I decided I wanted to start getting up earlier because it always feels like my day is completely over by the time I wake up at 12:30pm. So, last night I managed to get to sleep around 3am instead of past 4, and I got up at 12:45pm. Damn it. Argh, I just can't get up. I'm so damn tired and my dreams are so deep. It's just that even though waitressing is not hard, it's exhausting because:

1. You never sit down, even if you have no tables and nothing to do, you can't sit.

2. You work for anywhere between 6 and 11 hours in a night and you're not allowed to have one bite of food, even though you're running these gorgeous plates of steaming, sizzling entrees right under your nose to people who have a few bites, and then you have to dump their leftovers into the garbage when you would gladly eat them yourself.

3. Have to be peppy and full of energy for every person and every table, even when you don't feel like doing anything else but sitting silently at home reading a book and hiding from the world.

4. When you are asked 15 times a night if you're the girl from the Real World while you're balancing a tray of martinis and a bucket of used plates, and having to seem excited and enthusiastic about it each and every single time, all while enduring comments such as, "And now you're a waitress?"

I have to say, I'm not miserable though. Again, I love the people I work with - the girls mostly. It's just a way of life for the waitresses to gather in this corner or that to bitch about the asshole at our table, how lame it is that we weren't cut yet, how we're not making enough money, how we hate this, hate that. Nothing better that bitching with people who "get it."

So, either way, I feel pretty good. I made it so that the only two things I'm doing today before work are depositing my money and doing that Yoga video. I can accomplish all that in 4 hours, I believe.

I have two little stories to share though. Okay, I always think it's funny when I or anyone else messes up the words they say. Mispronouncing, Freudian slips, jumbling up the letters - all worthy of laughing out loud to me. So, last night, I was especially peppy (which is VERY VERY peppy), and I was handing someone his drink when I sort of knocked into one of the high top tables with my arm. The table rocked a little - one of those damn tables that don't seem to have a stable foundation - and in my obnoxiously bright attitude, I said, "Whoa, wobble tabley." They didn't notice, but I walked over to Heather, told her the story, and lost my shit. Don't know why, it's just a thing with me.

The other happened the other day, and I not only forgot to tell you, but I forgot to tell everyone I talked on the phone with over the past two days. So, you know how I had a doctors appointment the other day? Well, they take you into the room, ask you some health questions, weigh you, and then leave you some folded paper to put on for when the doctor comes. Okay, now, I've been to the doctor enough in my life to understand these robes. Usually, they're like these dresses that open all in the front, and there's a little plastic tie you wrap around to keep it shut. So, I get undressed (everything but the socks) and walk over the table to put on my robe. Well, this robe wasn't a robe at all, and it was an entirely different kind of paper folded a whole different way. I can't figure out this thing. I couldn't tell when I was just unfolding a section or ripping a section that wasn't supposed to be separated. I mean, the whole thing is so thin, that when you pull it apart, you're like, "did I just tear this thing in half." So, I look like a tourist with a map. I'm turning it upside down, I'm flipping it forward and back, I'm checking all the edges. I pull at so many different places, the thing is then in two pieces, one in each hand. I'm standing in this cold, sterile room with fluorescent lights completely naked except for my white ankle socks, holding this totally shredded paper napkin that is supposed to be my outfit for the next half hour. So, I start to giggle. I look in the shelves and find another "robe." Slowly, I take this apart to discover that it is NOT a robe. It's like a half shirt. This thing only covers me from my shoulder to a little above my belly-button, and I'm supposed to lay this other sheet of paper just over my lap. Well, when the fuck did they change it to this, and why don't they tell peop6le. I have never had a problem putting on the paper dress in 23 years, and all of a sudden I'm some stark naked lunatic with tiny flecks of paper all around my feet on the floor. Well, I figured it out, got my exam done, and off I went to do the next errand.