4 Americans vs. London

Give 4 girls 12 hours to play in London, they can make that feel like a weekend. 

It only took me one 6 hour flight, 3 hour layover, 2.5 hour flight, 6 hour layover, and another 9 hour flight in the middle middle seat to get from Honolulu to London. Talk about an eternity. But once I united with my best friend, her sister, and her sister's best friend, I wiped the travel sleepies from my eyes and it was on. 

*Insert tourist things here*

I'll spare you from the boring details of sight seeing. Being someone who lives and works in a tourist city, I hate myself for being touristy over here. But let's face it, it's pretty rad to stand outside the queen of England's palace and wonder if she's kickin' it in sweat pants watching real housewives or if she constantly roams the halls of her massive home in a ball gown going over her daily itinerary of royal shit to do. 

As exhausted as we were, we rallied at about 12:03am and made the last train to town to find a club, being that it was our one and only night in London, not to mention a Friday night. We walked the streets, basically looking for where the people were flocking to. Turns out it was a club down a side street called Roxy with a mile long line. 

Talk about cultural differences. 

When we finally crammed into the bar, it smelled like severe body odor. Do people in England wear deodorant? I don't know. The bathroom had about 6 inches of space between the stalls and the sink. Skinny bitches only please. It still weirds me out that 18 year olds are trusted to be in clubs and bars. I thought it was cool that I could leave my jacket in the 'cloakroom' although the guy working in it wasn't amused by our excitement. Sorry we don't have cloakrooms in Hawaii sir, just let me think it's cool for a sec. 

I'll be the first to say I have a large love/hate relationship with the tipping system we use in the states. I love raking in that cash but hate the days I work my ass off for nothing. But man do I now have a new found appreciation for it after being in this club. Turns out when you make the same amount of money at the end of the night no matter how hard you work, it makes one work quite slow and lazily. 

I mean 100 people were constantly crowding the bar trying to get drinks and the 3 bartenders were throwing ice cubes at each other and walking around aimlessly. ZERO sense of urgency. And why should they? No one is waving cash in their face offering big money to make their drinks faster. By all means, take your sweet ass time. 

A shot is like 3/4 of an ounce. How do people catch a buzz out here? I ordered 2 vodka waters for Kailey and I. The girl looked at me like I just asked her feed my pet dragon. I'm like "vodka. water." With as much enunciation as humanly possible. No, not soda water. Water water. And vodka. And ice. And preferably a lemon. She told me I'm weird. Okay. 

Meanwhile 80s disco music is playing. Like where is the gangster rap I'm trying to twerk over here. 

Go back for a 2nd drink. Different bartender. YES I SAID WATER. NO NOT SODA WATER. He told me they only have soda water. I said tap water and he finally got it. Called me weird. Two people next to me called me weird. I get it, english people don't drink vodka water. Let's all move on. 

Everyone that approached us realized 3 sentences in that we're American. One girl told me she loved my accent, then proceeded to try to copy it. I kid you not, this is how she talked to me the rest of the night. 

*Valley girl voice* "Liiiiike are you like American? Like oh my gosh you totally are. Are you like drinking? Oh my gosh you like so are!"

Holy shit girlfriend we do NOT sound like that. 

She also asked Kailey if I'm bisexual. Her dude friend asked why I'm so mean. Kailey told them she and I are dating and I'm the jealous type. They bought it, but they didn't back off. I guess being the only 4 Americans around for miles made us exciting to be around. 

Our plan was to catch an uber back to the hotel. Woops forgot we need wifi for that. Unfortunately, Roxy didn't have free wifi. Also, fun fact, cabs here are pretty much all cash only. The four of us only had US dollars on us. We were living up to the stupid American stereotype by that point. 

We finally got our lives together and got into a cab. I asked if there are any drive throughs. Evidently that was a stupid question. Americans are obese because we eat Taco Bell at 3am after drinking all night. I figured it out. 

All in all, England is dope. 12 hours wasn't nearly enough but it was an excellent first glimpse at Europe. I'm getting on a cruise ship now to battle the seas with my best friend. Until my next country. 

Xo

I'm a Server, Not a Servant

Everyone has their opinions on what qualifies as a "real" job. Benefits, a 401k, paid sick days, enough money to pay your bills, whatever. Real or not, qualified or not, I'm a server. It is my job. It pays my bills. It does not mean you are superior to me. It does not mean you have any sort of right to trample me while you're enjoying your spinach dip. It does not mean you can choose to tip or not tip me based on how much money you feel like spending that day. It does not mean I am there to kiss your feet for the duration of your stay at my restaurant.

It means you chose to go out to eat as an alternative to cooking and feeding yourself, and you chose to pay me to relieve you of that burden.

While you relax in an air conditioned restaurant, tapping your toe, checking your watch, and harassing anyone with an employee shirt on about how much longer your food is going to take, there are 10-20 people in the kitchen (which is about 10 degrees hotter than the rest of the building) working vigorously to cook your steak well done with sauce on the side, double veggies, no onions. They are also cooking 53 other people's meals, virtually at the same time. 

While you roll your eyes because you had to ask me for a third time for a lemon for your water, I was sweeping up a broken glass, punching in six new orders, garnishing your lava flow with extra pineapples, checking on five burgers that have been punched in seven minutes ago but are 'taking too long', answering the phone to tell someone for the 108th time that day what time we close, switching the menus over from lunch to dinner, and grabbing a side of ranch for another table, virtually at the same time.

I am required to smile and be friendly anywhere from 5-12 hours a day while working. I am required to be nice and accommodating, even when someone is calling me a "f***ing bitch" for accidentally throwing away their beer bottle that wasn't quite empty yet. (This actually happened to me last night). I am required to fulfill your wants and needs to the best of my ability, all with a smile on my face and a kind and helpful tone in my voice, no matter how you are speaking to me or treating me, all with the hope that you might leave me a tip.

I can assure you that you are rarely the only person or table in my section at any given time. I promise you that I am serving at least 1-20 other people at the exact same time, all with only my two arms and two legs. I guarantee there are a handful of people who want lemons for their water that I just keep forgetting to bring back because you all also asked me to get you some ketchup, take the order of the person who just joined your table, split your checks six ways, and get you a dessert menu.

Every eye roll, heavy sigh, and raised voice is like a dagger in my gut. As if I am trying to keep you in this restaurant for one moment longer. As if I am forgetting the sliver of citrus you asked for on purpose to make sure your dining experience is below average. As if there is nothing on the planet I would rather be doing with my $50,000 college degree than getting you a slice of lemon for your water that you are only asking for because someone at this restaurant took the time to cut up 900 lemons just in case you might want one to spice up your sink water. Do you cut up lemons for your water at home? I would be willing to bet a year's worth of tips that you have never done that in your entire life. So I can't see how it can be too much to ask to just chalk it up as a loss when I forget to bring you a lemon. 

It would be glorious if you could instead, focus on the fact that I made sure your four-year-olds mac n' cheese came out in five minutes so she would stop ingesting crayons. Or the fact that you never once saw the bottom of your glass because I refilled it each time it was half empty. Or the fact that I let you squeeze in one more happy hour drink even though you sat down after happy hour ended. Or the fact that I let you move tables twice in the middle of a dinner rush because you didn't like the first two you were given. Or the fact that there are three layers of skin seared off of my forearm because I was holding your hot plate of food the whole time you were staring at each other trying to remember what you ordered.

It would also be lovely if you could recognize the physical and emotional exhaustion that comes with being a server. If you could know that I go in the freezer to cry sometimes after a customer screams at me and calls me names for accidentally forgetting something or accidentally spilling something. If you could realize how disappointing it is to see a zero written on the tip line after all the work I put in to making sure your experience at my restaurant was mildly enjoyable. If you could remember that I only make about $3 per hour after taxes and that I rely on tips to pay my bills based off of a system put into place in the United States by someone other than me. If you could understand that I have to give my bartenders, food runners, bussers, and hosts a percentage of your bill, regardless if you tip me or not. (Yes, that means if you leave me nothing, I literally pay money out of my pocket to serve you). If you could feel the pain of having to pay for someone's tab with my own money because they walked out on their bill or refused to pay for something. If you could just see that although I am a server, I am not your servant.

Eating out is a luxury. Whether someone is handing you french fries or setting a filet mignon on your table, that someone is being paid less than the minimum wage to smile at your family, even on their absolute worst days and make sure you all have everything you need to satisfy your hungry bellies so you don't have to do it yourself. I'm not saving you from a burning building, but you did decide all on your own that you wanted to spend money at an establishment to be fed. That does not come with some divine right to treat me like a servant. You are not giving me a $7 tip in exchange for one whole hour to verbally abuse me. You are giving me a $7 tip in exchange for a meal that costs less than it should that gets cooked to perfection and brought right to your table so you can spend that extra few dollars on a tip for me to put in my pocket and split with my coworkers later.

I'm an adult, same as you, working to make money to pay my bills, same as you. You and I are not that different. 

So please, tip your servers. Try your best not to call them names. And forget about the lemon just this once.

Sincerely, 

One of many frustrated servers

I Graduated From Prison

I've been vegging out really hard in bed the last few days. I mean bundled up in my down comforter, laptop appropriately propped up so I can watch Netflix until my eyes bleed. Sometimes even the beach doesn't sound more appealing than my bed.

It's given me a lot of time to think, as anyone could imagine (15 seconds between each new episode to be exact).

Many people have seen a particular post on my Facebook and have asked, nonstop, if I'm moving home. Well flat out, the answer is no. But with all this time laying around with nothing but time to ponder my life, I've realized I totally can if I want to. I can go anywhere I want.

Since graduating college, actually some of you know it was even before graduation that I started having a massive breakdown. As far back as I can remember, the plan was to go to college and get a degree. I remember putting some of my allowance in the bank to save up for college when I was still in elementary school, even though college seemed like a lifetime away when I was seven years old.

Big surprise, my mom knew it would come faster than I thought, but I just wasn't on board with that yet. For all I knew I had plenty of time until I would stroll into a university.

I began looking at colleges in high school and even then, the Friday night football games took priority over filling out applications. I finally chose the University of Hawaii after two long (but now that I look back, quick) years in community college. I flew off to paradise to get that degree but came to find out I would not be graduating in four years. I was behind one year and would have to attend the university a little longer than planned. This was devastating. I felt like I would be in school until I was 90 years old.

Would I ever graduate? Would I ever be able to finally say I had a bachelor's degree? It felt like another lifetime would go by until that happened. Then one day, I woke up and it was my last first day of school ever.

*Insert mental breakdown here*

How in world was I seven years old, "saving up for college" like yesterday? All of the sudden I was five months out from graduation and I realized I forgot to set a new goal.

All this time I had been striving to get my degree. I was about to be holding it in my hands and I had NO idea what I would do next. I cried a lot. I called my mom a lot. I sulked even more and somehow managed to graduate my final semester from UH on the dean's list.

I was incredibly proud, I think my parents were more proud, but I still felt like something was missing. I had a hole in my heart and I didn't know what I was going to do to fill it. I didn't (and still don't) know what kind of career path I wanted to take. I didn't (and still don't) know where I wanted to settle down. I was (and still am) just working at a bar and living in Hawaii.

I felt lost for a long time without school. I had been going to school nonstop since preschool. Nine months since I graduated and it still feels incredibly strange to never write papers or study for exams. I lived and breathed school for 23 years. There was nothing to replace all the time school used to take up and I saw it as wasted space. Space I didn't even think to fill and now it would just sit there, empty and useless.

Today, though, is a new day. Nine months since graduation and I'm still very unsure of where I will go next, but I realized today what a blessing that truly is. I am free from the chains of term papers and exams. The prison gates of college opened and I walked out into the world a free woman.

See, all this time, every move I made was to get one step closer to my degree. Sure I could make detours here and there but always jumped right back on the path toward graduation. Now that I have my BA, my stepping stones that were, at one time, in a perfectly straight line, are now all over the place. I can literally go where ever I want, and I never ever have to go back. I can leave Hawaii, I can leave the university, and I don't have to rush back for anymore first days of school.

I thought finishing school left a hole in my heart because school was missing. However, that part of my heart simply filled to the brim, and I can fill this new empty space with new adventures I haven't even thought of yet. Whether it's the career of a lifetime or the vacation of a lifetime, I have full unrestricted freedom to choose what I want to do next.

So back to everyone's question about whether or not I am planning to move home. Although I am not heading back to Arizona, I have been contemplating my next destination. Denver is at the very top of my list. Today, while mindlessly scrolling through instagram I even momentarily thought about just picking up and hopping over to a different island for a while. The best feeling in the world is knowing the possibilities are virtually endless. 

I am a free bird.