While I was at the Grocery Store last night I got hit in the head with a bouncy ball.

I know – I know. But apparently that’s just normal when you’re crouching down into the ice cream freezer reaching for the last carton of Breyers Vanilla Bean, and I need to suck it up and get over it. At least that was the vibe I was getting from the thrower. Keep in mind the thrower was approximately 3 years old – but I could tell it was a seasoned 3 years. 3 years of hard time in the crib. 3 years of bottle lifting to build the pecs capapable of lofting a bouncy ball at my head.

I have to be honest, my first gut reaction was the lob the ball back Dodgeball style. And while that will not get me a job at the nearest daycare center, it does mean my reflexes are still sharp after all these years of slipping, falling, tripping over things and general body damage I’ve done just by simply taking a few steps across the floor. But then I caught a look at my attacker and my heart melted. There he stood, mischevious grin and belly giggles. It took me a minute to register the screaming coming from behind him – it was his mother – my friend Annie. When she realized it was me she nearly cried from relief. Apparently little Mr. Jake spotted me and took off after me, ball at the ready.

When Annie asked Jake what he was supposed to say to me he looked at me, he giggled, and then shrugged his shoulders and said, “You it!”

I love Jake. To pieces. In fact I’ve cut a deal with him to work as a host at The Restaurant – we need his aim to take care of the miscreants.

I just spent the last 10 minutes with a wet rag trying to get the watermelon juice stains off my white shirt. Why I bother with white is beyond me. But somehow wearing a heat-absorbing black shirt in 85-degree weather seemed stupid.

The watermelon, a lucious leftover from Memorial Day, is fabulicious. It's all crispy and juicy, and coupled with today's sunshine makes my heart full of hope for the wonderful Summer we are about to embark on.

I do this every year - I wax poetic over the dreams of barefoot frolics and sipping cold beers on hot summer nights. It's my way of enabling my denial about the fact that June kicks of Wedding Season with great fanfare, and will set the tone for the rest of the summer.

My first Trick of the month will be with Lo Carb Bride, whom I had to sit with for over an hour and convince her that offering her guests a little starch wasn't going to make them all bloat and gain weight over the course of the evening. And while she was tempted - insisted, even - on serving only protiens, thank God I prevailed with my Well Balanced Speech.

The next gig involves The Denial Bride who's Groom to Be is a recovering alcoholic, along with other members of his family, and became nearly hysterical at the idea that she could not drink at her own wedding. Because apparently "A wedding is not a wedding unless the bride is a little tipsy." Why that statement didn't make The Groom run for the hills is beyond me.

But my job is not to be a marriage counselor - no - my job is to show up, serve the food and share the juicy stories later.

Speaking of juicy - time to get back to the watermelon.

While sitting in my office the other day a gentleman stopped in to tell me about his new business. He told me where the business would be - a location I was familiar with.

He was on his way to get some more plants for his garden - which explained the muddy jeans - and thought to stop in and let me know he's been working on building a nice coffee stand to sell the coffee he was going to roast himself.

He let me know he was also going to stop by the automotive store for more oil - which explained the grease covering the front of his shirt.

He said he would come back soon with samples, and we could talk more at that time. But that he was in a hurry to get to the dentist office to pick up his dentures - which would explain the very gummy, toothless grin upon his arrival.

Oh the people that you meet when your walking down the street...

I was smiling so much that my jaw actually started to lock in that position.

It wasn't so much a friendly smile as it was the fake kind I've learned to paste on my face in the event of unbeleivable situations like this...

A Customer asked to order 1/2 a baked potato. The server informed her we did not sell 1/2 baked potatoes, but would do her best to aquire the smallest we had available.

At the end of the meal The Customer asked to speak with management - and as I approached the table - smile planted firmly on face - I saw The Customer shove the last bite of baked potato in her mouth.

Bottom line - she didn't like the fact that she was forced to pay for an entire potato when she could only eat half. I smiled, said I was sorry she was unhappy - but that we are not in the habit of selling half potatoes. I also pointed out that she had, in fact, eaten the entire potato.

Her response to that?

Ready?

"Well of course I ate it. What would you have me do? Waste it? There was no way I was going to get a doggy bag for 1/2 of a potato, what on Earth would I do with it? But now, because of your riduculous policy, I am going to be so miserably full I will never be able to enjoy my nightly pastry and coffee."

I did not honestly know how to respond to that. I mean, I know how I wanted to respond to that. But all I could do was smile, say I was sorry she was unhappy with her dining experience and walked away from the table. She seemed a little stunned that was all I had to say. But I really could not say what was on my mind - so I walked away.

And I kept walking all the way through the kitchen, to the back hall and out the back door and called The Partner. "Get this..."

They say you could hear my laughter all the way to the prep line.

We got word the other day that A Client passed away. She was just 65. And I know that to some people and it some cultures living to the age of 65 is a full life.

I remember back to when I was 14 and my grandfather died at the age of 63. I remember the profound sadness, but thinking well - he was 63 - he was old enough....

But the older I get the more I understand that 63 or even 65 is not old. Not even close to old. And the older I get the more loss I go through. They say God picks the prettiest flowers first, and I can tell you he must have a lot of empty vases because it seems like every time I answer the phone I hear more sadness and loss.

She was a wonderful person - and a great client. She would gift us every time we served her. Sometimes a little trinket - sometimes a bottle (or 3) of wine. Always thoughtful, always wonderful to deal with.

We will miss her.

The Mother requested going out for Brunch for her special day - She wanted all of us to have a day off from cooking - so we obliged her. And it was a lovely brunch. Mimosas all around, tables and tables full of seafood, pastries, salads, pastas, omlettes... the list goes on. A gluttonous indulgence.

As I turned around to check out the Prime Rib I heard my name being hollered. "Food Whore... Food Whore!!!" I turned to see a Client, one whom had to postpone a Trick due to a surgery of ... well... personal female nature. "I wanted to say thank you for the flowers. And to let you know that I will be ready to reschedule soon. The surgery was done vaginally so my recovery is so much quicker than expexted." As soon as The "V" Word left her mouth it was as if we had an audience. And the looks on their faces I am sure matched the look on my own... it was the look of someone experiencing disbelief someone would shout The "V" Word in such a place.

I smiled a nervous half smile and gave a little nod, "...um...O...OK. Good to know... thanks..." I was mortified.

When I turned to the gentleman carving the prime rib he said, "Don't feel bad. You are the fourth person she has shared that with today."

Oddly that did not make me feel better.

But I admit the fourth mimosa did.

MEMO to All Patrons.

The planter outside our front door is not:

A) An ashtray.

If you're smoking a cigarette, a cigar, blunt - whatever your inhalant of choice - please don't put it out in the planter. Eat it, shove it in your ear or smash it on your forehead. Don't make me forrage for your butts.

B) A garbage can.

It's not for Starbuck's cups, gum wrappers or random unmentionables.

And just another FYI - Ketchup, while a tasty treat, is for plates, not spray paint.

Um, let's see... Shrimp tails. Those little plates on the tables? Put them there. Our floor is not a compost pile.

Oh. Yeah. Creamers? For your coffee. Or your tea. They aren't for little Jimmy to make Lake Crema' on the floor with.

Signed,

The Crazy Klutzy Management.

Anyone have any information or thoughts on lodging in New York City?

Like - something in the mid-town area?

Thanks!

It was a lovely night.

The rain had stopped and it was set to be a gorgeous sunset.

The Husband and I were able to go out for a little pizza and some beer and good conversation before his meeting.

And on our little stroll out to the car, still talking and laughing, he got ahead of me to open my door (Because He does that - so cool) and then turned around to say something to me - and I wasn't there.

I was on the ground.

Turns out a new pair of shoes (ones I had not twisted on the pavement, yet) when placed on wet pavement, and with the aid of one simple glass of beer makes for the kind of moment we can only call 'typical' in my world.

I just - slipped. I was walking, talking, laughing - and BOOM. I was down. My recovery time was amazing, though. I was up as fast as I was down.

They need to make falling an Olympic event. I would totally rock the gold. I would fall of the award podium, of course, but I would still rock it.

I would like to think of myself as a relatively "with it" and "hip" person. Though just the fact that I even say that makes me a major big time loser.

I am also, it seems, a bit behind the times when it comes to certain lingo.

It all started about a year ago, or maybe longer. I don't know. I can't remember what happened last week. Anyway. I kept hearing references to a "muffin top". As in, "She had quite a muffin top!" Automatically my mind went to the pastry that Jerry's friend Elaine loved so much. I heard it so often, in fact, that I assumed some bakery had gone retro and decided to bring back short-lived popularity of the muffin top.

I know... I know...

The finaly proof of my Loser Status came in the form of a conversation over cocktails. Someone said something about the fact that their jeans gave them a major muffin top. Finally I said, "Ok - help me out. Where are you getting these muffin tops?" You could hear a pin drop at the table. And then the rolling laughter came with it. And then someone across from me made the universal 'L for Loser' sign on there forehead.

It was then, in between bouts of giggles, that the explanation was given. Muffin tops are not, in fact, a pastry. They are, in fact, the result of ill fitting low-rise jeans causing that "excess" love-handleish flesh above the waist.

Which, I guess if that's the case, I must look like I am packing around a baker's dozen...

Sometimes food can be the single most stressful thing a person has to make a decision about.

I've seen more fights happen over a decision of beef or chicken than I care to count. But I have also seen more moments of pure pleasure as a menu is created for a day so special that for a moment the world seems like a really incredible place.

The great equalizer in all of this is when you sit across from a person so full of grief they can hardly believe what their life has become. Such moments have been happening a lot, lately. Too often, in fact. All part of a greater plan than we can't begin to comprehend, for sure, but these moments can leave you stunned and breathless for a long time.

As I sat across from The Client, listening to their moments of grief and trying to find a way to make this portion of their day easier, I watched as one family member began to laugh. She then apologized for laughing, but thought it would be a fitting tribute to serve all of the foods their loved one hated. It would be a fitting retribution for years of practical jokes.

This began a chorus of laughter, followed by tears, followed by more laughter. To be a part of it all - very humbling, indeed.