...So I quickly grabbed a bottle of wine and put my arm through the arm of The Mother of The Bride - My Client.

I led her back to the kitchen, gave her a chair and poured her a glass of wine. She had said nothing up to this point, but I could tell she was starting to cry.

"What in the Hell just happened? Who says such things?" she asked.

I sighed. "I was surprised, too. Drag Queens are usually so much nicer in person."

She blinked a few times. "What?"

"Drag Queens. I've met a few in my travels. They are usually quite fun and complimentary."

She started to laugh.

"Well seriously. All that make-up. And I am almost positive I smelled Aqua Net."

She nodded as she drank the wine. "She did have really stiff hair."

"Right. Although someone needs to tell her that she's got as much back fat as a prize North Carolina Hog. And squeezing it into all that pink chiffon, strapless no less, is not a good look."

And then she started to howl.

"You are a beautiful, stunning woman. That person is a troll. Don't you let her get the best of you."

The Groom had entered the kitchen without us knowing it. "She's right", he said. "She's a total troll." And he began to laugh, too.

He apologized profusely to The Client. He was devastated and wanted her to know how much he loved her. It was very sweet.

His Mother spent the bulk of her evening sitting at her table surrounded by her sisters and their husbands. They were all trolls, actually; demanding and rude. And at the end of the night as The Client and I were talking said Troll came over. This woman - this, well, she had the audacity to say these words to me... "Are there leftovers? I would like to take food home."

Before I had a chance to speak The Client said, "No. Sorry. I am taking all the food home. Us fat girls like to eat."

And I lost it.

So I was standing by The Bar when The Mother of The Groom came in the building. To date The Parents of The Groom had not met The Parents of The Bride.

I was standing talking to The Mother of The Bride when The Groom came over to introduce his mother. And his mother said:

"Oh, my. You are not at all as I had expected you to be. Your daughter is so tall and thin... I did not expect you to be so fat."

The Mother of the Bride gasped.

The Groom gasped.

I tried in vain to hide my gasp.

And so the night began...

Dropped 3 eggs on the floor this morning.

Stepped in dog poop.

I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night and took a header over a pile of folded clothes... clothes I was too tired to put away.

All I wanted the other night was a piece of toast with a slather of The Mother's Raspberry Jam. It was 1:00 a.m. I had just returned home... toasted the bread to perfection... slathered with butter and all that jammy goodness. I bit, I chewed, I moaned with delight. On the last bight I noticed a nice layer of mold on the crust.

I think, possibly, I killed a squirrel on my way to work. I could barely function through the day. And I don't want to talk about it.

The Mother of The Bride spent the entire reception doing tequila shots in the kitchen.

I got behind a spitter... a man driving ahead of me spit out his window 6 times. Spit 5 and 6 hit my windshield. I was enraged, and then felt guilt when I watched him turn into the cancer center.

This weekend I am Tricking for family. (I am shaking my head as I type this...) DO. NOT. DO. THIS. EVER. It would be less stressful, and I would have less angst, if I hit another squirrel.

Good times, indeed.

It is common practice for many multi-purpose venues to have a Preferred Caterer list. And the practice calls for The Caterer to meet with the venue owner to be approved for said list. Nothing difficult, meet and greet, share credentials, and other things of the like.

We had a 3-day seminar to Trick with a last minute change of venue so we did not have time to be pre-approved. We did not need the kitchen on the first day, so we were not concerned about any of it. Nor were the Venue owners.

So we arrived the first day, lugged in the goods, served the food, and were on our way out when The Venue Manager met us to take us on a tour of the kitchen so that we may use it in the coming days, provided we passed their 'standard of criteria'.

I don't think I've ever had to work so hard to hide my shock at something, and I am not so sure I succeeded as The Venue Manager jumped right in explaining the current disarray as "a temporary condition".

The Kitchen itself was gorgeous - well laid out, full of the best equipment. But it looked like a bomb went off - a bomb that left garbage everywhere, stacks of dirty linens and mismatched dishes. The glass wear was stacked haphazardly into bins and there was a large bucket of rags sitting in stagnant water - with lovely islands of mold across the top. Everywhere I turned there was a puddle of mystery liquid and a tub of items to trip over. I had to cover my mouth to hide the gasp, but The Partner was not so discreet. For the first time ever, she was Bad Cop.

"We have wonderful china", he said. "And if you want to use it tomorrow I can get someone in to wash it and then tidy up the place for you." All I could think was that the only way that place would be tidied up is with a stick of dynamite.

We didn't sign the paperwork at the end of the tour, and the puzzled Venue Owner seemed shocked we would not like to be on "The List".

"But you won't be allowed in the kitchen next time. We are a busy place, don't you want to be on my list of recommended caterers?"

The Partner responded with a resounding, "NO."

"But we are very busy, this could be a lucrative deal for you."

"Hey, I work with that one over there, it won't be the first time."

Good times.

(We're totally calling The Health Department)

We are blessed with a lot of repeat customers at The Restaurant. And I am very blessed with the kind of memory that allows me to remember what they had the last time they were in, and to know exactly how they like their food. Whether they come in 3 times a week or 1, I can tell you exactly what they had, and will even call those I know well enough to tell them when we are serving a special I know they will love. That is the upside to my personality...I have so very few... and it always amazes people that I will know exactly what they want before they even order.

It's a habit I picked up way back when - back before I moved to Crazy Town and decided I really loved cooking for people. I put myself through college by working retail. A career I considered while wearing big shoulder pads until I was able to rid my system of such an awful thought, and the hairspray-induced brain damage of the 80's finally cleared up.

No offense to all of you still working retail. It is an awesome and honorable profession - if you like working with people. Or, you know, if you like being nice to them.

Anyway.

To be a little more specific about my retail endeavor, I worked in a specialty store selling men's clothing. And I loved it. Men are very low maintenance. They need pants, they buy pants. They don't try on 42 pair, complain of bloat and leave the store depressed. They just buy the pants. And maybe some socks. Or perhaps a skinny tie or two - and that Don Johnson Miami Vice inspired cotton jacket in light blue. And we did have the very demanding and particular customers, but we tolerated them because they were few and far between and - I will be honest - they spent a lot of money.

We had it all - pants, shirts, suits, leather jackets, shoes, ties, some Pierre Cardin tuxedos... accessories like tie pins and wallets, money clips... and underwear. That was always interesting. The White Brief guys and The Cotton Boxer guys didn't care much. Up on the counter they went - a little chit chat - and they were out the door. But the men who forayed into the 'specialty bottoms' made of silk, or with the words "French Cut" and "Bikini" in the title were a little more - discreet. There was always a pause by the display - a casual look from side to side - and a pair of pants thrown over the arm to cover the purchase. And I never thought much of it until I started seeing these men around town and would think to myself, "I know what kind of underwear he's wearing..." It was a very interesting time for a young girl with big hair and a penchant for the Bartles and James Wine Coolers.

Underwear aside, it really was a fun time. My boss was fantastic, and the bulk of our customers were repeat customers and we got to know them on a friendly basis. Which actually made it hard for me to leave retail knowing I would miss seeing them. But I would never miss the Christmas Rush...or having to be so nice all the time without having the fortress of a kitchen to hide in.

So last week at a Trick we were in the rush of service when a man came in the kitchen to ask for a towel. He had spilled his water on his wife's dress and was kind of in a panic. We grabbed him a bar towel and out he went. When he came back in he was very grateful, and then he paused to look at me in that "I think I know you" kind of way. And then I recognized him and at the same time we said, "It is you!" We had a little chit chat - 'What a blast from the past, time flies, good to see you, I see you are no longer selling men's pants, I see you are still wearing men's pants...blah blah blah.'

When he left The Partner asked who that was. And I realized I had forgotten his first name, so I told her the only thing I did know, "That was Blue Striped Bikinis."

Good times.

I read a quote today, I cannot remember it verbatim but it went something like this:

Live your life in a way that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, the Devil says, "Shit, she's awake.."

Funny thing is, I think everyone in my path the last two weeks has said this very thing.

Life, as I am want to say, has been crazy. And when I say crazy, I mean I seem to be running with the Glee Club of Crazy Town. Everywhere I turn there has been an issue, a problem, someone trying to tell me how to do my job. And it has been - exasperating. I've had little down time, and what little down time I've had has been spent trying to prepare for the next time I don't have down time.

I've also been spending as much time as I can on a treadmill in an attempt to reduce the stress my doctor says I carry too much of. And let's be honest, I've been trying to reduce the size of my thighs brought on by all of my free willy nilly bread and wine consumption over the last 39 years.

40 and Fabulous my arse. *(Literally. You ought to see this thing...)

It started a couple weeks ago with a kind of large Trick at a very small venue. And when I say small I mean I've sat in bigger airplane seats. And this place was 2 stories - a charming old Victorian beautiful from the outside. Nice on the inside. But small, did I mention that?

It was a short notice reservation by The Client, as the other venue they had reserved fell through. So we were sympathetic. Until we arrived and saw the circa 1890 stairwell we could barely fit a hotel pan through - let alone my aforementioned physical issues. And there was another staircase at the front of the house, the one for the guests. But raise your hands to tell me how many of those guests felt the need to use our personal stair case 'just out of curiosity'? 226 - the total number in attendance.

"Where does this go?" To Hell if you are not careful.

"Oh sorry! We are in your way?" No, no I love being slammed up against the wall with a platter of hot salmon.

"Oh this is sooo tiny! Do you want us to back up or can you back down the stairs with that large hunk of beef?" Does my raised eyebrow give you a clue what I want?

"Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee"

Really - about the 40th time with sweat dripping down my brow I stopped being charming. And I think scared 3 small children enough that they sat in the corner the rest of the night. But please - please do not encourage your child to just 'go between her legs and get out of her way'. WHO DOES THIS?

From there we went to the next Trick where The Client hired a wedding coordinator from another Catering company in town. An old friend, apparently. The Client did not want that friend having to endure the stress of overseeing the food, so she had her coordinate instead. And I guess when she heard that she thought it was her job to stand in the kitchen and watch every single move we made.

"What is your sauce recipe?"

"Are you going to have enough china?"

"Where did you get your flatware?"

"Oh you are the ones who did The Charity Auction. We bid that."

"Are you aware they had 15 more people come than planned? I hope you don't run out of food. That would be really unprofessional on your part."

We smiled a lot - and played nice. Even with that last statement. And then... then she stuck her finger into my glaze. And then I lost it. Like - unabashedly said really unkind things banned her from the kitchen. The Partner, I think, was a bit worried I would start throwing things. And I think, possibly, I crossed the line with a few things I said. I did apologize to The Client for offending her friend. But then The Client confessed the real reason she made her wedding coordinator was because she hates her food and did not know what else to do with her. And then she gave me a bottle of wine.

I love her.

And then that fateful filthy venue. I don't know as though I've ever been so - paralyzed by frustration. They did clean the place - to perfection. But in the process of getting there was not pretty. And I won't be recommending the place to anyone again. And The Venue owners know that. And they are not happy with me.

And to that I say ... stand in line.

Because I finally have the time to come back and sit down and bore you with all of my trivial issues and I find out by a very nice reader that another site is lifting my content... oh the joys.

Does This remind you of this?

All I can do is *sigh* - and say watch it, lady, I am on a roll.

Anyway.

So if you've read this far - bless you. It's been a long summer and this is just a teeny tiny snippet of what we've been through. And I don't normally say this but I am looking forward to Fall and it's calmer - and cooler - way of doing things. People aren't so crazy in the fall - they are all intoxicated by the pumpkins and hard cider. And I look forward to that.

Because I think I really, truly, once and for all lost my biscuit this year, and I've got the thighs to prove it.

Things have settled now, and I will actually be home longer than the time it takes me to shower and remind The Husband that I am, in fact, the person he is married to and not some stranger who shows up to drop off her dirty clothes and steal his liquor.

I am back, I am rested, and I am ready to take on the world.

One very large lemon drop at a time.