There Are Two Types Of People In This World…

Serving food to complete strangers isn’t exactly the easiest job in the world. If you haven’t noticed, food is kind of a big deal to literally everyone on the planet. It’s fucking food. We eat it to survive and it’s fricken delicious. It’s nerve-wracking, complicated, and to be honest, it can suck. I’ve worked in the food service industry for 15 years – half of my life, and I’ve pretty much experienced it all. All the way from degrading ass-grabs, to vicious words of cruelty due to circumstances beyond my control. If you want an amazing experience at the restaurant or diner of your choice, here’s a few tips on what not to do or say to the one who handles your food.

– Talk to us like a human being.
We’re people. We like to smile, and say hi, and have someone say something back that makes fricken sense. For example, if I say “Hi, how are we doing tonight?” and you say “Diet Pepsi, thanks.”, that’s like going on a date and while introducing each other, you immediately blurt out “future husband, baby daddy please.”
It’s just fucking weird, k? Not to mention rude. I’m not saying sit there and talk to me about your great aunt’s weird spreading rash, because oversharing is definitely a no-no as well. But if we make an effort to say hello, its only polite to say it back.

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– Pick up after yourself, and your demon spawn.
Napkins full of ketchup behind the condiment caddy, mixed with empty creamers and bent straws. Chewed up only-God-knows-what stuck to the side of a cup thats filled with some sort of half food – half liquid concoction, which is also trickled over every square inch of the table. Gum stuck to the place mat. Broken crayons scattered all over the floor, with ripped up paper strewn around like confetti. Napkins scrunched up as far as the eye can see – which is like a super fun little game to us. Is it poo? Is it mucus? Maybe it’s food that you decided through half-swallow that it wasn’t yummy. Who knows. All we DO know is, is that if you leave your table like this, then we assume you are a complete slob everywhere else. The kind that leaves half-eaten burgers jammed in a cup, dishes undone with garbage piling up around you like a hoarder. Yes. That person.
I’m not saying wipe the table and make sure everything sparkles, but at least put your mound of napkins in a pile of sorts. You would think some of these things are common sense, but a lot of people don’t care. “It’s their job, let them deal with it.”
No, washing off your child’s spit and wiping up their spilled milkshake is NOT our job.. But if we want someone else to sit in our section, we do it, all the while cursing out your whole family’s bloodline.

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– Wait to be seated, unless directed otherwise.
The other night while working, I came back to my station after making a salad for a customer and came upon 2 people sitting at a dirty table. They looked at me in disgust, pointing to their table that hadn’t been wiped up yet. “Um, it’s dirty. Do you mind?”
Do I mind? Mind what? Mind the fact that you weren’t seated by an employee, and that you’re somehow upset the table hasn’t been cleared while I’m in the back making a salad? Weird. Because in that case, yes I do mind. You, my dear, are not the only one in the restaurant. But coincidentally, I am the only one in my section. So, please be patient. It just makes things easier for all of us. Seriously, though…

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– Don’t eat the whole thing, then say you want it taken back/a refund.
…… No, really, I swear people still do this. So, you eat more than half of it, or even 3/4s of it, and want a refund? It doesn’t work that way. It’s pretty shady, and not to mention, a waste of my time. Because usually when I don’t like something, I know that in about – oh, one to two bites. Tops.

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– Not Tipping Whatsoever. Seriously? Are you new?
We make our living off of tips, because I don’t know about you but I can’t really support my children and myself on $150 paycheck every week. We don’t make minimum wage like the rest of the population – we make considerably less than most. Some nights are great, some nights suck. But running around constantly, smiling, getting them everything they want to just get it shoved in your ass at the end of the night really has an effect on people. Especially if we’re in the weeds, busier than all shit, and someone ups and leaves with a big middle finger in the air. It gets to me, definitely. What did I do wrong? It was the ranch, wasn’t it? FUCK.
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A few little FML quips: A Server’s Edition.
When I’m carrying your extremely hot plates because I thought I could handle it, and you kinda just look at me and don’t move anything.

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When I mess up and get distracted and forget all about your table so instead of looking like a douche, I pretend it was someone else fault and ask “Oh hey, no one has helped you yet? Let me.”

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Anyways, like I said – its not hard to not suck. Just be good to your server, and act like a decent human being. That’s all.

End rant. I definitely needed to get that off my chest, people. Especially since I go in to work tonight for an 8 hour shift, all by myself…. Wish me luck, I’ll need it.

Zoloft, coffee, graduation, and PTSD.

Not necessarily in that order, of course. I’ve been seeing my shrink for about a month now, and I’ve gotta say it’s made a HUGE impact on my life. One, my self esteem is quite a bit higher every time I see other nut jobs in the waiting room. Some talk to themselves, others stare off into some self made oblivion… While, it is probably not so bad since the facial expressions aren’t of horror, but a smile of sorts. Kind of like, a creepy Dahmer smile. Well… Hmm. Ok, actually I’m not sure how frightened they are, but I am now that I’ve had a second to recap on what it looked like… Yikes.

We all have our quirks. Our.problems. Some physical, some mental. These problems derive from my childhood, when others could be from war or something traumatic happening that we don’t really know about. Some even fake sickness to gain some ‘good’ anti-psychotics meds so they can be fucked up all the time without actually having a screw loose in the head. Which is totally unfair once you think about it.

Cheaters.

My father was like that, actually. One night he was all doped up on Oxycontin 80s, and while slumped in the corner of his room on the floor, confesses he’d lied to the same doctors I now go to. He would shake hands with the wall, and completely ignore everyone for days saying he didn’t know he was there – just to get some bipolar and schizophrenia meds.. His goal? Drooling on himself. Eating napkins for dinner, thinking it was rice. And he nailed that goal, ladies and gents.

“Dawn, this rice is amazingggggg… gargle, nom….” He’d slur.

“BOB, youre eating a fucking napkin!” Diva yelled, being completely exasperated in every aspect of being with this man.

Who could blame her? Not me. Not at all. Even though I basically raised this man (yes, he was my father), I still couldn’t wait to get away from him. His sickness was effecting me more than I knew, and I am the living proof of that today.

I was recently diagnosed with complex PTSD, which makes a ton of sense with my prolonged child abuse. It’s just crazy for me to write that, and have it be true. It is truly insane how much a parent can affect their child, and then, their adulthood. Who’da thunk it?

Never will I ever be able to get a pistol permit – so I won’t be able to be a badass WHEN the zombie apocalpyse hits. Not like there will be a police officer hunting people down to ask if they have a permit mid-shoot out, but weirder things have happened. Being on Zoloft also hinders my badass gun-wielding abilities as well, since anyone on it cannot get a permit either.. You know what, I really could care less about HAVING a gun, I just hate the fact that now I’m unable to get one if a certain type of air were to slip up my ass, just because I have a problem with authority. I.e. fuck you laws, how dare you tell me what I can or cannot have.

Prick.

Being on this anti-depressant, I am tired more than often, with a mix of super peppy. Like, one of those dogs with the droopy face that always looks exhausted, but can’t stop humping your leg or licking your face. I’m on that level. So, writing has been a bit difficult for me because I wake up, take my meds, and while being so stoked to sit down and write something for myself and you awesome people, I’m nearly drooling on myself a few minutes after my fingers have grazed the keyboard.

It’s rude as shit, really.

My remedy, like any rational human, is to suck down coffee like it’s my life force – which it kinda is now. That’s the only reason behind me actually getting this done today.. No complaints here, I guess.

On some more good news (ha), I graduated from The Anti-Drug Warehouse! Yes, I fucking did! With no problems, whatsoever. Not one dirty screen. No homicides, and surprisingly no suicidal tendencies.
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Although, during my 4 months absence from here, I had a warrant for my arrest again, but managed to square up with my amazing judge and was let go on the promise of graduating – which is now promise fulfilled. No, no – nothing huge happened, I just missed a court date like a douchebag and had a bench warrant. Still scared the dickens right out of me though, I’ll tell ya. Heart hammering and hands shaking while I stood up at that podium, praying he’d take pity on my mildly ridiculous woman-child self. Thank God he did, is all I’m saying. I do not look good in orange, yall. Not. One. Bit. In my case, Orange is NOT the new black. Nope.

Anyways, I’m super stoked, yet nervous. Now what? I’m thinking plenty of meetings, so I can continue on with my “The Anti-Drug Warehouse Woes”, because that was a huge part to this whole sobriety thing.. I definitely enjoy making fun of everything and everyone around me, so I wont be letting that go anytime soon. Not that meetings wouldn’t help me stay sober or anything, but the point being is I like writing about it, to let all you ‘normals’ get a glimpse into the horror/hell like world us addicts live in. Don’t get me wrong, it’s warm here and we have cookies, so it isn’t all that bad.

So, being on this anti-depressant seems to be working, and as an added bonus, I will never mistake a napkin for rice. Ever.

Expect more posts more frequently, because I’m back, and semi-awake.

 

 

 

 

 

“We’re all mad here.”

 

This building looms over a small town in upstate NY, it’s windows resembling beedy little eyes that scrutinize your every move. It sits upon a hill, surrounded by dense woods on every side – the driveway encircling the whole length of the place before coming back out again. You come in the same way you leave. The halls smell of Lysol and ammonia, if possible, with a teencie weencie hint of death.

I hate it with every fiber of my being. Besides prison, it is the one place that truly scares me to the point of being on my best behavior.

“Jail was preferable. There they only limited you physically. In a mental ward they tampered with your soul and worldview and mind.”― John Kennedy Toole

I sat in the waiting room of ‘Bunner Street’, gripping my purse and Dunkin Donuts coffee in both hands. A death grip of sorts, if you will. I didn’t trust anyone who walked through those front doors and made their way down the puke green colored halls. Not one.

Including myself.

One thing that nut-jobs love more than money and random shit in a purse, is caffeine. It’s fuel for my crazy furnace. Er.. I mean, their. Their crazy furnace.

Okay, okay. Obviously, if I’m sitting here I am no better than the rest. I have a hideously tragic past that keeps poking its nose into my future business, and it’s really starting to piss me off. I have a MONTH left of going to The Anti-Drug Warehouse when my counseor tells me I need to have a mental evaluation before graduating… No ifs, and’s, or buts.

So there my butt sat. In an orange chair that has been carefully screwed to the tile floor, waiting for my 2nd day of probing and truly invasive question session to begin.

The first day was more panic stricken, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if they were going to admit me again to the ‘upstairs unit’. The one in which you cannot leave no matter how much you beg, bribe, or bat your lashes. The one where you are stripped of everything but clothes, and cannot touch anything remotely resembling a shiv.

Side note:  The Hubbs reminded me (from what must have been my ramblings of the shittiest week of my life) that we did origami constantly – which could have resulted in some psychotic mastermind in creating a shank for pastel colored stabbings … But, fortunately for me, they had us all doped up to the point of barely remembering how to tie a shoe, let alone make an elaborate poker o’ death.

When I first walked in, the door that led to that particular special place in Hell was displayed right to the left of the entrance – a stairway laid out right below it. It was kind of like they dangled it in front of the people who went to outpatient. Kind of like a “Hey, shit could be worse. You could be locked in here.”

Huge 7 foot windows dragged down the rest of the hallway, just so you could see the poor soul’s socks, or bare feet slowly creeping along – no where to go, but wanting to find somewhere to hide so desperately.

To get away from the rest of the people in that hallway. That cold, locked hallway.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like they prodded us (all the time) and threw moldy pieces of meat or bread at us through bars. They gave it to us on plastic trays, at little round tables, while speaking to us ever so softly with rehearsed lines. Like, Siri on Xanax. Or, a female version of Ben Stein. Shrug. Either/or is an acceptable comparison.

Anyways, back to what I was saying – this was day 2, and I was 62% sure they weren’t going to try to keep me in there. So I sat waiting somewhat patiently, refraining from mapping out my escape route like I did the previous morning.

Doc calls me in, and off I went to be diagnosed and informed on whether or not I was going to be a patient of Hill House.

“You are being admitted. I will see you once every two weeks, and from there we will decide what medication to put you on, and if we need to increase or decrease our sessions.” Plastic smile ensues.

She was a cute, round little doctor who obviously had her own demons she had to deal with. Constantly fiddling with a yellow post-it pad by her keyboard, her other hand on the mouse as she looked up the next series of questions. She let “My therapist needs a therapist” slip in mid-conversation, and in turn, my spine went less rigid and I relaxed in the office chair.

It’s nice to know that I’m not alone when it comes to being a completely derailed individual. That everyone has their own little closet full of skeletons. That I was where I needed to be at that very moment. It showed me that not everyone is cookie-cutter perfect, that some are a bit fierce.

There’s a place where all writer’s get their inspiration from… No matter where it stems, I do know one thing.

We’re all mad here.

Alive and somewhat well.

Nope, not dead. Nor have I relapsed, or dropped off the face of the earth. Sadly, I’ve been working myself stupid, and while trying to juggle 4 kids around that, and a VERY needy husband, blogging fell behind.

But not anymore.

I refuse to let this sickness take over everything in my life.

Honestly, since I’ve stopped writing like 3-4 (MONTHS!? WTF.) ago, I’ve fallen into a deep depression. And man, I haven’t felt like that in forever.

Just wanted to let you all know, big things are coming, and I’ll be back as soon as I can get my schedule somewhat unfucked.

Soon, my precious.

Soon.

In Case of Emergency – Twirl in a Field.

In case of emergency – freak the fuck out.

Lately, I’ve been insanely busy with life. And I mean EVERYTHING that life entails. Everyone and their mother has been so far up my ass, I couldn’t tell you where they start, and I begin. Football games for my little boogerman, bake sales causing encounters with my arch nemesis, job interviews from Hell, and slight misconceptions of what I can physically handle.

I haven’t written on this blog in quite some time, trying to get my other one off the ground, but I must say I MISS YOU ALL. Adulting is Hard, period. (But, if you haven’t checked it out yet – it’s right HERE. Subscribe, comment, or seethe with hatred. Either or.)

So, here’s some absolute shit that has been happening in the life of Misty lately.

I’ve been sober for 6 months and some change (Thank you, sweet baby Jesus) and so far, so good. I haven’t had insanely overwhelming urges to go use, which is surprising because everywhere I look, I see people relapsing.

Overdosing.

Dying.

It physically hurts to see this. Diva called me the other day telling me all about how a close family friends son was released from jail, and immediately went and got a bundle of dope. A few moments later, he overdosed – his friend who was with him, passed away while he laid there unconscious.

I can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now. The guilt. The shame. The absolute grief that overwhelms the body and soul. The inner battle of using again just to make the feelings go away..

I become so consumed in the feeling of being blessed, I can’t help but fall to my knees, and thank God for the second chance, and for my family who has stuck by my side even in my darkest hour. But in just one second I could be right back in that spot where I was.

In that familiar darkness. The never ending hole of despair, my nails bleeding from trying to climb out, my soul crushed and barely hanging on.

The trick to staying sober, is embracing your addictive tendencies. Kind’ve like, ‘keep your friends close, but your enemies closer’.

My advice would be this…

Keep it on the surface and never, ever, let it be pushed down and ignored. It’s a serious disease. I’ve come to the brink of death dozens of times, and you would think I would’ve just have been like “Ah, well apparently this shit is dangerous, so I’ll just – you know, stop.”

If you were in a car accident every time you stepped in the car, would you drive again? Or would you say, fuck that death trap of metal, and walk your happy ass to where you needed to go? Exactly. A car would be the enemy. Your kryptonite. The one thing that could take you out in a seconds notice. You know this. You accept it, and you avoid it.

Why can’t addicts do the same?

I can’t give you the answer to that. I honestly do not know who can. All I know is, is that I’m embracing who I am, and dealing with it every single day. I’m breathing it, living it, and trying my hardest to come to peace with it.

Do I base my life around my addiction? Yes. Yes, I do. Think I’m going to go to the bar with some old friends because its one of their birthdays and they invited me? No. That’s like someone who’s allergic to pollen walking through a field of flowers in spring, twirling and singing like the girls do in tampon commercials.

It’s just unrealistic. When I’m on my period, I’m in sweats and swimming in my sea of blankets, all the while shoving chocolate and Doritos in my mouth. Not to mention, in between chomps I’m nagging at the fiance for leaving the toilet seat up or not clipping his toe nails to my liking.

You’re twirling in a skirt in a field? I’m twirling my hair in my fingers trying to figure out how I got Cheetos dust in it when I clearly haven’t eaten those cheesy, crunchy gods in 4 days.

Pickin’ up what I’m throwin’ down?

I hope so. Because, this Adulting shit is exhausting.