Long day.

Even longer night.

I am not sure if the Earth has flipped off it's axis and everyone is leaning a little from all the orbital careening, or perhaps a full moon is coming. Or maybe people are just getting themselves all revved up for The Big April Fool's Day. But something is amiss. In a really big way.

The first order of dinner came through, "NO FOOD TO TOUCH". When I asked for a little clarification The Server sighed. "The couple at Table 7 - neither of them want any of their food to touch on the plate. At all. They said if I bring them plates where the food is touching - they will send it back."

I stared at her - blinking erratically - and put my hand to my forehead. "All righty... here we go".

And it just kind of got worse from there.

The next order, apparently someone related to the DO NOT TOUCH people, ordered the caesar salad with grilled prawns. Only they wanted the salad unmixed - lettuce in one pile, cheese in another, croutons in another, a cup of dressing - the prawns on a separate plate - and lots of lemons. I have to admit, I cried a little when that came through.

The Man at Table 4 - for blogging sake we will just call him Sir Hacks A Lot. I don't know if he had a hair ball, a golf ball, or was just having a ball with all his coughing, but the coughing. OH MY GOSH THE COUGHING. And hey - I am all about being sympathetic when it comes to all the coughing. I am thinking about starting my own informercial for Ab Toning. No gimmicks, no silly straps or bouncy things. Just cough your brains out for 30 days and you too will have abs of steel.

But this man - this wasn't virus coughing, this was coughing to dislodge something from The Great Abyss. People were staring. He had no shame - no desire to excuse himself, take a little sip of water. Just from-the-toes, throat-clearing, mucous-rattling, foriegn object-dislodging coughing.

And it was gross.

And then we will head on back to Table 8 where darling older lady spotted her friend being seated. "Helen! Oh wow - so great to see you here. And hey! The ointment worked! It's all gone."

Sweet merciful Jesus. Nothing good is happening when an ointment is needed. And maybe - you know - we could have saved that little tidbit of information for the locker room at The Swim Club.

And then the lady in the back - she ordered her steak medium well. The Server set it down, she poked it and demanded it be brought back to the kitchen. Apparently - in her words - she's a 'steak expert' and could tell by poking it that it was raw. At this point of the night I wanted to go to her table and say, "Poke this, Sally". And I may have mumbled that when I was rocking back and forth in the cooler. But I knew how long that steak was cooked, and my fear was that any longer would put it over to the well side and there wouldn't be any pink left. And then we would have to start over. So, ok. We appeased her, I put it on the heat for about 4.2 seconds and re-plated. It was delivered, and she poked it again. "Well, now that is more like it." When her plate was cleared she said, "That steak was perfect, I told you I am an expert." All righty.

We closed early, Thank God. The Fire Suppression system needed it's check-up. And to be quite honest, we closed a little earlier than we needed to.

I needed vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.

I am seriously looking into a reason not to open at all tomorrow. Nothing good can come from a day where people actually have a legitimate reason to be freaky and do odd things.

There's just not enough vodka to block that kind of pain.

*Hic.

So we've been dealing with The Crazy Lady for an upcoming Trick. And the reason we are tolerating her is because The Bride is a former employee and a fabulous girl. And she knows her mother is a head case. The entire family knows it. But they tolerate her, and out of respect we have been tolerating her, too.

We have experince with that, anyway.

So the other day at The Restaurant we had another phone call from The Crazy Lady and after I hung up I said, "She's so deep in The Crazy Well that even Tikkitikkitembonosarembocharibariruchipipperipembo couldn't save her."

And I laughed to myself, a really embarassing deep belly laugh. The kind of laugh where I gagged a little because I laughed so hard, and my eyes watered. And then I looked around and realized no one else was laughing. They were all staring - with a slight look of concern. And I wiped my eyes and I said, "You don't know who Tikkitikkitembonosarembocharibariruchipipperipembo is, do you." And they all shook their heads no, and patted me on the shoulder. And someone reached in and took my knife.

I am such a loser.

An old loser.

What's better than pizza and beer?

Ok perhaps wine and cheese. Chocolate cake and milk. Oatmeal cookies and tea. Chunky peanut butter slathered on a chunk of dark chocolate... *sigh*

But pizza and beer is what The Husband and I always come back to when life gets so busy that we need to stop and smell the roses. It's also what we go to when I am fed up with my pans and I just don't feel like cooking at home.

So we went to The Joint, kind of a dive-y place we love, and got our mouths set for the hand-tossed crust and that first sip of stout. And seated right next to us was a couple with the most darling baby. She was all drooley and dimply, and looked to be but mere months old.

So we ordered, and in the middle of the order The Baby's Daddy pushed his chair back and bumped into The Waiter, and hey, those things happen. It's not a huge place, tables are tight. No big deal.

But then Baby Dadd proceeded to bump into a lot of chairs as he flew Darling Baby all over the joint making loud plane noises and stopping to pretend dive bomb each table. And you know, Darling Baby... who doesn't love a darling baby? People smiled, they coo'd.

And then Baby Daddy proceeded to dive bomb the bar as he shouted, "Mac & Jack!" on the walk by. And people smiled and they laughed because - hello, Darling Baby - and then everyone went back to eating pizza and sipping stout. Except for that one guy over in the corner who spent a good amount of time - and man power - picking his nose.

Anyway.

So Baby Daddy finally sat down and whispered something to Baby Mamma who then bumped into our table on her way out to take Darling Baby on another fantastic voyage. Up, down, plane noises - the same MO as Baby Daddy on slightly more intrusive. She would actually stop at tables and sort of lean over the people there so they could all get a look at Darling Baby. And, you know, Darling Baby - people smiled. But then felt awkward not knowing if they were supposed to keep acknowledging Darling Baby or if they cold go back to what they were doing.

But Baby Mamma backed into The Waiter and he was carrying a tray full of freshly drawn beers. Fortunately he was quick on his feet and avoiced a beer-tastrophe, but his smile was little more than a transparent look of frustration. A look that the entire restaurant would soon take on because every 10 minutes there was a Darling baby fly-by and even though Darling Baby was darling and drooly and dimple-y, Baby Daddy and Baby Mamma didn't have the good sense to sit down and eat like normal people.

Seriously, I don't know if these people have a gas leak at home and can't seem to function on more than a few brain cells, or if they both smoked so much of The Herb back in the day that they can't seem to put a realistic thought together. But the look on everyone's face in the place was, "Yes... she's darling... but SIT DOWN"

Actually the look at our table was more like, "Shit. We should have gotten take-out".

They just would not stop. Servers were having to use alternate routes to avoid them, and people trying to make their way to their tables were always intercepted. At one point when I looked up Baby Mama was nursing Darling Baby during one of her journeys around the place, and shortly after Baby Daddy was on his way around and was singing like a Wandering Minstrel. But that wasn't the kicker, the kicker was when Baby Mamma took her next turn and decided to carry Darling Baby upside down. So it wasn't so much a fly-by as it was a ritualistic dunking of the baby down to each table's air space while people sat in stunned silence. And then everyone in the restaurant started making that collective eye contact wherein we all said in our heads, "Dear God. She just fed that baby - someone's going to get puked on..."

We didn't stick around long enough to see that puke-tastrophe take place. Maybe it did, maybe it didn't. All we know is that a quick pizza and a couple of stouts later we were glad to be out of there. With any luck Darling Baby held on until she was safely nestled in the car, and then she could puke exorcist style all over the back seat.

I am never really sure what goes on a person's mind when they behave like that. Perhaps they are all God's messengers reminding me that not everyone is alike, and we all do things differently than the rest.

Oh who the Hell am I kidding.

The reality is - people are freaks.

The Clients are doing a little micro-brew thing and want to show it off to their friends. And the meeting had gone so well. So well, in fact, that it didn't really seem like a meeting at all - more of a friendly chat over coffee.

At the end The Client leaned over the desk and said, "Ok, now comes the hard part."

I swallowed hard, and closed my eyes - preparing for what was sure to be the other shoe dropping.

"Don't take this the wrong way...", she said. And instinctively I got my back up - waiting for her to say something that would ruin this most perfect day.

"...but the thing is, we've hired caterers before. And, I know that it is your job to serve us and be sort of ... aloof..."

Wait for it, I thought... here it comes... and in response my back tensed a little.

"But the thing is, that's not who we are. We are very casual, very low key. And we respect if you are professional and aloof. We get that you have to be. But would it be possible for you all to mingle a little - maybe have a beer - hang with us? Your part in this party is huge, and we have loved getting to know you, and we have fabulous friends, and we want them to get to know you as well."

The Partner and I looked at one another, and then I looked up to the ceiling and then over my shoulder. Looking for what - I am really not sure. A camera, maybe. Some sign that I was in an antihistamine induced coma.

We looked back to The Client and I cocked my head a little. "Are you...um...are you talking to us?"

She sat back in her chair and laughed. "Yes, yes I am. Tough week?" The Partner and I looked at one another again and laughed. And The Partner said, "Which story should we tell her first... the one where The Customer at Table 7 groped himself when ordering his dinner? Or the lady who cried - no, bawled her eyes out - when she discovered we were out of chowder."

The Client laughed. "So then it's a deal? You will relax and get to know everyone and drink our beer?"

All I really wanted at that moment was a big group hug. The Partner gave a resounding, "Yes!", and we both clapped and danced a little.

Because we're like that - even before we drink the beer.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

I love that blessing. I've always loved the sweetness and simplicity of it all.

And it reads so much better than, "I hope all the cabbage and beer doesn't give you the gas something fierce..."

I was thinking that at 3:00 a.m. this morning as I added chunks of cabbage to my simmering corned beef. I fired up The Crock Pot last night to get the corned beef ready for today. And when I woke I could smell all the lucious flavors wafting through the house. And I can't wait to sit down with a big hunk of rye bread and some mustard sauce and go to Hell with myself. And some pickles. I've got to have my pickles, too.

Ireland is my dream trip, actually. Italy ranks right up there, but I have to admit that a trip to the emerald fields of Ireland entice me the most.

I want to look up our family and drink a pint in a pub. And wander in the rolling green fields.

The whiskey doesn't sound bad, either.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to you all. May your day be blessed.

Sweet Mother of All That Is Holy.

PICKLE SICKLES!

(Thanks, Joanna!)

It's everywhere. Everyone has it. No one, it seems, will escape this flu season without some war story to tell of sleepless nights and post nasal drip.

The Staff at The Restaurant has been inundated. Daily someone calls in sick, and just when I started to take it personal I hear stories of some places shutting down completely because no one is well enough to show up to work. So again - it's been crazy. A mad dash of covering shifts, rescheduling meetings and just general attempts to get through my own days without dislodging my right lung as my body seems want to do.

And it seems to be the week of nothing going right.

I found an envelope buried on my desk containing - wait for it - Christmas gifts for a couple of crazy kids back East. And to add insult to injury, the box I did actually manage to send out before Christmas was returned to me.

It was a lovely thought, really, a care package for A Friend in Italy. As if she needs a care package, right? Hello - she's in Italy. But even The Old Country isn't perfect, and everyone should get a care package in the mail, right? I was so angry when I got the return notice at the post office I began stomping around whining dramatically that no good deed goes unpunished. I blamed everyone - the Post Office, the entire US Transportation System, all of Aviation, even my food supplier. He's been on my list this week, anyway, so he seemed like a fair target. What part of "send me bacon" sounds like "500 #10 Cans of Tomato Paste"???

I was on a roll - shouting all of the injustices to the poor person on the other end of the phone. She listened, patient and kind, and then interjected a little. "So this package to Italy. Did you have the right address on it?" I sighed and rolled my eyes, "Of course I did. I checked and double checked."

"Well, humor me. Check again. And read both outloud."

This Friend of mine, she loves being right. Even more than I do.

"Ok - ready?"

"Ready"

"Address I have - 103 Box 807... Address on box... 807 Box 103... DAMNIT"

Honestly, it's not even a matter of being dislexic. It's just a matter of being stupid.

So The Friend on the Phone mocked me a little, I grumbled back, said soemthing hateful about sending her tomato paste, and then coughed so hard I peed my pants a little.

Good times.

So I got a phone call from The Friend Who Also Owns A Restaurant.

"I am done", she said.

"Over it. Done. Apron is off. Kitchen Closed."

I laughed a little. Knowing those words, having said those words a thousand million times myself.

She proceeded to tell me about her day.

"The day that started off great - good crowds, happy people. Kitchen running like a well-oiled machine. Until, that is, a customer frantically ran up to the bar and demanded a large bowl. Confused the bartender said, "Um, a bowl?" And the customer demanded, "Yes!" So, he gave her a bowl. Where she then proceeded to go back to her table, give the bowl to her husband - who then puked in the bowl.

SHE BROUGHT THE BOWL BACK TO THE BARTENDER. DID YOU HEAR ME?"

I heard her. I sat in silence for a good long while. Not shocked, of course, but amazed.

And also, I have to admit, a little glad to know it's not just me who attracts the crazies.

Because honestly, I was starting to wonder.