I used to think I lived on the outskirts of Crazy Town. You know - close enough to be a little crazy myself, but far enough away not to have to take part in The Crazy Parade on Crazy Celebration Weekend.

But I am starting to think - perhaps - that the City Limits of Crazy Town are being extended, and I am going to have to start paying Crazy Tax.

First thing to happen was that a woman came in to The Restaurant, demanding a table for 18. Right - like we just happen to have a very special table for that many people - held specially just for her. The Hostess must have gasped a little, because said woman responded, "What, like that is a big deal?" And then rolled her eyes and made one of those throaty "disgust" sounds. When told that yes, it was kind of a big deal since they did not have a reservation, the wait would be a while, and their group would have to be split up. It made her mad, and she made a call on her cell phone and said loudly, "Well apparently it IS a big deal!"

Yes. Indeed it is.

That lady - she owns a condo in Crazy Town. Full time resident. Works for the Chamber of Commerce.

Second - a man and his wife wanted to move to another spot because they felt a draft and were chilled. And in our attempts to relocate them, Mr. Man went from table to table to check the "air flow" and see where the best spot was. One such spot was a table being held for an 8-top, and he insisted they be able to sit there. When I explained to him that the table was reserved, he wanted me to go over to Table 6 and see if the people would trade, because that was his second choice.

Now he - I think he's on the City Council of Crazy Town. A close race put him in that seat, but I am guessing he won't have a problem winning the next election.

But the best - the very best - was when a couple came in pushing a Pram. (For those not in the know - think posh baby buggy. And by "posh" I mean "chic", not Posh Spice - Beckham who would simply never come into my restaurant because, you know, people eat there.)

Anyway.

So in comes the Pram and the glowing parents. And they are walking, looking lovingly in the Pram, and I am ready to go over and give a little look-see at what I am sure must be a darling cherub-faced baby. But then it barked - the baby barked. And the reason the baby barked is because the baby was a dog. A damn dog. In a pram. Surrounded by dog toys and a blanket. In The Restaurant.

In a pram.

The Couple smiled uneasily as I approached, and for good reason. I had to break the news that while I love babies in prams, I don't love dogs in prams and unless the dog was vital to their survival, they would have to go. They understood, and left without too much fuss. Well, as much fuss as a person makes trying to turn around a pram WITH A DOG IN IT.

Those two - Mayor and First Lady of Crazy Town.

Look for them in the Parade.

Another funeral.

Too many this year, too many.

This time we were attending, not Tricking. The Deceased a dear friend, just not old enough to die. But the service was lovely, full of memories and laughter and stories better not to be told in church, but told anyway, and received with knee slapping laughter from the Clergy. A fitting send-off.

We retreated to the Reception Hall for snacks and conversation. The mood was considerably upbeat in light of the reason for our gathering.

I was standing close to the kitchen door with a group of friends when a woman scurried through the receiving line toward the kitchen. I heard her ask, "Do you have any kind of take-out containers?" to a woman working in the kitchen.

"Take-out?"

"Yes. I will just do that. Thank you."

And off she scurried to the food table where she proceeded to load two plates - to overflow - and cover them with napkins before she made her way up the back stairs.

The sweet woman in the kitchen looked over to me and said, "Call me crazy but..." I held up my hand and said, "You're not crazy. You are perfectly normal - and there are very few of us left."

I am nothing if not determined.

A little bitchy, too, but I assumed it was obvious and didn't need to say it any more...

I've had this lifelong obsession with mastering things I am apparently not meant to master; skateboarding, pie-crust making, dancing the lead in Swan Lake and using chopstick in a way that is both graceful and productive.

After today I honestly think I've got a better shot of being fitted for a tutu (or a ten-ten) and hoisted by a man in bulgy tights than to eat an entire meal with chopsticks without swearing or throwing one of those little pieces of bamboo across the room. And I know I've talked about this all before, and have been given advice. And I know they make chopsticks with hinges now - but that's just not the same for me. I have a need to prove I am good enough.

And beyond my naturally klutzy ways, I have the hands of a person who can grip heavy pots and hold a freshly boiled potato for peeling without too much discomfort. Hands accustomed to hot bleach water, and delving into large prep tubs of ingredients to make enough filling for 300 stuffed tomatoes. Slightly larger than the average "dainty lady" hands that, while monthly manicured and thrice daily lotion-ed, are a good indicator of the work I do. I have my mother's hands, actually. A trait I am most proud of, but a trait we both laugh over when things like fastening a necklace clasp or threading needles will make us irate with frustration. And she can't handle chopsticks, either.

So today I had the wonderful opportunity - finally - to speak to My Dear Friend Lizzie. Or as most people know her: Damomma. It has been a while and we had much to catch up on. And just before the call came in my delivery of tofu yakisoba arrived at the door. I pushed it aside not wanting to be rude while we spoke, but the smells overcame me and I decided to give it a go. And yes - I unwrapped the chopsticks like the determined fool I am. And it all went really well. The Tofu was stabbable, and I managed to pick up a few of the larger vegetables without incident.

But then I got cocky and started picking up noodles like I was a pro. But it was a tricky maneuver - I had the phone in the crook of my neck and I didn't want to make rude slurping sounds, so I tried curling the noodles around the sticks. And it worked pretty well the first two times, and then the sticks kept shifting in my hands and I would have to re-set them and start over. I even tried the swing&flip move where I was able to grab a few noodles and give a flick of the wrist where the noodles would swing over the sticks enough to get them in my mouth.

And that all went really well until a few broke and I would up with a clump of noodles in my hair. I didn't say a word to DaMomma, but as fate would have it we lost our connection which gave me the time I needed to get the noodles out of my hair and resign myself to the fact that I needed to get myself a fork. Shortly after she called back and I had to confess what I was doing - which gave her a good laugh at my expense. We both did, actually.

But that's fine - one day I will master and overcome those damned chopsticks. But she - she will always be the mother of a beautiful and feisty second-born daughter. A fact that promises to be a lifelong running commentary of one funny story after another. Funny stories for me to giggle over at her expense. Second-born daughters are traditionally headstrong, feisty, independent, determined, rebellious and always full of challenges. And I know this because I, too, am a second-born daughter.

Be afraid my dear friend, be very afraid.

Whatever happened to a simple, "No Thank You"? Am I crazy or are those 3 really simple words?

It was a small, intimate in-home setting. A lovely dinner party for friends thrown by The Client. She had recently purchased a large selection of wines and wanted to serve those as the primary beverage - no mixed drinks - just the wine. And if I am not mistaken this fact was stated very clearly on her invitations.

So when we were walking around offering up a glass, one Guest - Rude Rochelle - exclaimed loudly "*tsk* I don't drink wine! Just give me ice water!"

I will give you ice water, all right.

I thought maybe the fact that the room fell silent would embarrass her, but it only embarrassed me. I could feel my face get red when The Client caught my eye and rolled her eyes, apparently very experienced with Rude Rochelle. My gut instinct was to, you know, kick her in the shin and run for the kitchen. But, I smiled, and excused myself to go fetch the water like a good girl.

I even managed to smile when, 20 minutes later, she snapped her fingers for more. Yes, you read that right - not a typical Food Whore Bad Grammar/Misspell - she snapped her damn fingers at me. But this time Her Husband tapped her on the shoulder and asked her to take a walk.

I hope he kicked her in the shin.

Once and a while a few members of the staff will head out to grab a couple of drinks after their shift. I've never gone. Well, I've never been asked to go. It's sort of a "come one/come all" attitude and anyone who can make it goes.

But this time I was asked - specifically - if I wanted to go. They all thought it would be fun to hang out with me in a relaxed environment. Not that The Restaurant isn't a constant barrel of laughs - because it is one comic sketch after another - but they wanted apron off - feet up on a chair - cocktail in hand.

They should just come to my house on a nightly basis...

Anyway.

The only problem with this plan - they wanted to go straight from work and meet at 11:00. As in - the P.M. As in, start our night at 11:00 p.m. and have a couple of relaxed drinks - possibly lasting until 1:00 a.m. In the morning time.

Now, there was a day when that would not seem daunting to me. I could meet friends at 11:00, be home at 2:30, and be on the job at 8:00 a.m. ready to take on the day, and possibly do it all over again that night. But now... well. Let's just say that the last time I purposely went somewhere at 11:00 p.m. it was to the grocery store to get an emergency supply of toilet paper. And I did that in my sweats and slippers so that coming home back to the couch would not be complicated.

It was a conundrum, I tell you. Not wanting to offend them by backing out, coupled with a strong desire to be home before midnight was tearing me in two different directions. Thankfully, however, I was spared. A few of them realized they had early tests, so they needed to get home on time. And a rain check was taken.

I dodged a bullet.

But apparently I am officially old. And tired. And incredibly boring.

*sigh*

It's not that I don't want to hear the bad things about The Restaurant. I mean, OK, no one wants to hear the bad things about their business. But I have said it before, and I will say it again, I want to hear the bad things so that I can fix the bad things and make them better. And I want to hear the bad things if for no other reason than I want to hear the bad things so I stay in a good and humble place instead of thinking I cracked the code to the universe.

But I don't want to hear them when I am shopping for shoes. Or in any public place, really. Call me. Come and see me. But don't holler over a pile of towels at Macy's.

I mean - would I see my gynecologist and scream, "Hey - the tools were a little cold - could you heat them a litte more next time!", over socks at The Gap?

WOULD I?

So please do not tell me - yell to me, rather - that the steak you had last night in my Restaurant was cooked medium-well instead of medium, and don't tell me that you were really pissed off about it and had to send the steak back.

And don't take offense when I smile, but ask to make sure the situation was rectified and if you had good service - I am not being "sarcastic" as you so claim, I am asking to make sure the problem was fixed. And when you say that the service was fine, and I say I am glad to hear that, that does not mean I will "forget to reem some ass for the overcooked steak."

Because I will "reem some ass", and the next steak you get will be well done.

Let me just say - parenting is the hardest job on the planet. I have nothing but complete respect for the brave men and women of this world who embark on the journey that is raising a child. I was a child, once (and still carry many behavioral traits...) and I know that raising me made my gracious and beautiful mother have thoughts of abandonment via flying off to an island in Tahiti quite often. Kudos to all of you parents. My martini glass tips in your direction.

A couple came to The Restaurant yesterday afternoon with a complete look of exasperation on their faces. We weren't busy at that time - the break between lunch and dinner - so they requested to be seated as far away from other patrons as possible. This is not an uncommon request, really. So often people go out to eat searching for a respite from the craziness of their day, and sitting off in a corner only adds to their endeavor to find some solace from the wackos of the world.

Because as I know all too well, Wackos are taking over the world.

They had a small child with them, the most precious-faced little girl. Her hair was dark and wild with curls, and she had the sweetest smile.

Upon being seated the sweet child barked out "Toys" in a voice reminiscent of something heard on The Exorcist. The Mother fumbled through her bag to find a handful of sparkly/clacky things, which The Child promptly threw to the floor with a moan of disgust, followed by the grandiose tipping over of her water glass.

That sweet smile, it seams, was just a sly cover for the dark and sinister reality of the devil child within. And the look of exasperation on the faces of her parents was less about The World, and more about the child they so loved but clearly wanted to leave in a dumpster out back.

The child continued to protest loudly, and managed to escape and run through the entire restaurant screaming for the next 10 minutes. The few patrons we had gave knowing glances at the frazzled parents, and were gracious to not complain. The Father, after choking down his soup, and near tears, grabbed the child and apologized as he walked out the door. The mother left a $50 on a $12 tab and thanked us for our patience. "She's normally a charming child", she said. "But today ... today she has been taken over by the Dark Sith Lord and is determined to make us both jab our eyes out with hot irons. If we - accidentally - leave her here, will you take care of her?"

We both had a good laugh. Though I am not sure her laugh was from a funny place, or from a place of begging me to take the child.

Godspeed parents.

Godspeed.

So it was early. Dark early. And in my shuffle around the kitchen I opted to make my morning oatmeal without the benefit of fully waking up.

Shuffle shuffle... oatmeal in a bowl. Shuffle shuffle... water over the oatmeal. Shuffle Shuffle... into the microwave. Shuffle Shuffle... grab some dates and a few walnuts. Shuffle Shuffle... add a sprinkle of cinnamon.

As I shuffled across the floor to turn on the television I took a taste of my creation with great anticipation - I love oatmeal and all of it's creamy goodness.

But it was - odd. Slightly smokey and pungent. I took another bite - and this time it hit me. I sighed heavily and I shuffled back over to my spice tins to pick up what I thought was the cinnamon.

For the record - cinnamon is fabulous on oatmeal. Cumin, however, is not.

Tomorrow I turn the lights on.