Diary of The Food Whore

The Bride stood next to me, clipboard in hand, checking and re-checking the seating arrangements.

The Wedding Planner had it all arranged according to “Agreeability” - what cousin could sit next to what aunt, who could sit next to what uncle, who could sit next to The Mother of The Bride. The Father of the Bride could not be anywhere the family of The Mother of the Bride. The Paternal Grandmother of the Bride could not be anywhere near the… oh, Hell, it was all so confusing. (I am sure I butchered the grammar… whatever… send me hatemail…)

The Bride’s parents were divorced in a bitter, never ending battle some 12 years ago, and the family divide was so deep there was talk of building a moat down the center of the ballroom. The day this girl had been waiting for all of her life had to be executed with the same precision as an invasion on foreign soil. Or the half-yearly sale at Nordstrom.

On our first meeting she warned us that there were family issues. And that while they did not concern us, we would likely get some battle scars along the way. She told us that up front to both warn us and to test our desire to actually want to take on such a challenge. We assumed she was giving us the worst case scenario in an effort to make whatever really did happen seem like a piece of cake.

Little did we know, an actual piece of cake would be the center of the firestorm that caused the kind of mayhem and tears you only really see when The Bachelor dumps some fool of a girl and sends her back to the limo crying wondering how she will ever replace the man of her dreams. But instead of seeing a desperate girl cry to the camera as she rides down the highway, this time it was a dejected Grandmother wailing over the injustice of no one wanting her Duncan Hines Cherry Chip Cake she insisted on baking for The Father of the Bride. The fact that The Bride had picked a gorgeous decadent chocolate cake from the best baker in town so infuriated The Grandmother that in an act of defiance she baked that cherry chip disaster in an effort to let it be known that someone had to give her son the respect that he so deserved.

So as we looked over the room and she checked her clipboard, she looked to me and said, “What do you think?” The only response that came to me at that very moment was the most honest one… “You should have eloped….”

Be careful what you wish for.

I was lying in bed last night reminding myself that I needed to find the funny in it all. That I needed to step back, see it all from a different perspective, and find the funny. I fell asleep with that thought bouncing in my head.

Unlike The Friend in California, I don’t need sheep to help me sleep. I need to think my way through it all, solve the world’s problems. Or rock out to some sort of 80’s song on The iPod, which when you think about it seems incredibly counterproductive. But something about that music and all the visuals of the big hair and acid washed jeans makes me pass out for fear of remembering the soul-crushing moment I first suspected George Michael might not like the girls so much.

Anyway.

At about 4:30 this morning I got my funny.

I woke myself up sneezing, and in the middle of trying to roll over and sit up I got too close to the edge of the bed, and in one fell swoop sneezed so hard I propelled myself right on to the floor.

The Husband continued to snore, subcontiously familiar with thuds in the night, and I grabbed a pillow to muffle the gut-busting giggles as I lie there on a scattered stack of cooking magazines.

Sadly, these moments don’t phase me anymore. Last week I also fell in my closet, so falling off the bed just seems like a natural next step. I am seeing a nice slip down the stairs to complete the tri-fecta I am working so hard to achieve to round out what has been a week of constant conflict.

It’s The Restaurant - she has been a test of patience in faith of late. Business is fine. But the staff - I’m kind of starting to believe alien pods from the planet Crazitarium have invaded them all. The issues are endless, the frustrations are mounting, and I am starting to think it may be time to walk away and open up a hot dog cart with a monkey who plays the banjo.

Your caterer doesn’t want to dance.

No amount of clapping, shouting, calling names from microphones or dragging will make it ok for Food Whores to do the Electric Slide.

Seriously, people.