Turns out dropping The Baby Jesus does come with consequences.

I threw my back out. Correction - I threw my hip out. And now I am officially old as dirt.

Because my patience is little to none I could not wait for The Husband's help in moving some furniture. He was gone, I reasoned that I lift heavy things like potatoes and cases of produce every day, so how bad could a recliner be?

Yeah, I know.

And I knew it was heavy, and I knew I would probably be sore. I just didn't realize that I would get stuck in The Downward Dog for like - an hour. Getting down on the floor and shrieking my way back into an upright position was quite possibly the greatest comedy of errors in my life.

I am now sitting on ice just having arrived back from my adjustment where I am pretty sure my doctor crushed 10 vertibrae with his left hand.

Tricking should be interesting. Instead of holding trays in my hand maybe we can just set the carving station on my back.

Good times, people.

Good times.

I've been stressed. The Underwear thing didn't help. But one of our best at The Restaurant will be leaving in January. Anyone in this industry knows how hard it is to get good people. And while I am thrilled for their next venture, selfishly I am depressed at the idea of replacing them.

So I decided to take my mind off things by decorating for Christmas. I turned on The Jackson 5 Christmas, made myself a cocktail, and set to decorating.

And things were going fairly well until I dropped the Baby Jesus.

Which, technically isn't as bad as the year The Friend called in a panic because not only did she drop The Baby Jesus - his head came off.

The Jewish Friends like to give me a bad time about all the stress over the Nativity and Baby Jesus. "Get yourself a nice Menorah and celebrate the season of light". Right. Me. Big candelabra. Open Flames. Open flames around liquor.

But - dropping The Baby Jesus can't be a good sign. Especially when, you know, I accidentally stepped on Him.

I made an extra batch of Hot Buttered Rum Batter.

I bet it's gone by Friday.

So, I've been sitting on this one for a couple of days, pacing the floor trying to find the right words to describe this moment.

There's no way to sugar coat it or make a fairy tale out of it - it is what it is.

And what it is ... well... some man shoved his Size 36 Tighty Whiteys down the toilet in The Restaurant and tried to flush them.

Yeah. Pace around the room and let that one sink in for a while.

It was just after a dinner rush when A Customer whispered to his server that the toilet in the men's washroom was clogged with what appeared to be a pair of men's underwear.

When this little tidbit was reported to the kitchen a round of Rock Paper Scissors ensued and sadly, I lost. So I gathered up a Bathroom Emergency Kit, which consists of tongs, rubber gloves, and a plastic bucket - all items to be thrown away after the extraction.

I would like to say this is the first time I've created a Bathroom Emergency Kit, but a few months back a sweet woman dropped her credit card in the toilet before she... um... sat down to take care of business, so she came out looking for help.

Anyway.

So I slapped an Out of Order sign on the door and there I stand - gloves on, tongs on hand, plastic bucket at the ready. And sure enough - that's underwear all right. I can see the size band - Men's Size 36.

As I discretely made my way back to the kitchen I had a couple of thoughts - do I put these in the Lost and Found next to the umbrellas and scarves? Do I treat them like a bad check at a road side diner and tac them to bulletin board behind the cash register? Or do I get a DNA sample, locate the fella and jump him in the streets by putting the underwear over his head?

A lot of options, for sure.

Either way - I need to buy some new tongs.

I will just say what I have been saying - ad nauseum - for the last 24 hours, "I can't believe it's Thanksgiving".

And then I will show you what it was like for me last night with that damnable turkey. Turkey Commercial

No, seriously.

I am so glad The Husband was not there to witness what was the Great Turkey Throw-down of '07. He would have sighed and came to me and said, "Babe, it's just a turkey. Relax a bit." And I would have said bad words and slipped on the ice cubes that fell out of the ice maker which, in a complete act of defiance, I refused to pick up.

I say this with a fair amount of confidence because it happens somewhat regularly at my house - the overflowing ice maker, followed by all the swearing and slipping, I mean.

But the bird is in a brine, ready to have it's nether regions stuffed with herbs and spices and butter and some onion and some lemons and whatever else I deem appropriate. Maybe even possibly The Grandmother's rolling pin if the plump bastard tries to pull the ole 'Slip and Escape' like it did last night.

And despite all the klutziness - laced with all the swearing - I have so much to be thankful for this year.

I know it's hard to believe that someone whines and sighs as much as I do can have a thankful heart, but I do. And it's full. I am blessed beyond measure - more than I certainly deserve. I have an amazing family, amazing friends and colleagues, and let's not forget The Husband, who's patience and wisdom for putting up with me is unparallelled. He's loving, and sweet. He has a wicked sense of humor like I do, and most importantly he never touches The Vodka.

And I am grateful that I am...grateful. I know the fragile state of all things and the importance of never taking anything for granted. There are just no guarantees in life, unless you count The City Council of Crazy Town eating in The Restaurant twice a week. That's a given - 100% certain, never going to change.

But even that, I am grateful for. What would I have to talk about if only the normal people crossed my path?

And thanks for only sending once piece of hate mail this last month. Thank you for informing me that my grammar and spelling are pathetic. But let's be honest here, that's no big secret. We all know that. Though I had no idea that my inability to use chopsticks makes me one of the stupidest people on the planet.

And here I thought it was all the liquor.

But for everyone - yes, even you Mr. Crabby Pants E-Mail Sender - It is my hope and prayer that your days are filled with laughter, and that your table and hearts will be full. If you are one of 20 at the table, or if it's just a table for 1, remember that it's not the amount of people around the table, it is the amount of love you are willing to share.

May you, too, be blessed beyond measure and may you all have a fabulous holiday.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I had noticed a couple of kids outside the front window of The Restaurant kind of pacing back and forth. They would stare, one would punch one another in the arm, laugh, and then they would both run away.

And then they would be back and do it all over again.

The patrons sitting closest to the window had just left and then the next thing I know The Puncher pushed The Punchee toward the door. So he ran in, grabbed what was left on one of the plates, and ran out the door again. All very quickly - all very right in front of our faces - all very, "Did that just happen?"

And before I form and actual word The Man sitting at Table 8 walked up, put a $100 bill in my hand and asked me to please give $50 to his wait person, and $50 to the person who cooked his steak. It was, as he so eloquently put it, "Fan-F-ing-tastic".

I don't know if my cocktail should be comforting or celebratory.

But I do know I can't wait to see what Tuesday brings.

I can't believe it's only 3 days away and I have yet to mention The Most Adored Food Holiday In All The Land.

Perhaps that is because I forgot. Not so much forgot to write about it as just forgetting about - it.

I remember being young and everyone would say, "...just you wait...the older you get, the faster time goes..." And I can remember thinking it was all just a ruse to get me to stop my annoying count down until my 21st birthday.

But they did not lie, these people, and if I ran an algebraic calculation of how fast time goes compared to my age and the amount of time I have wasted saying, "Where the Hell does all my time go", X would equal my real age of 121. And it's freaking me out.

It's freaking everyone out, actually. I mean, is it me? Or was it just July?

All phone messages are urgent. All meetings have to be taken, "RIGHT NOW!" and everyone calls 400 times a day to make sure we are on track and that we have the menu and we are ready for the day and... gasp gasp gasp... we ordered the right color linens... and the list goes on and on and on. Because somewhere around last Tuesday a big giant turkey gobbled it's way through town and slapped everyone upside the head and said, "IT IS ALMOST THANKSGIVING - GOBBLE GOBBLE!"

And as much as the ensuing freaking out of The Customers is making me exhasperated, I have to come clean and say that I, too, am having a few moments of complete madness. I sat down yesterday and made a list of things I have to accomplish in the next few weeks, things I have to plan, wrap up, get in place, make happen, and organize before I trolly off and lace up ice skates to take a spin on the most famous rink in all the world.

Which brings up yet another item for my checklist - send a note to Mayor Bloomberg with my list of places I plan to visit. I will be bringing a new kind of Klutz to the City That Never Sleeps, and someone needs to be ready for it. Ice skaters, included. I am bad enough with blades in my hand, people. Blades on my feet... someone is bound to get hurt. I just pray to God I don't accidentally tip that tree over.

And then - on top of all this - you throw The Most Adored Food Holiday in all the Land on my list and Sweet Mother of God I have so much to get done. I tried to get a little shopping done yesterday but there was a throwdown by the turkey cooler and I was in no mood to get clothes-lined trying to reach in for a bird.

Don't tell The Husband, we're totally having pizza this year.

I think one of the most annoying questions we get in The Restaurant is, "How long will this take?". And I should clarify to say that I am a bit more forgiving of that question during the lunch rush, given that so many people are slave to the constraints of the time clock. But even then - I question the thought process of entering a busy sit-down establishment wondering if your food is ready by the time you put your napkin on your lap.

And at night. That's when it really gets to me.

If you're really in that much of a hurry - eat at home. Grab a Lunchables, drive through McArbysWendysKingTaco. Whatever. Just don't be an unreasonable twit. A real meal takes time. Not all night. But time to make it and make it well.

The Husband and I were out for Thai food the other night. We had barely been seated before the place filled up. And one of the last groups to be seated was an 8-top who did not make a reservation and who became indignant when they did not have their table of choice. I wanted to badly to cough loudly and at the same time say "*cough*makeareservation*cough*, but I know The Husband enjoys it when I actually focus on our own table and keep my opinions to myself and mind my own business.

Typing that last sentence makes me giggle and snort. The poor bastard can hardly have a meal out with me when I am not looking, observing and judging. Or, you know, drinking copious amounts of liquor.

But I think I do this - watch people - because in some way it makes me feel vindicated about my own trials and tribulations. I like when I can give a knowing nod to my server - it's that universal, "I know the pain that is your work" nod that everyone in this industry recognizes.

So - the 8-top. They were a squirrely bunch who spoke fast and who were impatient with the flow of service. And they were attended to quickly, considering the onslaught of customers who all arrived at the same time. But I could hear rumblings about movie times and wanting good seats.

I shook my head as I wiped sweet chili sauce off my chin. Partly at their comments, and partly because my God - can I not eat without spilling? One bite of spring roll and I have an entire smorgasbord on my face.

As our meal went on their grumblings grew louder. At one point The Guy at the head of the table - we will call him Mr. Snapper - snapped his fingers at his waiter, and through impatient sighs stated they were going to be late for their movie - they needed their food "NOW". Crazy thing is - that kitchen was cranking out the food like no body's business. No one was waiting any longer than normal - But Mr. Impatient Snaps-A-Lot just couldn't stand it.

The waiter smiled and said their food was actually just coming up - so not to worry. And as the waiter turned around we locked eyes - and I knew exactly what he was thinking. "Snap your fingers at me again you little miser and you will be wearing a Pad Thai Hat."

I winked at him, he winked back. And then I went back to the process of picking noodles off my shirt.

Friggin Chopsticks.

We're all about constructive criticism. While we would like to think that we know what we are doing and that we are good at it, we learn something new every day. If we didn't, well... we would be screwed.

So if we have critiques after a Trick we try to wade through the petty complaints and pick up on the stuff that really matters.

Unless it's not our fault.

Last year at this time we Tricked a small office holiday party, and in dealing with The Office Manager we grew to pity those who worked with her. For her. And those she worked for. Her pickiness was on a level on par with indecisiveness, and her endless demands - and mind changing of those demands - was exhausting. But we chalked it up to experience and remained professional and willing - even though I wanted to lock her in a filing cabinet marked "B". (Rimes with itch...)

Her ideas for service were confusing, and out of sync with how this particular meal should have been served. We tried to explain that to her, but she was not budging on what she wanted. So - we gave in. We were there to make the party as she envisioned it, which is exactly what we did.

And if I do say so myself - food was fabulous. Many, many raves. People were cramped, and service was awkward - which we knew would happen - but no one complained. Everyone had a wonderful time.

Except for The Office Manager.

"The food was beyond wonderful. Everyone was thrilled. But you really failed as the professional here. You knew it would be awkward, and you should have insisted we do it the way it would have worked best and not let me get my way."

I honestly did not even know how to respond to that. What was I going to say? "Why yes. You're right we were right. And we were wrong for not forcing you to see we were right."

We chalked it up to experience, not wanting to dwell on it. Ok - that's not true. I did want to dwell. I am a bitter pill that way, preferring at times to fester the bitterness to the point of relying on a cocktail or two to help me heal.

So really, it's not so much the bitterness I enjoy, it's the reward. There is a method to my madness. (I should say methods, plural. I have multiple madness-es I am working on...)

Anyway.

So we got a voicemail from The Office Manager wanting to book their party again. And she was kind enough to help us remember the note we put on her file which read, 'Not ever again. Ever. Forever until the end of time.' And she did that by saying, "Hi! It's The Office Manager. I am calling to book our party and to remind you of the debacle last year and hope this year you are prepared to set things right and not let me get my way. I just don't want to suffer another fiasco like that."

With all that charm I really think she should be writing Hallmark Cards.

We are prepared, indeed.

We are booked.

Until the end of time.

I don't recall if I have expressed this here or not - but I am not fond of cats. And I say this with trepidation because I do not want hate mail from PETA or someone telling me what a horrible beast I am for not loving the felines.

Dogs I love like crazy. You always know what's going on with a dog. Some are all silly and pouncy and drool and just want their belly scratched. Others stare at you and dare you to flinch before they rip your arm off. But I like that- I know where I stand. But cats - you just never know what they are thinking.

Crazy part about this all is that cats love me. And I don't know if it's a genuine love, or if they plot against me knowing how I feel about them. Kind of like - we know you hate us - we're going to smother you with affection until you see the error of your ways. And - it's just fun to torture you.

The Friend in Seattle had a cat named Spook. (I know, right?) And Spook used to come out of nowhere to hang with me - to stare at me and try to nuzzle.

Made me a nervous wreck.

So cut to the other day during a food delivery and I spot a black cat darting around the garage as we haul food in the back door. I sighed wondering what mysterious mayhem was about to find me, praying I could just get my job done and leave. But on my way back out to the van I heard something and OH MY GOD the cat jumped on my shoulders. Before I had a chance to respond he settled in and started nuzzling my neck. And not wanting to scream and cause a scene I tried to play it off as cute and funny, when the reality is I wanted to grab the cat and pull it off me as I ran screaming for The Van. But just as I was about to lose my marbles The Owner came out and said, "Oh Charlie - get off of her! I am so sorry - but clearly he loves you. Look at the way he's nuzzling your neck." I smiled and giggled a little - wanting desperately to get this thing off of me. Thankfully she reached up and took the cat off my neck.

As she walked away Charlie peaked over her shoulder and kind of tilted his head a bit. The Partner said, "Oh so cute!" But I would swear to you the look in his eyes said, "Come to the dark side!"

I haven't slept well, since.