Is anyone still out there?

 I miss you guys! The Facebook server groups aren't quite the same. 

Not enough drama!

My place is so chill. I mean, the usual So-and-so was nodding off or didn't do sidework, but no real drama. Until today!

One of the hosts, D, is a little... dim. Sweet woman, but just in her own la-la land. Doesn't have the stations memorized (even with the charts by the computers), and doesn't really rotate correctly. She gets peeved at self-seaters and just kinda gets an attitude when people don't want to sit where she planned on taking them. To be fair, it is a little frustrating. Today, one of the servers sent a couple back towards where she was seating someone else and she just.... walked past them. Didn't acknowledge them. The couple was left standing there like, "uh, they told us to go to D to be sat?" This pisses off the server who felt like she looked silly sending them to someone who wasn't doing their job, and a screaming fight ensued in the kitchen. I don't go in the kitchen during that time, but I'm pretty sure someone got called a crackhead.

Went back to it, part 2.

SO much better at this diner. Sidework is minimal, tips are awesome, coworkers and managers are nice! Must write about the drama I encountered my second day of training soon.

In other news..

I got married! I'm now a Mrs. Feels weird.
I'm applying to jobs, some serving, some not. How have you all been, dear readers?

Well, I went back to it.

For a few days. But I didn't like the place and left in my third shift! I'm almost mentally ready to take on a full schedule - plus the credit card bill needs to be paid. Soon!

Hi guys!

I AM still alive (albeit it's touch and go sometimes).
I haven't served in a while, but people still recognize me as a waitress. Isn't that weird? Little habits you pick up, like stacking plates when you're out to eat or wiping up messes without thinking about it. I still consider myself a server, even when I'm not working in a restaurant. It's my roots, it's in my blood. I have some leads on part-time work, but I have to be a little selfish and help myself before I get back to helping customers. I miss the work, and I miss sharing the stories!

Thanks for the ride, dear readers, and hopefully it starts up again in the near future!

It's not just us!

Well, we already knew we weren't the only ones getting the brunt of bad customers. But have y'all been to a casino? Those people are terrible! Blaming the dealer for bad cards, yelling at an attendant for a broken machine.

One guy really aggravated me the other day - I was at the casino with my mother. The dealer was obviously new at this game, but asking the right questions and trying her best. She almost didn't catch this dude's ten dollars, and when she apologized, he told her,
"Don't say you're sorry, learn how to deal!"
It was a mistake and she corrected it. No need to be an ass.

Then, at a different casino, a man wanted to get a players' card at the table. They didn't do that.
"All the other places do it, REAL casinos do it!"
Why in the world are you shooting the messenger?

"the restaurant wasn't even busy, there were seats open!"

I don't even know where to start with this. I was just diddling around on Yelp, unable to sleep, and I can't believe how many complaints there are about a ten minute wait when there are "plenty of tables open."

First, there are closed sections.. You can sit at one of those tables, bud, but there's no server assigned there to take care of you.

Second, there are limited people. Maybe someone called out. Maybe it's a new server who can't handle that many tables.

Can you not wait ten minutes for a table with a server that will be able to pay attention to and take care of you? Oh, no, you'll be too busy complaining they took too long with your salad without realizing that they had to run halfway across the restaurant, out of their section, to get your extra side of mayo. See you on Yelp, bitches!

An update on my mental health.

It comes and goes. I have made appointments with so many doctors and therapists and psychiatrists and programs and all they've done is put me on waiting lists. Which isn't their fault, I'm certainly not the only one with issues. It's just very frustrating, especially when I have a panic attack that I know was caused by taking a medication not at the EXACT time, without the EXACT amount of water or food.
But, I'm waiting to hear from one of the best rehab programs on the East Coast, but the sick thing is I've gained too much weight to move hire on the list for a bed. Right now I've been shuffling between family members because I can get too volatile for them to handle for more than a little while. The guilt makes the stress worse, which makes the mood swings worse, and... there ya go. I feel optimistic most days.

Sometimes you can't see the forest for the trees.

I know I have a few faithful readers, and I'll let you all in on some Blondie secrets. It's about to get personal, y'all, and I'll throw out a trigger warning for anyone suffering in their own brain.

The past two years have not been kind to me. I had a car accident that left me bedridden for six months, in and out of the hospital. Lost my diner job, started a new one.
I got engaged. I got un-engaged - on my favorite holiday, my own birthday. My brother got married, and I'm coming up on my best friend's wedding. (happy occasions, but stressful all the same.)

I recently read an article about a woman taking a mental health day and her CEO telling her that she could have as long as she needed, and we should all feel free to talk about what's going on in our heads. I had to quit the corporate place, for my health. I was diagnosed with stress, anxiety, and depression. It felt good to have a name for what was afflicting me, but it wrecked me even more knowing that I was so sick for so long without knowing, and letting my mind and body go to waste because of ignorance or pride.
I mean, I obviously knew there was something wrong in some part of my consciousness, but it wasn't until I was admitted into the mental health unit of my local hospital at 84 pounds, kicking and screaming, that I realized my physical health was severely at risk, and I was killing myself with no idea why. They told me another week or so of isolating myself, literally and metaphorically, would have surely led to my heart stopping. As in, you don't wake up. I think I had gone 8 days without eating, but I had no conception of time, much less appetite. I slept in fits and dozes and pretended I couldn't hear my phone.

I made some surely life-long friends in my two weeks at the hospital, as much as I struggled to stay afloat. Imagine any teen-drama movie set in a mental health ward, and the sad little girl on suicide watch. I fought them every step of the way. They threw pills at me, appetite stimulants and horrible protein-packed supplements. They paraded me through a string of doctors asking the same questions, but I didn't feel heard. I still don't, not for lack of trying, but I'm still detangling. I met late-stage alcoholics, opiate addicts, and people having conversations with the voices in their head. Girls who lost their kids due to heroin addiction, men whose wives took their kids and left because the home got toxic.
The nurses, I'm not sure if that's the correct term, so someone tell me if I'm using the wrong nomenclature, were the real MVPs. They saw a tiny bird with clipped wings. The tough-as-nails battleaxe working the day shift would turn her ear to my door as she did rounds, so she could knock if I was crying. The two gentlemen who worked the night shift let me watch TV after hours when I couldn't sleep, and kept everyone out of my room when I finally conked out. They talked to me about books and movies, and always made sure I had the heated blankets fresh from the machine because I was always cold.

I'm fighting with my insurance right now, because I know I desperately need to adjust the meds given to me, or I'll end up inpatient again. In light of the recent celebrity suicide (Chester from Linkin Park), I'm driven to share my story. It gets easier every time I tell it, and so extremely to the point of bafflingly accepted and understood, I feel a Jenga piece lifting from my shoulders when I tell a family member, or a friend, "I'm not okay."