set to spraying all the greens to make sure the rest of the little bastards died in a watery death on their way down the drain. It was time consuming and tedious, but we could not risk someone taking a bite of bruschetta while Charlotte was weaving her amazing web.

And I, in all of my panic, went sort of crazy with the idea that all of my body began to itch as I was sure I was covered with the little 8-legged freaks. This was exasperating to The Partner as we had work to get done and my mini meltdown wasn't doing anything for the task list. But as I was carrying a load of plates to one of the tables something caught the corner of my eye - and dangling out of my hair was a teeny tiny spider. I had the wherewith-all to get the plates down without breaking them, but it was shortly after that I went into a semi-ballistic catatonic state shaking my head like a mad woman at Woodstock.

The rest of the night is sort of a blur. I know the Trick went off fabulously, and I also know that when I got home I showered for what must have been an hour and washed my hair roughly 1001 times to make sure there were no larvae in my scalp.

The only thing that will get me through the trauma of it all is a lemon drop.

Or 10.

Last weekend was the Annual Food Whore Family Corn Off. Which translates into a corn eating contest between The Sister and I. Oh there are more who participate. But the reality is The Sister and I are the only serious contenders capable of gnawing corn cobs like threshers in a wheat field.

The set-up is pretty simple - outdoor cooker, a pile of corn, sweet cream butter, kosher salt and fresh cracked pepper. The corn has to be eaten clean - none of that stray kernel stuff. And no cheating by cutting the corn off the cob like The Husband does. It's not something I talk about - the fact that he cuts his corn off the cob. I normally like to keep that a deep dark secret, but when public consumption of corn takes place it's a hard fact to miss. The first time he did that The Cousin gasped a little, and I was able to catch her eye, close my eyes and shake my head. Now everyone pretends they don't see it in a effort to block it out of their heads. He does find solace in The Aunt though, as she's a Kernel Cutter from way back. But we pretend we don't see her, either.

Anyway.

So The Sister and I were Cob for Cob the whole day, but then my buttery hands struggled keeping up with her nimble ways. And by the time it was all buttered, salted, said and done - she came out victorious.

I...lost.

Ok that's sort of not true - I didn't lose because of my buttery hands. It's crazy and I don't like to talk about it much, but at some point during the contest I got... full. And I say that with my head hanging down because I don't like to admit that perhaps I am losing my edge in a sport I have found myself victorious on so many occasions.

Whatever the reason, I have a year to figure it all out. Because next year, I refuse to go down like that.

I refuse to be full.

Just a little FYI.

If you become sick at The Restaurant - for whatever reason - and you puke all over the men's restroom, please be sure and clean it up. Or alert someone on the staff.

Don't just projectile vomit and allow the staff to find it at the end of the night - and make all of them gag. (Little pause to gag a little some more...)

Thanks.

*sigh*

The first 'rock' concert I ever went to was Bryan Adams at the Tacoma Dome circa the summer of '84 - or was that '85? At any rate, it took a lot of convincing (read:whining)on my part to get permission to go. The Parents were less than enthusiastic about sending their precious daughter into the throes of what was bound to be nothing more than a giant kegger, complete with funny smelling cigarettes. The relented after days of assurance on my part that I was old enough, responsible enough and able to handle whatever bad influences would come at me. (I had a flair for the dramatic... even then)

So a group of us fools got all dressed up in our finest 80's fashion trends - (Yours truly was big on the big shirts with behemoth belts, and big flame-worthy hair) and stood in line for hours determined to be one of the first 100 people inside the dome to secure our spot on the floor, stage center. We wanted to be able to reach out and touch Bryan during what was bound to be the best version of the Summer of '69 ever. We were convinced that being in the middle of the action was the only way possible to get the full concert experience.

Fools.

At first it was fine. The rush and excitement of it all was enough to keep us all stupidly happy. We had made it to the front and thought we were the coolest kids on the planet. The more people who crammed in behind and around us, the cooler we thought we were. And then Bryan came out, and mayhem ensued, and people started flooding the floor like the Half-Yearly sale at Nordstrom. That was when we all got separated in the rush, and started realizing that perhaps the dream of being first wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The temperature began to rise, and crowd control was next to Nil. Before long the group of 20 was disbanded down to groups of two visible only to those of us tall enough to recognize one another in the mayhem. I had never been so sweaty in my life, and the ability to breathe was becoming nearly impossible. And then I realized that I was standing still but my feet weren't touching the ground.

It was then The Mother's words of wisdom went flashing through my mind, "Be careful what you wish for..."

I thought of that the other night as the Trick was coming to a close. We had been so wishing for the kind of Client and the kind of Trick that had no problems whatsoever. No stress, no issues, no kids pulling table cloths off the tables... just, nice.

And we had it. But the realization that perhaps we were masochists who needed the stress occurred to us as The Client came in the kitchen one last time.

The Client - sweet, dear woman. But an exact match for that character from back in the days of the Mary Tyler Moore show - you know, Ted Baxter's girlfriend Georgette. Soft spoken, a little... naive. But so incredibly sweet. So sweet, in fact, it started to grate on our nerves as she stood there in her chiffon to tell us one more time what a blessing we were. Which, I am sure you are all thinking, "Good grief what is so bad about that?" And what is so bad is when it happens 6 or so times an hour in the middle of the rush. And she would clasp her hands and shake her head, "...such a blessing." And God Bless her but the soft-spoken sweetness started to tear away at the nerves.

I know, I know... bitch when it's good, bitch when it's bad. I just wish I knew what to wish for.

I've spent a good part of my life giving myself the responsibility of saving the world from idiots. Sort of a self-named Idiot Crime Fighter, complete with fancy cape and lightening bolt tongs.

But the exasperation of late has made me consider giving up my cape, and moving to Sheboygan to open up a nice malt shop.

After closing the other night I noticed a couple of the small centerpieces were sitting on the floor under table 8. I thought it odd, but with the way things are going lately didn't question it too much. The centerpieces are just petite little vases with autumnal colored flowers - very simple - very low key.

Or so I thought.

So cut to last night, and while I was walking through the dining room I noticed the man at Table 10 putting the centerpiece under the table, and he did so haphazardly enough that the vase tipped over and broke. I recognized the man from a couple nights ago, and the mystery of the vases under the table became clear.

He and his wife had - words - and then I approached the table. I was greeted by the most charming personality...

"There's broken glass under the table..."

"No it wasn't in my way - it's just ugly as Hell and I didn't feel like looking at it."

Ah. Well of course, by all means - break my shit because you think it's ugly. Can I get you a side of personality to go with your prawns?

His wife sighed and gave me the look of someone who wanted to apologize, but wanted not to fight with her husband. I said nothing - just turned around and mumbled, "Imagine how your wife must feel every morning when she rolls over and sees your ugly as Hell face..."

WHO DOES THIS?? Do you just go to a restaurant and redecorate things to your liking? If the vase was bothering you - fine, move it aside. But short of having a votive light your hair on fire, I see no reason to start rearranging the place like a dog pawing at the pillow to find a comfortable place.

I hope crime fighters have good retirement plans.

So last night at The Restaurant The Lady at Table 9 flagged down her server and asked for a side of Margarine. The Server politely informed her - and apologized for - the fact that we do not have Margarine at The Restaurant.

Apparently that was not good enough.

She proceeded to flad down 5 more people to ask about the Margarine, each time being met with an, "I am sorry, we don't have Margarine here. Is there something else I can get you?"

With a disgusted tone she demanded to see "Someone of authority." So I approached her table, and before I got there she started waiving her finger about the lack of Margarine. I listened - I nodded - and then I informed her that Margarine was not something we use at The Restaruant. I even did the tilted head, "Oh I am sorry..." speech. She was unimpressed, and began to read off all of the different reasons why butter was bad, and Margarine was good.

I was patient, and listened politely. Apologized again, and then after she told me how stupid it was to not offer customers a choice I simply turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Which was better than shoving her face in her "Without Margarine" baked potato. 'Cause that crossed my mind.

I need an assitant.

Someone who can go through my mail, pay my bills and blog for me through oral dictation. That last part requires the person to be able to put phrases together like, "I hate people", "People bug me", and "Is it just me or are people a pain in the ass?"

And I realized as I just typed out that little diddy that I really, really could use a break. And more of a break than a lovely weekend on the beach surrounded by people who just don't get that life is supposed to be about the joy of living, and not about who can get the last piece of chicken off the plate before the people standing behind you.

It's been a breakneck summer. And while the idea of a business being busy is such a blessing - and it is - it also brings to mind the question, "Is it all worth it?". Yes and no.

I asked myself this question last night after falling asleep face down in my new issue of Bon Apetite. The Husband tapped my shoulder, and when I lifted my face one of those pesky insert card thingies was stuck to my cheek. Which I suppose is a better fate than waking up with an IPod ear bud in my mouth like I did last week...

I've been particularly tense lately, and it occured to me that it's not so much people that are driving me crazy, it has been my inability to blog on a regular basis. So to the reader who e-mailed me and asked if 'all I ever do it bitch about people?', I will say no. I also go on long walks in the moonlight, scare small children away from buffet tables, and I glare at customers who talk loudly on their cell phones in my restaurant. I am a very well-rounded crank.

And to those of you who send me wonderful e-mails, thank you. I don't mean to omit you from my postings. I get them, they are fabulous, and slowly but surely I am getting around to sending proper replies.

They are everywhere - at Tricks, at The Restaurant and at lovely beach parties.

I had just set down my antipasti platter when the host announced to everyone it was time to eat. I turned around to pick up my glass of wine when the swarm of people descended on the food table like a buffet in Vegas. I was nudged - more like pushed, actually - out of the way by a snitty woman in heels (who wears heels to the beach??) And by the time the swarm was over - which was all of 10 minutes - my platter was empty, as was every other dish on the table. The food was gone except for a few stray corn chips and spinach slopped out of the bowl.

I wasn't sure if I needed to be frightened, or angry. But I was on the beach, drinking wine - how could I be angry? Even the aforementioned spilled coffee wasn't going to ruin my bliss. I simply grabbed my bottle of wine and went back to my chair at the water's edge.

My host, however, was flabbergasted. She came marching over, "Who does this? Who behaves in such a way? People are pigs! Have you ever seen such behavior?"

"Have I ever seen such behavior?"

"Well you can't have behaviors like this at your Caterings - certainly people invited to fancy functions behave better than this. Don't they?"

That made me throw my head back and laugh.

It could not have been a more perfect moment. There I was sitting on the most lovely porch of the most lovely Inn reveling in the gorgeous sunshine. The air had the most amazing salt smell to it, and I could see sailboats meandering their way through the morning wind. It was so serene - so perfect. I sat down with my cup of coffee and blueberry muffin to revel in the absolute fabulousness of it all. This was the ideal place, I thought. So quiet, so peaceful, so - relaxing.

And then I took a bit of the muffin and it crumbled a little, and when I moved to catch it I spilled coffee down the front of my shirt, and smashed a blueberry on my chest. It was about that time The Husband came walking out with the newspaper. He said nothing - just sat in the chair next to me and said, "Isn't it gorgeous here?"

And then he quietly and lovingly placed the room key in my hand.

So I went to the grocery store and stopped to pick up some Gravenstein apples out the big tote outside. There was a sign on the box that said, 'Look! We're Naked', and below that said, "No sprays - no wax!"

A woman and her son were standing across the box from me. He looked to be about 8 years old, and had tousled red hair and darling freckles. And he was standing with his hands on his hips.

He read the sign and shook his head. He turned to his mom and said, "That's marketing for you, mom." And then he let out a big sigh. His mom looked at me and put her hand on her mouth to stop the giggle.

He was the cutest little marketing genius, ever.

Have a great holiday weekend, everyone. The Husband and I are taking a much-needed weekend away. No computers, no Tricks, no Customers. Just a lovely time of island hopping and trinket shopping.

A perfect way to spend the last official weekend of summer, no?

So we had a meeting with a guy who wants to hire us for a surprise party for his wife. Nice guy, a little fidgety. A little uh, nose-picky.

For twenty straight minutes during our conversation he dingled around his nose in some fashion or another. First it was a scratch, then a flick, then the thumb found it's way fully immersed inside the right nostril, and spent the better part of that time dilly-dallying around in there.

It was hard to concentrate with all the picking.

I subtley nudged the box of Kleenex on the desk closer to him - but he didn't notice. He just kept... picking.

I didn't make eye contact with him long enough to know if he actually retreived the treasure he so desperately hunted for. But I do know he's willing to spend a lot of money, so I am going to overlook all the dingling.

But I am totally not ever allowing him in the kitchen, nor will I ever shake his hand.