"When you get to The Venue you will find the key under the planter by the front door. The Linens will all be in the table to the left of the kitchen door. You are welcome to use our china if you like, but we know you have your own. Anything else you need, call us."

When we arrived my first clue to the impending doom should have been the empty beer cans crammed in the planter. The second clue should have been what appeared to be a woman's stilleto in the planter on the opposite side.

When we opened the door I dropped my tote in utter shock and awe.

As fate would have it my cell phone rang. "Hey, Venue Owner here, was your Trick today or next Saturday."

I kind of don't remember what I said after that because I am pretty sure the blood running to my brain caused me to lose conciousness. I do know the anger rolling forth from my mouth caused me to actually spittle as I spoke.

They... forgot. Lost track of time. And apparently fell and hit their head on a blunt object because that is the only reason that could explain what we found this morning.

Dirty linens piled on the floor. Empty wine and beer bottles strewn around like a drunken frat house toga party before Apple Cup*. (*You need to look that up. I don't have the capacity to link right now. I am lucky I can form a sentence at this point.)

They arrived before we left, mop buckets and fresh linens in hand. I refused to make eye contact or speak another word. I knew the fate of my soul resided in every last thing rolling through my brain.

Instead I turned an about face. Marched toward the door. I heard The Partner say, "ONE. HOUR." And then I tripped over my tote. The kind of trip you don't actually fall but keep flailing forward until you regain your balance on scrambling feet. I sort of landed on the door, straightened my apron and said, "YEAH!"

I showed them.

'Tap Tap Tap'

'Tap Tap Tap'

"Um. Help me. Hello? Pssst. Anyone?"

"HELLLLLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPPP"

The Husband walked by, put his hand on mine and said "It's gone. Walk away."

"Walk. Away."

My computer died. In my stubborness and determination that it would never happen, it did. I think the same fate is awaiting The Car. But I don't want to talk about it.

And I was warned. Smart enough, fortunately, to have a back up. But died. Pfft. Gone. Nada.

So here I am, bright and shiny and new.

Kind of like The New Freezer, The Resurfaced Work Table, and the shiner I left on The Food Nazi's - aka The Health Department's - Eye last week.

"Your kitchen is spotless. Really. The best I've seen. But this custard has been sitting here the entire time we've been talking and I am going to throw it out because you did not inititate proper cooling procedures."

The Bastard.

Ok, seriously.

We were scheduled to trick an outdoor party. And for those of you living in The Pacific Northwest you know that can be as certain as rolling the dice in Sin City crossing your fingers that mama gets new shoes. The odds of great weather may be with you all week, and then you wake up the day of the event to a torrential downpour and are forced to put Plan B into action.

And you swear, like I did, at 4:00 in the morning when the sound of rain beating on your roof wakes you from a sound sleep. "Shit." The Husband rolled over and continued to snore, and I lay there hoping against hope it's a cloudburst and we will be fine by the afternoon. And then at 7:00 a.m. when the phone started ringing in a mad search for more tents, and suggestions about what they should do about the river flowing through their back yard.

Fortunately everyone was in good spirits and realized you can either be hysterical or just give thanks for those who clearly needed the rain, and decide the best plan of action was to move the party to the pole barn in the back of your property.

"Are you OK with setting your staging area in the garage? We've cleaned out one side and put tables in there." What they failed to say was, "We just sealed the garage floor so be careful when it's wet." Because had I known that I would not have so non-chalantly hoisted a box of grapes above my head before taking my first step.

The Partner came in after me and called out my name, not realizing I was lying under the tables covered in grapes.

"I am here."

"Look down."

She crouched down and sighed. And turned to hide what was clearly a rousing moment of the giggles.

"Oh God."

"Thanks for the warning."

You always hope, or at least I do, that at some point in my life I will have an impact on people. My prayer is that it will be through a gesture or kind word. But I do fear sometimes the impact will only come in a moment when I am cranky and people will walk away thinking, "Wow - she's a charmer."

So the other day in the heat of a mad dash to the grocery store the only shoes I had at the ready were my flip flops. My old ones - Old Navy $2.00 special. Perfect for running out to my car or kicking off by the pool. Not so perfect, it seems, for making mad dashes of any kind.

Let's just say... I put the Flop in Flip Flop.

I should have been clued in when I first got in The Car. The little plug in the hole by the toe thingy (I don't make the shoes - don't judge my lack of proper names) popped out. So I popped it back in, and then when I pushed on the brake it popped out. So at the next red light I popped it back in.

I grabbed my list, my purse, my keys and off through the parking lot I ran. And it popped out. And I took a nice flailing spill behind the Suburban 3 spaces over. I have to admit I said a bad word. Ok 3. And then I popped up, popped the plug back in the hole by the toe thingy and shuffled my way into the store, looking around in a feeble attempt to pretent nothing ever happened. As if the skinned and bloody knees weren't a dead giveaway.

Somehow I did manage to get through the store without incident and was back in my car and on my way to The Restaurant in record time. A few band-aids and a schmear of Neosporin later and I was in The Venue Kitchen cranking out plates of salmon like I had not a care in the world.

And when walking around making sure everything was satisfactory the people in the table closest to the DJ said, "Hey - we saw you at the grocery store today. You fell - and we were very impressed with your recovery time. Good job!" We all had a good chuckle, I did a faux reinactment for the rest of the table and I was on my merry way.

Not exactly the lasting impression I was going for - but I will take it.

Good times.

The last week, or as I like to call it Birthday Fest 2008, has been a whirlwind of non-stop activity. Beyond my usual daily grind of wishing I could learn to squeeze a lemon without shooting myself in the eye, and understanding that no matter the fact that I've been wearing them since I was old enough to walk, flip flops are a shoe I will be forever cursing as I am on my way down to the ground. And now that I've blurted out that forever-going sentence I do not have the grammar skills necessary to wind it up with all the appropriate punctuation so I will just keep with the big run-on by saying that - I've been busy being celebrated. A lot. I told my friends that I am so sick of it being all about me that I can't even stand to look at myself in the mirror.

And I've had to answer the same question more times than I can count this week... "So how does it feel?", which is pretty normal, I guess, when a girl turns... 40. And before I answer how it feels I have got to get the answer to my own question, "When the Hell did this happen?" I am pretty sure I just got my license and wore all that heinous taffeta to the prom. And now here I am looking in the mirror thinking, "Hm. So this is 40."

I've really never been one to focus too much on age. It is just a number after all, and I am a big believer in being as old as you feel. And for me there are days I feel 21, and there are days I feel 101. Mentally, however, I can't seem to get past the age of 12. But I've had this mix of, "Congratulations! Life is just getting started!" to the typical, "Oh, wow. I am so sorry. It's not so bad." accompanied with that tilted head sigh.

I dunno, considering I work with a lot of flames and sharp things, the fact that I have all my appendages seems like a huge accomplishment to me. And let's be honest, the fact that I just went down the fire escape without taking a face plant is a huge moment for me. 40 is just a blip on the screen.

It feels the same as it did yesterday. And other people - they feel the same, too.

It was Day 5 of Birthday-Palooza when a group of friends took me out for dinner. We were at a large communal table which had a few seats left on the end. The place was packed and because we were in a festive mood we offered up the free spaces to a couple who would have otherwise had to wait a long time to be seated. And they seemed nice enough at first - willing to raise their glasses in a toast to me - but then as we got distracted with our goings-on they became distracted but being utter asses. I cannot count how many times The Man would raise his hand and snap for his server. The first time he did it I only half noticed it, but then he did it again and I could not help but stare.

I don't understand the Raise and Snap style of dining. They weren't being ignored - their server was quite attentive, actually, to the point of going over board to compensate for having to share a table with my crew. But every single time he wanted something - which was 9 times (I lied earlier - I did count) he would raise his hand and snap his fingers. And, see, unless you are on the floor at the Stock Exchange or simply doing a bad impression of a Flamenco dancer, there is just no reason to raise your hand and snap your fingers unless perhaps you have a death wish and are open to strange things happening to your food. Because in my world a snapping finger says, "Please, someone, drop my steak on the floor and I am totally ok if you slash my tires, too. In fact, here is my credit card. Go ahead and book yourself a nice trip to India."

The Last Snap was a request for coffee. And I happened to catch The Server's eye and I could tell she was seconds away from loading his coffee with Ex-Lax and maybe a little cut glass. But instead she smiled a big smile and said, "Certainly, sir. My pleasure."

We had paid our tab and were getting up to leave when The Man said, "Well have a happy birthday. Any words of wisdom on turning 40?" I paused for a minute, desperately trying to stop my mouth from saying bad things. And then I smiled a big smile and said, "I wouldn't drink that coffee if I were you."