%20, Not 20 Cents

     Always tip your server. If you do not have money to tip, then why are you going out to eat? Fix a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for yourself next time you hear your tummy growl. If there is anything that deserves to be on the inside of a fortune cookie, it is the life lesson to over tip a waitress, delivery driver, or bartender.

     It frustrates me more than anything when customers tell me to “keep the change” after handing me a 20 dollar bill on a $19.53 check. You are so sweet to provide me with 47 cents tonight following me waiting on your every hand and foot to assure that you don’t run out of ketchup for your five dollar burger. I understand totally that being a waitress does not necessarily require anything other than people skills and about a week of training, but if you feel that you can do the job better, I suggest you go to McDonald’s and grab your own ketchup packets, because there, tipping isn’t the norm.

     I think that the majority of individuals think that servers, delivery drivers, and bartenders receive an hourly wage, providing them with the guilt free walk out of the restaurant after leaving the 47 cents. However, I do not think that individuals realize that that hourly wage is $2.35. When I look in your direction and glare after you pay your bill, I hope you realize it’s because you wasted my life. I would have rather not been beyond nice to you the entire time, got you whatever you desired, and cleaned up after you and your girlfriend’s saliva infested silverware and half eaten wings that you rudely left all over the table. I am not your mother. I am your waitress. Pay me.

     I do not adopt the occupation because it was my dream job. Who would ever want to smile all day long and run around with a chicken like their head cut off when beer is half off in the restaurant for the fun of it? I do this because I have to, not because I want to. Next time someone hands me a 75 cent tip and tells me to “keep the change,” my response will be to slap it back on the table and declare, “no you keep it. You obviously need it more than I do.” 

Remember the Moment, Don't Live in It

     Wake up at 9am. Shower. Out of toothpaste. Miss the bus. Run to class. Walk in the lecture hall ten minutes late while everyone stares in your direction. Forgot the assignment was due today. Spill your coffee all over your white t-shirt. Oversleep for class number two. Stay up until 4am to write a seven page paper.

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     God, life can suck. As people age it seems like the bad days continuously outnumber the good days, and even the good days are only good, not great. It’s hard to live in the moment if the moment is awful. The moment makes you dread the next moment because from these moment’s past record, the next one is no better than the last.

     How can a person embrace each minute of each day if all that the seconds bring are stress? Countless amounts of peers tell me to be thankful I am a freshman, that if they could they would rewind their years and do it over again. And I’m positive I’ll say the same come my senior graduation. However, as of now, I do not want to live in the moment, I want to fast forward the moment, or at least all the tribulations that come with the moment.

     Rather than living in the moment, we should merely remember the moment. That way, the next moment will be ten times as sweet compared to the seconds before. Living in the moment will only discourage you to not want to live for the next moment. 

    Sure, now that we look back on it, yesterday was great. But that’s only because we are living in today.  

Actually BE Proud

     Our heritage makes us who we are without even realizing it. Many people, including myself, have no clue about the true history of their ancestors, or where exactly they originate from. We are told we are one quarter this, and two thirds that, but have never really, truly practiced the beliefs, traditions, and customs of our elders.

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     Sure I’m Italian so I eat spaghetti and baked ziti every Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthday celebration, Easter, or basically any time my family congregates, but this does not mean I know what it is really like to be Italian. And of course I drink like a pirate because I’m Irish, but I have never been to Ireland or even met anyone who has an Irish accent. Many of us pretend to be certain people because we are told to embrace cultures that we do not necessarily understand. Can you imagine how livid the Italian community is at Jersey Shore for portraying Italians as drunken fools?

     But to say you are American does not give person diversity unless that person also says I am Asian, black, and Native American. We all try to be different because in today’s society, individuality is valued. However, we are not necessarily being true to ourselves if we are constantly mimicking other cultures in which we have no right to do so.

     The United States is the greatest country and continues to be so. Why don’t we all simply say we are American, instead of three other ethnicities that we think make us look cooler. Let’s face it; we are all probably 50 different cultures due to how much interracial marriage occurs. I know we are all patriotic and proud to be from America, but we turn right back around and make sure we clarify what individual background we are made of without remembering that none of us have earned that right to say we are anything but American.  

Money Money Money

      Why do I need two microwaves in my room? Why do we need mini lights above the pictures in the commons to illuminate the poster of things we do not even care about? Why are there TVs every ten feet in every building on campus? But yet, I still pay 250 dollars to obtain season tickets and I am a student at Penn State. This tuition is beyond ridiculous for the unnecessary things this school provides its students. Instead of me paying 43,000 dollars a year to attend this school, I should be paying a reasonable amount. I’m getting an education, not a mansion.

      Society stresses that after high school, in order to be successful, you must attend college. And whats better than having the grades to attend a top school like Penn State, where after I graduate I am guaranteed a job. But once I get to college, it’s like I am being punished for being an intelligent student. The only reason why I decided to attend Penn State (when It comes to the tuition issue) is because I don’t have 10,000 to go to a school in Delaware either, so if I’m going to be in debt, I might as well just go big and pay the 43,000 a year.

     However, more and more as I stroll around this massive campus, I observe the luxuries that we have that make no sense. These lights that are constantly on? I just want to call the maintenance department and let them know that I am paying this electric bill, so please shut off these lights. I understand the safety issue, making some things necessary like call boxes to the University Police, or lights outside. But when a building is lit up at 2am that no one is in, that strains my wallet with each minute.

     All this money that this school obtains is split up in places that hinder my growth as a student.  When I graduate my first worry is to get a decent job. My second worry, is to pay off my debt from a place that should have been helping me, not hurting me financially. You cannot stress education as a community and then turn around to make it impossible to get one. 

Think Before You Point

     It’s a shame that we live in a world where everything we do is judged. We are afraid to make one move because it could possibly offend our neighbors. But doesn’t it seem like more and more today, everything that someone does is taken offensively?

    

 My sister recently texted me this poem with the following text saying, “too offensive for Facebook?”

Twas the night before Patty's and all through Yunk
All the peoples preparing to get themselves drunk
Barrels of Jameson and Guinness all snug in their places
To be guzzled down throats of smiling green faces 
A weekend full of cheer as anyone will say
Where even a black can b Irish for one day. 
So don't lose your shamrocks and wrap your fiddles up tight
Happy Patty's day to all and to all a good night.

     

     My older sister was planning on posting this as a status to entice people to come to Kildare’s and drink at her bar on St. Patrick’s Day, but of course she needed my permission before she clicked the post button. The only reason why she felt it might be offensive is because of one simple line, “where even a black can b Irish for one day.” Now, my older sister is the farthest thing from racist. She has dated black men and accepts all walks of life every single day being not only a resident of Philadelphia, but an artist as well.

     That statement above is not racist. However, in today’s society, the consequences of that reference of a black person could be crippling to the author. These consequences are petty and ridiculous. But these consequences go both ways. All individuals, regardless of race, gender, or ethnicity point the finger of discrimination without processing how minute the issue is. Not everything a person who bares different skin from you is racist. Get over yourself.

Procrastinate Like There's No Tomorrow, Literally.

     I procrastinate so much that it landed me in supplemental housing this freshman year at Penn State. I procrastinate so much that I’m writing this blog instead of writing my seven page research paper due Thursday. I procrastinate so much that I do not even know how I am going to get back to school prior to the last day of spring break. But that’s okay. Because without procrastination, my life would not be half as interested, near as suspenseful, and one fourth as successful.

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     All that nonsense about doing your best work not the night before is all hoopla. We need a little worry and anxiety in our lives or the ending result of the majority of our endeavors would not be as influential. I love my ability to hand in a piece of work two hours after I complete it and still manage to receive an A grade. It just makes those previous hours even sweeter. And the sigh of relief after releasing that paper from the clammy hands of procrastination is way more effective than if it were to be after four days of typing/putting off, typing/putting off, and typing/putting off.

     Being a procrastinator should be listed on your resume, applications, and eHarmony profile. People should embrace this trait because it adds a little more spice to a relationship or work ethic. Things will and always do get done, but the fact that I’ll keep you on your toes is more desirable than the dull fellow next to me who hands his paper in the week before it’s due. Sure you look organized and studious and all that crap, but to me you just look like a donkey’s backside for attempting to make me look ill prepared. Real cool guy, real cool.

     So don’t despise your inability to do assignments on time. Praise it because it’s stimulating, exhilarating, and awe-inspiring. Words from the procrastinator herself.

You Are Not A Good Person

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     We are all selfish people. No you are not any different. Sometimes I think that I have some sort of good in me, but once I analyze it, just like if I were to analyze all of your intentions, they really are solely for the good of me in the long run. It may be minutely to please or help an individual at that time, but eventually, the act or thought was selfish.

     When you get up for an elderly person on the bus in order for them to have a seat in close proximity to the door. When you hold the door open behind you for the person trailing three steps in the distance.  When you loan your friend a dollar at McDonald’s because they forgot their wallet. All these things may seem selfless, but under the microscope you only do them because you don’t want the repercussions of others whispering about you behind your back calling you a jerk for not being a good Samaritan.

     I came to college for myself. I plan to graduate and obtain a decent paying job for myself. I work for myself. I drink this cherry Pepsi because I want to. I may do things that seem unselfish, such as dream to buy my mother a mansion at wherever beach her little heart desires, but the amount of unselfish things that I do in my life cannot even begin to add up to this purchase.

     Even those who appear to be the most considerate people are subconsciously performing these acts because of the way it makes them feel inside and how they will be remembered and thought of as to their peers. I’m not suggesting we are all internally evil, but we are most certainly not saints. I guess we just aren’t as noble as our obituaries make us out to be. 

How To Become Wise

     Less is more. What a bewildering statement. How can you ever understand what exactly this means if you have never experienced a situation where less is actually more? More times than not we will see that more is completely and utterly better than less. More money, more clothes, more twitter followers, more opportunities in life, more chicken tenders at lunch, and most certainly more beer on thirsty Thursdays. The only occasion where less sparks enthusiasm is when your professor assigns less homework.

     Reading the fortune containing “a wise person cares not for what he cannot have but for what he can” I had a revelation. The only reason why more is so vital in our modern society is because we are not taught that you need more, but we are taught that you must strive for more. We need to want to have more to have a fulfilling life. We don’t necessarily need to have all that others have, but we have to have goals and dreams that we can achieve the more.

      The “wise person” is not worried about the riches his neighbor posses. He is more concerned with the riches he can obtain by hard work. Sure the neighbors are motivation. But the individual who wants for him and his loved ones, not for the approval of others is more influential and eventually content with his life than the neighbor who finds it essential to purchase a new 60 inch television for every room in his home.

     Regardless of class position, needing to want keeps people moving. The need of a mother to want her child to have the best educational pathway is crucial, both for the child and for the good of our society. Being “wise” is a hard concept to grasp. Maybe we should all just need to want to be wise, and then our wisdom will be handed to us without us knowing. More is always better, as long as it’s for the right reason.

The Lion Over the Tin Man

     If I was Dorothy I would be more interested in the Lion than the Tin Man. And I guarantee you that every other girl and boy alike out here would feel the same. The classic love story always involves a brave hero rescuing a not-so-brave (pathetic) beautiful girl. Nowadays, that love story barely holds true, and what the fortune cookies tell you about love coming if you wait, to just stop searching, is almost certainly not true. I’m not saying searching is the way to go, but passively sitting around for your soul mate is a sure fire way to land you as your typical cat lady occupying herself by watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy.

     I am currently employed at Kildare’s Irish Pub in downtown State College, and it’s much more than a way to make an income.  I wouldn’t so much as say this waitress job is honest. I mean I’m not doing anything illegal, but to have a successful dinner shift, I have to wear a short kilt and flirt like no tomorrow to obtain at least 100 dollars a night. Granite, my wallet never hurts, but sometimes my feet, homework, and sleep schedule take the fall for my four to five day a week work program.

     However, working at Kildare’s has given me insight into the warped young adult mind of a college male. For some reason, these guys who come in for wing night think every waitress there is blessed for being able to witness them in obnoxious action with their identical obnoxious “buddies” while they chug down three dollar blue moon after blue moon. Then after they repulsively chow down a five dollar delux burger, they insist on asking for separate checks for the 13 of them, and then, in return, hand me a tip of one dollar and proceed to wink in my direction.

     Now here is where the courage part comes in. More times than my stressed out head can take, I’ve been left (as they would think) witty and cute comments on the receipt with not only a scribbled heart, but also their phone numbers. They leave in a hurry before I open up the check books so that they aren’t present for the irritated and disgusted look upon my face.

     No I don’t want your number. Want to know why I don’t want your number? Because you did not walk up to me, like the transformed lion at the end of Wizard of Oz and hand it to me respectfully. It’s not cute that you’re shy. It’s pitiful that you can’t be daring enough to pull your guts out of your beer belly to ask me for my number instead of shamefully writing it on your receipt. Also, I’ve been working for eight hours dealing with degenerates like you, and you expect me to take you seriously and “call me boo.” No.

     See the fortune cookies don’t tell you the reaction people get from you being passive and “sweet.” Mainly because the reaction is to mock you with the rest of my coworkers and then put your number inside my apron with the rest of them. My Mary Poppins apron is stuffed with napkin numbers, coupon numbers, and the inevitable receipt numbers that I have never once even thought about dialing. Hey boys, for future reference, courage is more vital then silent chivalry. I’m not counting on you to be sweet, I really just want you to grow a pair.

I Wish We Were Purple

     This is in no way, shape, or form a tribute to my roommates. God knows if I were to compliment them they would use it against me, bring it up at any chance they got, and then continue to hilariously harass me about it for weeks on end. This is merely a minute mention of them in a blog, that may or may not be a grateful ode to them as probably, maybe, kind of the most important people that are currently in my life.

     Being the most important person in my life is a difficult feat to successfully accomplish, and even more difficult if there are several of you. But Shay, Asya, Tim, Monica, and Alana managed to use their Hercules skills to slice off the head of my cynical and stubborn dragon just to hang it on their wall to mock me for the fact that they got me to care for them in the matter of a few months here at Penn State.

     No, I don’t have five roommates.  I actually have three (#supplementalproblems) and the only names in that list that are truly, according to Penn State housing, my roommates are Asya and Shay. The others just seem to float in and out of my room at all times of the day and practically camp out there because it is spacious and has a bathroom. Throughout these months, the term “roommates” cannot really give these people justice. They are more than people I share a microwave with. I hate them, but I love them. And it’s hard for anyone out of our clique to understand why, considering I am white, and every other single person on that list is black.

     I’m not from a city where people are surrounded with diverse cultures and races every time they step from their home onto the concrete. I’m from the worst possible place imaginable, Smyrna, Delaware. Yes, I am well aware you have never heard of it. Many of you have probably never even heard of... Delawhere? It is a place. I had black people at my school, plus the occasional white guy who thought he was from the hood with his baggy pants and fake accent, but overall, the white and black people did not mix. We had our separate parties and functions. I mean it wasn’t so bad that we had separate water fountains, but I think you catch my drift.





     Coming to Penn State I heard the same hoopla that other universities give you about “learning to respect other people and their cultures” but it honestly went in one ear and out the other. And then I got my roommate list and after stalking the girls on Facebook, my nerves shifted from “idc” to “holy shit.” Not only was I placed with three other girls, but I was the only white person in a sea of black that never ended considering all the comments on Shay’s page from her Philly friends claiming how much they were going to hang out once they made the leap to college.



      Looking back on that nervous Molly I want to slap me for being so close-minded. These people I surround myself with now are not black to me. They are people. We are all completely different, not only in color, but in thoughts, ideologies, concepts, traditions, the things we eat, the way we spend out Saturday nights, the movies we watched as kids, the way we do our hair, even the terms we give our families members (I cannot tell you how many times I have gotten in the “aunt vs. ant” argument with them).



 I think if I didn’t have these people in my freshman year I would be categorized with all the other white girls here at Penn State. I know I get looks from people when I walk around with them in the commons or when we shout at each other throwing racial slurs that we find funny rather than insulting. And no, I’m not that white girl who wishes she was black with huge hoop earrings. I am me and they are them. But “me” and “them” come together as “we” instead of creating two separate spheres of people. I’m not afraid to talk to black people like most white people are. Yes, this is true, a lot of us are afraid of offending black people by saying something out of line, but at the same time we don’t know what is out of line.

     I say whatever I please to my roommates. They know it’s not racist, its curiosity. If it were my choice, we would all be purple, not black, white, Asian, Hispanic, etc. Because laughter, trust, and friendship does not have an ethnicity. My roommates make me want to be a better person than I was before,not like other students who think their best friends are the people who down shots with them every weekend. Each day I can count on them to bring us a little bit closer by hanging an obnoxious but hilarious quote above my bunk bed ceiling, or simply listening to me vent about the way my mom didn’t answer my phone call but will bitch about me not answering hers.

     See, in my mind race isn’t an issue with these people. The issue is whether or not they ate my oodles and noodles and how I will go about yelling at them until we get to the point of laughter. I love these people because they are different than me. My children will call them “aunt” or “ant” or whatever we decide on years from now. I just wish we were all purple.