Dine and Ditch

"Crap, it looks like I only have $15 in my wallet."

His bill was $27.85.  Not an extravagant or even remotely expensive bill, but apparently more than he'd bargained for.  Looking at him my first thought was about having to explain this to my manager.  My second thought was that if you only have fifteen bucks wouldn't you be watching your spending and stop a pitcher and an appetizer ago?  My third thought was how do you have less than twenty dollars between two adult men?  And why had I given you such effing good service?

Suddenly he interrupted my spiraling train of thought.  "I got some cash in my car."

Sure thing, buddy.  I watch him stand and stride towards the door before I can even protest.  As much as I don't believe him, I leave the table to take an order nearby and give him the benefit of the doubt.  After all, his friend is still at the table.  So I smile and start taking the order a few tables down.  Just as I'm asking "breaded or naked?" I see the man's friend get up and head for the door.  I'm in the middle of the order and there is nothing I can do.  I have just been dine and ditched.

As I'm about to tell my manager what happened I make my way past the table.  Glancing over and shaking my head I notice something below one of the stools.  A wallet.  With wallet and receipt in hand I approach my manager.  Handing him both I explain the situation as he opens the wallet.  He finds the usual information, an ID, credit cards.  But he also finds $90 in cash.  Not only did he have enough to pay, he had three times the amount of his bill in his wallet.  The wallet he dropped when he attempted to skip out on the bill.  The wallet that told us exactly who he was.

Rather than keep the wallet in the safe and make a phone call to its owner as we'd usually do, my manager called the police.  Yes, the bill was less than thirty dollars and that may seem extreme, but as a total dumbass he deserved it.  So the police came, questioned us and took the wallet to the station.

The next day the phone rang.  "You'll never guess who called," giggled the bartender. 

A few hours later our freeloader returned to pay his bill with wallet in hand.  He left me a fifteen dollar tip.

My Anti-Resoultion

I'm not one for New Year's resolutions.  If one is truly interested in personal change it begins not on a specific day, but rather when one is ready for such a change.  Basically, it seems to me that forcing yourself into some measure of drastic change simply because it is the expected thing is never truly successful.  Change is an individual thing, not a phenomenon defined by some annual societal expectation.

I mean if you really want to lose weight or stay connected to family or avoid being a dirty whore why not start today?  Why is it that we continue to indulge in our vices until a certain day comes around?  I'd say it's because we don't really want to change.  We put it off.  We avoid it.  You say you'll start to workout tomorrow or call you mom once a week starting next week or keep your legs closed after that big party.  Yeah, you may do it, but mostly likely you'll stick with it for a few days and then go back to what you did before.  If you really wanted change and felt determined about it you would not start tomorrow or next week.  You would start today.

So no, I'm not going to to have a New Year's resolution because honestly it is my opinion that they are wildly unsuccessful.  I won't be forced to change until I personally decide it is in my best interest.  And that is why today, December 30th, I have decided to put new life back into this blog and post like I used to.  Not because it is my contrived New Year's resolution to do so, but because I want today starting now.  This is my anti-resolution.

The Beginning

Once upon a time, I found myself at Hooters.  I had graduated college a few months before and just returned from a fantastic European adventure with my younger sister.  I was also unemployed.  Applying for several professional positions both before and after returning from my post graduation trip, I'd had little luck in my job search.  I was feeling the effects of the recession first hand.  So while I continued my less than successful job hunt, I had fun enjoying myself as if college had never ended.  And that is how I found myself at Hooters on a Saturday morning.

Hooters had opened just a month before.  I'd applied before leaving for my vacation but hadn't even received a second interview.  Unfortunately, my first interview not only followed a horrible attempt to change my hair color from blonde to brown, but also an intense sunburn that left my face peeling.  Needless to say I looked nothing like a Hooters Girl.  I wasn't surprised when they didn't call back.

Several months after my horrible first interview I ended up at Hooters that Saturday morning to take the complimentary shuttle bus to the local college football game.  So there I sat with two of my very best guy friends drinking Big Daddies and Clearwater Punches waiting for our ride to the game.  I was in white short shorts, tan and less than sober.  Luckily, my less than soberness allowed me to let my personality shine through - naturally.  So I was in white short shorts, tan, less than sober and extra bubbly.  Apparently I was Hooters Girl material.

Getting on the bus the general manager, who'd interviewed me a few months before, stopped me. 

"You'd make an awesome Hooters Girl," the manager beamed at me.

"Um, really?!"

"Oh yeah!  I'd love to have you on staff.  Stop in on Monday and we'll get you started."

It seemed that with my hair a perfect shade of brown and my generally clear skin not peeling awkwardly off my face I was actually exactly what Hooters had been looking for all along.  Go figure.  And that was it, I came in the following Monday, tried on a uniform and was scheduled to train the next day.  I'd gone from Hooters reject to Hooters Girl in no time at all.  Over a year later I'm still here.  Thanks, Big Daddies, I owe you one.

Fearing St. Nicholas

Yesterday began the first of my Christmases.  This is correct, Christmases.  You see I am of Dutch heritage.  I am so much of Dutch heritage that I have both a Dutch passport and a Green Card totting father with an accent.  I have wooden shoes and delft dishware and enjoy a nice wheel of Gouda cheese.  In addition to these Dutch traditions, I also celebrate St. Nicholas Day and consider this my first Christmas of the year.

In The Netherlands, Christmas itself is taken in its religious connotation.  It is not about presents, reindeer and portly, jolly old men.  Christmas is a time for church and family.  Instead, like many Europeans, the Dutch do their gift giving on St. Nicholas Day.  Now before I go on I would like to make it quite clear that St. Nicholas  - or Sinterklaas if you prefer a little Dutch in your life - and Santa Clause are not the same person.  St. Nicholas is not a synonym for Santa whatsoever.  In fact, when I was younger St. Nicholas was a frightening figure while Santa seemed to be a pretty awesome dude.  St. Nicholas was the ying to Santa's yang.

Here's the deal on St. Nicholas.  St. Nicholas is obviously a saint.  He was a pretty cool guy who had a tendency for leaving coins in people's shoes.  As such, over the years it became the tradition to place your shoes by the hearth to receive the saint's many gifts.  Now he's not just going to leave you shit; you have to do something for him in return.  So you leave hay or carrots in your shoes because the white horse St. Nicholas rides over the rooftops gets pretty effing hungry.  So if you're good, and you've left some treats for the pony, you'll get some presents and candy and all the good things that such holidays are meant to bring.  YAY!  If you're naughty though, instead of gifts you'll receive some sticks.  Now I'm sure none of this seems remotely frightening.  It's what comes after all the sticks that is really messed up.

If you get sticks this is a huge warning.  Basically, if you get the dreaded sticks you better shape your shit up or else what happens the next year will really, really suck.  If you are naughty the next year St. Nicholas's helper, Zwarte Piet (I'd explain what that means but I'll just tell you some would say it's somewhat politically incorrect), will scoop you up and drag you to Spain in a bag.  Once you get to Spain you will be forced to make toys for all the good kids for one year.  Way worse than coal in a stocking.

Don't worry, I never awoke to the dreaded sticks in my wooden shoes.  Rather I got epic things like an American Girl Doll.  Basically, St. Nicholas freaked the eff out of me, but luckily I was a fairly wonderful kid.  Years later, St. Nicholas is still sending me gifts.  Ironically, they come from my mom in big brown boxes right to my door.  Go figure.  This year however I have just moved and my mailbox is currently being rekeyed.  This has meant that my gifts, which were delivered on Saturday, have been just out of reach.  There is nothing worse than knowing your presents are there just waiting to be unwrapped and you can't get to them.  I feel like I'm twelve and I did the whole "can we open one present on Christmas Eve" thing and mom said no.  Not even fair.

Tomorrow I'll finally get in there and discover the awesomeness that awaits me.  I know it will contain a chocolate letter (it's tradition to receive the first letter of your name in chocolate) and other sorts of sweet goodness.  Luckily, it has been below zero thus preserving all my yummy treats within the confines of that metal mailbox.  Don't worry presents I'm coming!

Back to Blogging

Good news world!  It's December and contrary to my worries, I am not homeless!  Yes, I have found a comfortable little studio (excuse me, "Junior One Bedroom" according to the brochure) that I have decorated in a style befitting a young Hooters Girl/aspiring lawyer.  I have a pink paisley shower curtain and graphic black and white photography gracing my walls and now I even have internet.  Finally the world has righted itself and though my closet is small and I lack the amazing piece of furniture called a couch, I feel at home.  Back to internet not only means back to society and CNN.com it means back to blogging.  My dear blog, I have not forgotten you.  Please forgive the neglect.  I promise you several rousing stories to make up for my absence.  I promise to try and give equal time to both you and your stepbrother, Facebook.  I promise to be as close to awesome as possible.  I'm good like that.

You and I - Again

A better version of the song I recorded for my friends' wedding. All instrument parts and vocals are me and were recorded in my bedroom using my laptop. Epically fancy I know.

Oh and my legs...

Moving Time - Again

I am about to be homeless in twelve days.  That's right, homeless.  No, I am not being evicted and I am not a bad tenant.  The situation is much more depressing (or much more humorous depending on how you look at it) than that.  Let me start by saying that my current lease is not so much a lease as a month-to-month "agreement".  Let me also state that I totally and completely love my current living situation.  Yes, the whole thing is most unfortunate indeed.

My landlord has been in a long-term relationship for the past several years.  Now one may wonder what my landlord's personal life has to do with my living situation.  In fact, his personal life seems to have a lot to do with my living situation.  You see, on Halloween, my landlord and his girlfriend decided that enough was enough and they would no longer be seeing each other.  It just so happens they live together.  You can probably see the issue here.  So on the first of November we were told we had until the first of December to relocate.  Well actually, the two of us on the main floor were told to relocate and the two in the basement can continue to inhabit the house - lucky them!  Suddenly, that whole "convenient" month-to-month thing doesn't seem so convenient.

So what's a girl to do?  Play "Parent Trap" and get my landlord back together with his ladylove?  Move in with the other displaced roommate you say?  Nope, Cor is moving in with his parents and I am certainly not Hayley Mills or Lindsey Lohan (even in her cute, innocent, nonlesbian years).  So the two downstairs have a place to live and Cor has a place to live.  Shit, that leaves me in a dire predicament.  After asking, looking, crying and begging it seems that finding a place to live is less than easy.  A lot of this has to do with the fact that I am in a college town and it is the middle of the semester.  Basically, no one is moving right now so openings are few and far between.  On top of few openings, those that are available are either shit holes or way out of my price range.  I'd live in a shit hole, but because I'm looking at studios and will be living alone it seems less than prudent to live in an apartment with a door that would be no match for a toddler with a sandbox shovel.  Just my thoughts.

Then today I found the perfect little place.  Light, airy, cute and all utilities included.  I walked back into the property management company totally relieved as I requested to put in an application.

"Oh yeah, um, I forgot to tell you before I gave you that key, but some girl is already pretty much renting it.  She just has to bring her deposit in before closing today.  Basically that's like nine-tenths rented pretty much."

Mother effing douche fuck.  Sweet, that information would have been really great before I'd imagined how cute my antique, green velvet sofa would look against the west wall.  Thank you so freaking much for that consideration.

So if posting stops suddenly in December you'll know why.  I don't have wireless Internet in my car after all.

A Hooters Uniform Emergency

It's Saturday morning and I'm opening.  Getting to the restaurant I have a clear mission, purchase nylons and a new top.  Yes, I said purchase.  Besides my first two uniforms - one in the traditional white and orange and one black - I, just like every Hooters Girl, am required to buy any additional uniform items.  A Hooters uniform must be immaculate, not a run or a stain or faded logo.  As you can imagine, in a restaurant specializing in saucy hot wings, stains happen.  Runs are even more common.  On this particular Saturday I had a run and a faded top.  That was a quick ten dollars.

Nylons are easy.  I'm tall.  I wear the biggest size.  I know this.  I insert my four bucks into the nylon vending machine (yup, nylon vending machine) and out pop my size D nylons in "ultra tan."  Nylons in hand, I grab the manager to unlock the merchandise closet and he grabs me my usual size tank top.  Then I run to change - nylons on, shorts on, top on.  Something, however, is horribly, awfully, uncomfortably wrong.  My usually awesome fitting top is not fitting so awesome.  Rather than showing just enough cleavage and easily tucking into my shorts, the tank shows no boobage and is unbearably short.  In fact, I can hardly tuck the shirt into my shorts at all.  Looking in the mirror I note in horror that I look as if I've shoved my size C breasts into a top designed for a tween.  I am every pedophile's dream.

"Something is really wrong with this top," I say to the manager as I desperately attempt to pull it into position.  He doesn't even have to say anything; I know he agrees with me by the look on his face.  Marching back once again to the merchandise closet, I start looking through the tank tops.  The thing about Hooters tops is that are never, ever, never the same.  You could grab fifty marked the same size and each one would be a different length, width, thickness and cut.  For some unknown reason there is nothing uniform about the uniform.  Knowing this fact I wasn't concerned as I reached into the bin.  We'd just received a new shipment of tops so there had to be at least one that fit properly.  But looking through the tops I start to notice a trend.  These tops are all high-necked and short as shit.  I'm talking short enough that they all look like Hooters uniforms for little girls.  Can you say inappropriate?

Reaching deeper and deeper into the plethora of tops I start to panic a bit.  What if I can't find one that fits?  What if I am too tall for all the new, not at all improved tops?  My height curses me again as I realize that while some tops are better in the cleavage area, they are all shorter than hell.  I am sure I am effing screwed.  Then, in the very, very bottom of the bin I find the oddest thing ever: a Hooters top in a size medium.  This is like finding a white elephant.  Medium and Hooters don't go together.  In face medium is not a word I have ever heard at Hooters.  I can already tell it's far too wide, but it's long and at this point length is what I'm after.

I run to change into my last ditch effort at a top.  Thankfully, it tucks right into my shorts and shows off my cleavage just right.  Unfortunately, other than the length, the top is quite obviously too big and as such it wrinkles and gathers around my body in a less than flattering way.  I realize that I have no other choice.  I have to wear the ill-fitting top or wear a belly shirt.  I am not Sporty Spice, I don't do belly shirts.  So I rock the shit out of my wrinkles.

Don't worry.  We're getting new tops this week.  We've been guaranteed they won't look like total crap.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Hooters Girl Does Law School

"So basically, I've come to the decision to attend law school next year," I say, ending the usual spiel on my life plan.  Generally, the conversation begins with "you must be a student here at the University" and ends with me regaling my guests about how patent law really is totally awesome.  Then one of two things happens.  Either I am praised for my amazing foresight for future job security or I am laughed at.

"Now that is a great joke, Hooters Girl does law school!"

While I'm struggling to smile and say, "No really, that's my aspiration," most of me wants to kick the crap out of my close-minded, stereotyping, douche bag excuse for a customer.  You see, this has not happened once or twice, but enough times to make me feel like I'm living the real life version of "Legally Blonde."  However, rather than pink I get to wear glaring orange and I'm not going to law school with the goal to get back my frat boyfriend - I will gladly accept the hot yet smart law student falling for me in the end though.  Oh, and I'm not blonde.  But if "Legally Blonde" taught me anything it's that I too can overcome adversity and of course rely on the "bend and snap" for all my man hunting needs.  Thank you Reese Witherspoon.

All jokes aside, I find it utterly ridiculous that my job as a Hooters Girl somehow discredits my ability to become a lawyer.  Apparently, there is no such thing as a smart Hooters Girl.  If all Hooters Girls are attractive and stupid and I am a Hooters Girl then it can be logically deducted that not only am I reasonably attractive and stupid, but that girls that are attractive must also be stupid (forgive the logical reasoning thinking, studying for the LSATS is getting into my everyday life).  It seems that God or Buddha or Zeus or whoever handed out a bunch of sex appeal and a bunch of brains, but no one got both.  Sorry, I guess I double dipped.  I wasn't the only one.

My question is, why is a girl that is both beautiful and intelligent such a foreign concept?  Obviously, the answer is that it is possible for a girl to be both smart and pretty.  In fact, there are tons of girls that have killer looks and scored a perfect score on the analogies section of the SATs (go me!).  Yes, a girl can be hot and intellectual.  If this is the case, we are then led to question why a smart Hooters Girl is such a joke.  Evidently, it is assumed by some that all those smart pretty girls avoid Hooters like the plague.  All the smart pretty girls stay away and Hooters is left with a bunch of dimwitted, hot chicks that luckily know enough to sling in orders and scrunch their socks just so.  Smart girls don't demean themselves by working at, *GASP*, Hooters.  This of course is boldfaced lie.

While there are ditzy Hooters Girls, it is my belief that the vast majority are far more intelligent than they receive credit for.  For example, at my Hooters nearly 100% of the girls are in or have completed some or all of college.  Yes, I am one of these girls.  Not only do I don the famous orange shorts, I do so backed by a BS in Marketing.  Am I ashamed to be a Hooters Girl with a degree?  Not in the slightest.  You see, after graduating I did have a marketing job.  I worked at the corporate level for a Mongolian grill franchise doing marketing and design.  I made a lousy $10.50 an hour and I hated it.  Then I was laid off, a victim of that whole "last hired, first fired" thing.  Even at $10.50 an hour they couldn't afford to pay me in the current economy and they let me go.  So I found my way to Hooters.  Not only do I have a job that I love, I make tons more doing it and I've still had the ability to put my degree to work.  No, I'm not talking about marketing myself (cliché shit I've heard before); I'm talking about helping market my Hooters restaurant through social media and innovative marketing techniques.  Yeah, Hooters let me do that.  Hooters let me be pretty and smart.  Oh, and news flash, being smart and witty at Hooters has a direct correlation to the tips I make.  I guess being smart really does pay.

Now I want to be that pretty and smart girl that goes to law school.  I want to be a Hooters Girl and a law student and be proud that I'm doing both.  In fact it is my belief that Hooters will help me immensely in my law school experience because Hooters teaches you about people.  Hooters teaches you to read people like a book and interact based on such observations.  Hooters teaches you about life.  So next time someone asks me if being a Hooters Girl is respectable position for a future law student (yes, that really happened) I will say what I always say: Yes.  See you on Capitol Hill.  Elle Woods and I will see you there in Legally Blonde 2.Ho

100th Post

That last post was my 100th...I should have been more epic.  Damn

Sibling Rivalry

With the return of the Hooters calendar, Hooters Girls everywhere find themselves looking through the glossy pages and commenting on the many faces looking up at them.  We comment on swimming suits, smiles, eyes and attitudes.  To be blunt, we judge.  As a company full of women that distributes a calendar full of more women, judging is going to happen.  It can be positive and it can most certainly be negative, but it's judgment either way.

This year, however, at my Hooters the comments went beyond "she looks like a stripper" and "I so want that swimming suit" because the 2010 calendar featured several girls photographed together.  Some of these girls looked like - just maybe - they could be sisters.  Probably doesn't seem like a big deal to have a few sets of (maybe) sisters in the calendar.  Yeah, it's a hot fantasy perhaps, but still not a big deal.  What makes it a big deal is that our Hooters is a Hooters of sisters.  Currently, on a payroll of less than 40 girls we have two sets of sisters.  Two sets, whatever, right?  Well two is actually quite low for us.  At the height of our sibling awesomeness we in fact had four sets of sisters.  Yes, ten percent of our waitstaff were sisters (not to each other mind you).

Now, with so many sisters working together I want you to take a moment and appreciate the dynamics of such a situation.  If the sisters are happy, they can make quite a team.  They can play off each other at tables and pickup one another's shifts in a heartbeat.  Now lets hold hands and be oh so happy!  Unfortunately, sisters don't always get along so well.  Sometimes, or always, sisters can be complete and utter bitches to each other.  Add a restaurant centered on how hot you are and simple sibling rivalry can escalate into WWIII.  Yay for cat fights!  Imagine two sisters, wings in hand, trying to fight without making a scene of epic proportions in the middle of a restaurant.  If you are having trouble envisioning such a moment picture two hot girls that look alike glaring at each other and "whisper" fighting all while wearing hot shorts.  Probably hot to you, horrible to work with for me.

All I can say is thank goodness my sister is not a Hooters Girl.  You'd probably be reading my obituary instead of my blog.

Dear High School Students,

I realize that you have no job and your parents support you.  Hell, your parents may even give you an allowance still.   I understand that they may throw money at you to go to the mall or to a movie or even to eat at Hooters.  I get that money is just paper to you and that mommy and daddy have lots and lots of it in their wallets.  Rent, car payments and bills are a world unknown to you.

One day, however, this will all change.  One day you too will have to find yourself a job, cut the financial ties and handle your own shit.  That's right oh young ones, one day your parents will no longer pay for your sorry ass.  On that day you will find a job.  It probably won't be glamorous and probably won't leave you with scores of discretionary income.  Most likely, you will find some job that pays the bills, but leaves little left over for much else.  You will bust your ass in retail or you may even become a server.

Yes, you may become a server just like me.  You will work your ass off waiting on people hand and foot.  You will clean up messes like the ones you left for me.  You will have days that you hate your job, but you will still go to work everyday because you have bills to pay.  Of course your bills won't be paid by the less than mediocre hourly wage you receive but by the tips your guests leave you.  Some will tip twenty percent, some fifteen and some will tip like you do.  Yes, some will leave you a super awesome nine cent tip.  You will wait on them hand and food and split their tickets and teach them the bar stool rodeo.  Yes, the six of them could easily all leave you just one dollar apiece - but they won't.  Instead they will leave you nine fucking cents.  You will resent the shit of them.

So perhaps - as a simple suggestion - you could at least leave your server a measly ten percent because I'm sure one day you'd really appreciate the same consideration.

Sincerely,
Your POed Server

Of Fields and Guitar Strings

It's a Montana fall.  The type of fall that slips into winter before the leaves even find the time to change colors.  The type of fall that leaves summer behind in one effortless motion.  It's the type of fall the doesn't melt the seasons into one another - its motion is far more extreme.  This is a Montana fall.

So in this cold, a recent snowfall struggling to melt, I stand in a field.  It's just me, my guitar and the mountains closing in behind me.  My guitar is my life.  My Montana is my soul.

Oh Hey!

Sorry dear friends.  Once again I have left you hanging.  Please don't worry, I only had an epic work schedule with little excitement.  Oh, and I got the Swine Flu (H1N1 if you want to be all correct).  That was really no big deal though, only a little annoyance that left me achy and really bitchy.  Basically, it was an epically good time.  I highly suggest it if you enjoy being quarantined and drinking codine cough syrup like it's your job.  Don't worry though, I'm all better and I have some shit to say...so pay attention!

Why I Love My Job

It's notes like this that make me realize why I LOVE working at Hooters.

The Girl On the Menu

About a million times a day I get asked the following question.  Ok, so it's really more like a few times a week, but whatever.  Here goes:

"Are you the girl on the front of this menu?"

Sorry to disappoint, but no, I am not the amazingly beautiful girl on the front of every single book, on every single table, at every single Hooters.  I wish I was, but alas I am not.  Thank you for thinking I am though, because you thinking that I look like her is a compliment I will most graciously accept.  Let's face it, she's sexy and I am glad that you find me close enough to her sexiness to mistake me for her.  I bask in her sexy that you place upon me.

Here's the thing though.  Just because I am brunette and blue eyed does not make me this girl.  I, in fact, think I look nothing like this girl.  You see my eyes, though they are blue, are much, much darker than hers.  My hair is also shorter and my nose is not even close to that "button" looking.  I am most definitely not this girl.  Sorry to ruin the illusion.

Perhaps I should just start saying, "Damn right that's me.  Thanks for noticing!"

I just cut my hair, got a nose job and started wearing really dark blue contacts...

Please Donate

"There's a guy up front who'd like to speak with you," a said to GM as I motioned toward the door.

As GM was walking toward the door I watched expectantly.  The man had that look about him that shouted, "I'm asking for money."  Ready with his business card, the man had the glitter of sponsorship in his eye.  Being that we're in a college town with enumerable sporting organizations, class projects, nonprofit organizations and countless other entities needing money, this is a very common occurrence at Hooters.

Also common at Hooters is the type of things GM donates money to.  While I realize GM could never donate to each and every cause, he has a certain way of deciding what to donate to.  Of course, GM donates to big things - like Griz Football - and things that interest him like funny car racing.  He didn't donate to the Red Hat Ladies (who don't come in anymore) or the Girl Scouts.  He didn't even put up a poster for the volleyball team, but he was all about the cheerleaders.  Needless to say he is a finicky philanthropist.

So as the man turned and exited the building I wasn't surprised.  He obviously didn't represent something big or sexy enough for GM to offer his support.

"You'll never believe what that guy wanted me to donate to," GM scoffed in disbelief.  "Some coach or something for the track team.  I mean the guy seriously thought I'd donate money to the track team?  Really?!"

I stared at him blankly.

Obviously expecting a response signaling my agreement, GM continued, "Well you get it, right? I mean you played a college sport didn't you?  Track isn't even a sport if you ask me.  It's just running.  Definitely not a sport."

I continued to stare.

"What sport did you play again?  Basketball or something?"

"I ran track."

A New Take on Nylons

The first thing I noticed was that he was wearing suspenders - and a belt.  Apparently, he was the sort of man that was very interested in keeping his pants in the right place.  Or he liked contrast of the suspender, belt combo over his red flannel shirt, either way.  Needless to say, I was hardly surprised when he told me he was in town for a model train sale.  After all, what is more cliché for a toy train collector than flannel and suspenders?  The belt must have been for good measure.

After taking in his outfit, I noticed the size of his teeth.  They were the sort of teeth that might be dentures, but you're not really sure.  Suddenly you find yourself staring awkwardly at a middle-aged man's mouth unable to deflect your eyes.  Luckily, beyond being a snappy dresser, my guest was also a stunning conversationalist.  Of course by conversation I mean him talking and me feigning interest with a quick nod and smile here and there.

"I notice you're wearing nylons," he said pointing at my pantyhose clad legs without any warning.

"Oh yeah, it's a Hooters staple.  There have been Hooters Girls since 1983 and we're probably wearing the same nylons they did," I replied with a forced laugh.

"I do love nylons."  Expecting him to begin regaling me about his nylon fetish I braced for the worst.  Nothing could have prepared me for what came next.

"Did you know they have nylons for men?  My nylons look as good on me as yours look on you.  They do wonders for the legs."  Um what?!

Suddenly, I found myself being initiated into the unknown world of male active legwear.  Whereas I have developed a deep disdain for all things relating to nylons, my wing-eating guest raved about their comfort under jeans, khakis and all manner of pants.  Naturally, after hearing a rather lengthy review of male nylons, I made the assumption that my new friend must be gay, or a transvestite.  Luckily, at this moment of discovery, he proved me otherwise.

"You know, male legwear is really best at the strip club," he casually offered as I came crashing back to reality.  "I prefer spandex leggings when I'm at my favorite club.  You see with spandex the girls can really slide around.  They'll get stuck on jeans and they really hate that.  My favorite girl was telling me that just the other day.  Yes, they really don't like the jeans."

I stared blankly as I tried to process all the information I'd just heard and somehow managed to say, "I see."

"Oh, and speaking of my favorite girl reminds me that I really should get her a shirt.  Do you have something white?  I think that would show up in the backlights really nicely.  Oh and did I tell you she looks like Marilyn Monroe?  Yes, she'd look great in something white."

"I'll go grab you a few options to look at.  We'll find her just the right thing."

Bringing back an assortment of tanks and t-shirts, he settled on a classic Hooters tank top in a crisp white.  I bagged the shirt, handed him his check and brought him the correct change.  As I was counting out the appropriate coins and bills he pulled out his wallet.  Rather than simply taking the change, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a business card.

"You know you should really look up these male nylons," he said handing me the card.  "Great people over in Ohio.  I mean just dynamite people."

"Oh, yeah, I'll check that out for sure.  Sounds pretty interesting."

"Oh it really is, just amazing stuff.  One day all men will wear them.  I'm just sure of it.  And remember, if you're ever at the strip club look for the man in spandex!"

I cautiously smiled.  I'll be sure to do that, sir.

Check out ComfiLon's Activ Skin at www.comfilon.com.  Prepare to be amazed.

The Invisible Scar

Today I spent three hours enjoying a little self-inflicted pain.  Mind out of the gutter!  No S&M here, boys.  I spent three whole hours at a local tattoo parlor getting a most glorious tattoo.  Now you might wonder why in the world I would get a tattoo of such a size that it would require hours of incredibly fast needles painfully stabbing parts of my body.  You see this was not just any tattoo, but a tattoo meant to cover another tattoo.  Prepare for a story of woe and warning.

When I was eighteen years old I was a very shy young girl.  Having just graduated high school, I was still recovering from the effects of being an ugly duckling that was all legs and about thirty pounds underweight for her height.  I loving refer to myself as having the body of a "twelve year old anorexic boy" during this stage in my life.  Needless to say I was shamelessly picked on.  Thinking myself not worthy of a boyfriend and having never been kissed, I was most surprised to find myself garnering male attention when I arrived on campus for my freshman year of college.  This was a most pleasant change.

Not being used to such things, I immediately started dating the first guy that came along.  I had never had a boyfriend and I could hardly contain my excitement.  I felt cool and wanted and normal.  I had always wished for a boyfriend and suddenly, poof, I had one.  Of course being young and stupid, the thrill of simply having a boyfriend masked all the shitty traits said boyfriend possessed.  He was controlling and alienated me from my best friends.  He cheated on me and used me.  He took advantage of my innocence and kindness.  Suddenly, he'd taken over my life and I couldn't get it back.

Now, I'll spare you the very, very, very grizzly details of our dating history, but when it was all said and done, I had wasted three years on a boy that ruined in me in nearly everyway a man can.  I was devastated and shocked, but in the end I was better for it.  I emerged more confident and self-reliant and proud of the beautiful woman I was.  I also found myself growing into a beautiful, filled out woman - call me a late bloomer.

Realizing that I had narrowly escaped spending my life with a man that would have ruined every part of me, I began getting rid of all the things that held a connection to him in my life.  I got rid of the emails, the gifts, the songs.  I threw out boxes full of broken memories and forgotten promises.   Finally, it was all gone and I felt lighter and ready for my life to really begin.

Now it is nearly three years later and the only thing left of him was a tattoo.  A tattoo I'd let him pick for me off the wall at a local tattoo shop; the tattoo that reflected me in no way whatsoever.  It was his last mark upon me.  So I spoke with an artist, had something personal and meaningful drawn and got a new tattoo.  Not even a faint image remains of the old ink below the deep blue of the tattoo that now rests in its place.  It is a scar invisible.

Note to self:  Don't allow others to make your decisions.  Or pick a tattoo off a wall, ever.

Lars

Lars is a Hooters regular.  Joining us several times a week, his favorite spot is on the right side of the bar, three stools down.  His routine is always the same.  Seldom eating, Lars will order a couple beers and say hello to every girl who passes by name.  We all love Lars because he is just one of those people that is genuinely nice and unlike many Hooters patrons he comes for the conversation over the breasts.  Lars is the surrogate Grandfather we all wish we had.

We also love Lars because he always comes bearing gifts: flowers from his garden, neckties by the bagful, inscribed dog tags from a booth at the fair and always candy.  Lars would never show up at Hooters without his candy.  As he sits in his usual place, the bartender presents him with two short glasses and ceremoniously he fills each with sweets.  Not to exclude anyone, Lars will usually bring a chocolate candy as well as something chewy.  And of course he remembers your favorites.  He'll bring me dark chocolate M&M's, while Ariel gets sour gummy worms and yet another prefers chocolate covered raisins.  Lars will never forget a favorite.

Last week, Lars saddled up to his usual spot and carefully dispersed bags of Hersey's Kisses and Skittles between the two glasses.  Sliding both glasses to the edge of the bar, Lars smiled happily as girls came by to say hello and take a few pieces of candy.  We were happy to see Lars and, as always, he was happy to see us.  Someone however was not so happy to see this Hooters regular.

"I really wish you wouldn't bring the girls candy," huffed a manager leaning at the end of the bar.  "You'll just make them all fat and ugly."

Looking confused, Lars cautiously apologized, "I don't mean anything by it.  It's just a very few pieces here and there."

"Well a few pieces, turns into ten and you know where ten goes,” said the manager as he forcefully pointed to his ass.  "Maybe try some carrots and celery next time."

As the manager walked away Lars was visibly shocked.  Looking over at me he cautiously said, "I didn't mean anything by it.  It really is just a few pieces."

"I know Lars, a little bit of candy is not going to make any of these girls fat and certainly not ugly," I offered optimistically.  "Besides, most of these girls eat a lot worse things than four M&M's."

Letting out a tiny, unsure chuckle, Lars got up from the bar and headed for the door.  He was noticeably dejected as he made his way out into the parking lot.  Luckily, he'd left in time to miss the manager grab the glasses of candy and hide them away in the back office.

Days went by and Lars didn't return.  Fearing he'd been frightened away, girls began lamenting about how horrible it was to dash the hopes of one of Hooters kindest customers.  Everyone knew about the Lars incident and no one, other managers included, liked it.  It seemed to all of us that Lars would stay away forever, ashamed that his gifts had been looked upon so very harshly. 

Then one afternoon Lars came back.  Pulling out his usual chair he sat down and looked at the bartender expectantly.  After a deliberate nod from Lars, she carefully placed two glasses in front of the elderly man as he pulled two bags from the pockets of his windbreaker.  Slowly, Lars filled each glass.

"There, fruit and a vegetable," Lars proudly asserted.

Looking at the glasses I noticed the contents.  One glass contained sour watermelon slices while the other held candy corn.  Fruit and a vegetable.

"Yes, fruit and a vegetable indeed," I smiled as Lars chuckled with the last laugh.

Search Term Sunday: Are Hooters Girls Prostitutes

I know, I know, it's not Sunday anymore.  However, since I'm still sitting here in my uniform and cover-up and I just got off work, it's still Sunday in my world.   So, onward with Search Term Sunday

Are the Hooters Girls prostitutes?  Looking through my search terms, I cam across this little gem.  The most obvious answer is no, Hooters Girls are most certainly not prostitutes.  I don't walk up to my tables and say, "How 'bout some wings, hot and extra wet....oh and a blow job?"  While I'm sure many people would appreciate the added bonus of a sexual favor here and there, it most certainly isn't going to happen at Hooters.  I'll sell you wings until I'm blue in the face, but I will never sell you my body.

I mean really, who even asks such a question?  Do you think the waitress at Perkin's is a prostitute?  How about the nice girl at the coffee hut you frequent in the mornings?  Or what about the guy at the McDonald's drive through if that's more your thing?  You would never assume that these individuals are prostitutes.  Why would you assume that I am?  Oh that's right, I serve food with a smile and dash of sexuality.  It's not an overt sexuality; it's a playful, innocent and even naive sexuality.  Apparently, this sexual undertone makes me a prostitute.  Guess I missed that one in my job description.  Must have fallen right between "girl next door" and "all-American cheerleader type" in the manual.

My question is why would one assume that prostitution is a part of Hooters?  Obviously, as I said above, this has something to do with the way I dress because really that is the major difference between Hooters and any other sports bar.  I mean I also hula hoop, sing, dance, and actually get to know my customers incredibly well, but I'm pretty sure none of those things are red flags that Hooters is a bastion of the sex trade.  So that leaves the fact that I wear a tank top, shorts, nylons and atrocious socks.  Sounds like the outfit of a high-class whore to me.  I mean really, what more could a man want then a pair of ultra nude pantyhose and smell ass socks to go along with his hour of paid sexual promiscuity?

Hate to break it to you, but Hooters really is just about the food...and the breasts.  Unfortunately (for horny, lonely men at least) the breasts aren't for sale.  Hate to be a heartbreaker or a cockblock, but if I wanted to be a prostitute I'd move to the Bunny Ranch and change my name.  I'll stick with wings.

Decisions, Decisions

At Hooters there are days when we don't wear the customary orange and white that is synonymous with Hooters Girls.  This may include Fridays and UFC nights when we wear black, holidays like Halloween, and special events like "Are You Smarter Than A Hooters Girl?" when we, for example, wear school girl outfits.  Outfits other than the orange and black uniforms all have one thing in common, they must be approved by corporate before we are allowed to wear them.  This ensures that any outfit is still in keeping with the Hooters Girl image and that any given restaurant doesn't have too many none Hooters outfits.  After all, you go to Hooters to see Hooters Girls.

Recently, our Hooters was given a choice between two new outfits to wear on football game days.  One is a white and orange Hooters football jersey (as pictured on the left, not the jerseys on the two girls), the other is a referee inspired tank top.  Both uniforms are worn with the traditional Hooters shorts, nylons, socks, and shoes.  Rather than simply tell us to order both uniforms, management placed pictures in the dressing room with a list beneath on which to mark our choice.  Mayhem ensued.

Rather than simply placing names, people began writing pros and cons and made an "either" column until eventually the paper became such a mess than you can hardly even read it.  Of course it couldn't just be a simple decision.  This is Hooters.  Hooters is full of girls.  Girls never make anything easy.  So as of yet a decision hasn't been made, naturally.

So what are my thoughts?  I personally like the ref outfit.  Not only do I find it more flattering in design, but I think it's far more versatile.  Think about it, a ref outfit can be worn not only for football but basketball as well and I'm all about getting the most out of my uniforms when I'm constantly blowing money on nylons every freaking week.  Back to the fit, the referee uniform shows off the curves that Hooters is known for.  It shows off the boobs and the hips.  The jersey, while it is adorable, hides the boobs.  I mean, yeah, it looks great on the model in the photo, but she has huge fake tits.  They'd look good in a paper bag.  Finally, I've seen the jersey in person and as a tall girl I am very worried about the length.  I prefer to not look like I'm wearing children's clothing.  It's just a personal preference.

I'm ref all the way.  What do you think?

Wardrobe Malfunction

"Can we dance the Cotton Eyed Joe?!"

"Of course we can! Let me go drop this drink off and I'll turn the music on for us."

Dancing and Hooters are synonymous. It's just something Hooters Girls do; we serve food, we flirt shamelessly and we dance. The thing about dancing at Hooters, however, is that most girls become tired of dancing. You see, after doing the same repetitive dance about half a billion times there comes a point when most girls simply don't want to do it anymore. For some reason, even after a year of Hooters service, I still enjoy dancing. I dance with the fervor of a new girl. That's the thing, usually dancing is enjoyed my newbies who are excited about doing anything and everything Hooters; they haven't been spoiled by the repetition.

So when the question arose from one of our newer hires of course I said yes. Running over to change the music, I could see her excitedly rushing toward the middle of the floor. With the quick adjustments of a few switches Cotton Eyed Joe blared through the restaurant and I clapped my way to the middle of the floor. Not surprisingly, only the two of us stood there on the floor - new girl and old girl. Five other servers raced around us as we expectantly waited for our cue. None of them joined us.

The music dropped in and we started dancing. I should correct myself, not really dancing as much as bouncing. This is the thing about every dance at Hooters; they are incredibly bouncy. Hopefully I don't have to explain this affinity for bouncing. Lets just say that the bouncing allows certain assets to be more....noticeable. Plainly, Hooters dances have little to do with dancing and lots to with tits.

Bouncing away, the too of us smiled at the expectant eyes before us. The simple steps were completed with ease. As the song continued and we'd done the same four steps about six times, I looked over at my dancing partner. My smile faded away and was replaced by a look of shock. Smiling away, bouncing happily, there was one of our newest employees with her right breast hanging over the top of her tank. Luckily, the nude bra beneath still slightly covered her ample cleavage, but it left very, very little to the imagination.

"Your bra, your bra! We need to stop dancing right now!"

"What? Why?"

"LOOK AT YOUR BRA"

And then she looked down. A look of horror flashed across her face as she began desperately trying to adjust her top. She still hadn't stopped dancing.

"Stop dancing!" I said as I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the waitstation.

Helping her adjust her top behind the safety of a half-wall and stacks of to go boxes, we peeked out at the restaurant. Guests were snickering, point, giggling and reenacting. Everyone had noticed. Her face reddened as she dropped her head to her hands.

"Well at least they got dinner and a show," I tried to say over my own laughing.

"I do what I can!" she said as she cracked a cautious smile.

I flashed her a smirk and we both laughed as we confidently headed back to work.

Dear Bresnan,

Bresnan, allow me to be blunt, you quite honestly suck. I pay good money for your cable and internet services. I pay for your plethora of addictive television channels and awesomely fast cable internet. I pay for things to work. I even pay extra so I can brag to my friends that I can watch shit in HD. I'm a good customer, Bresnan. I have treated you well with my checks religiously sent monthly.

If I have treated you so well, dear Bresnan, then why do you insist on being such a bitch to me? Why must you taunt me with constantly jumbled channels? It is frankly tragic when I sit down to watch the epic stylings of "Project Runway" only to find it is a mess of jumbled lines and garbled german accents. Auf Wiedersehen. You make me miss my favorite shows. Not cool, Bresnan. I have a heavy work schedule and as such I do not take kindly to interruptions to my fleeting moments of couch potatoness. Heaven help me if I miss one more episode of Anthony Bourdain.

Then there is the internet, Bresnan. You taunt me shamelessly with your internet. My laptop says, "Hey look, I have full bars!" Yet you, Bresnan, never load. You act like you're trying, but we all know that's a ruse. Of course you're not really working, that would be effective. So I reset you. I tickle your little boxes and handle your little cords and for a moment you're happy, but your happiness is oh so fleeting. You might be needy with your constant resetting, but I have needs too Bresnan. Needs that require the internet. I have Facebook to check, celebrities to stock, online bills to pay and a blog in terrible need of updating. Yes, Bresnan, I have people on the internet waiting to read about my epic Hooters adventures. You deny me, Bresnan, and you deny them. Shame, shame on you.

Just so you know I called your parents. They said my call was being recorded for training purposes. That's right, Bresnan, your big, scary parents have a record of my call and let me tell you, it wasn't a happy discussion. I'll have you know they're giving me a month free. It's probably coming out of your allowance, Bresnan. You better shape up.

Sincerely,

Sauce

Search Term Sunday: Hooters Ranch Dressing

It seems that many a Hooters patron is curious about that all-important condiment ranch dressing. Various combinations of Hooters, dressing and ranch have occurred in my search terms countless times. You see, Hooters serves wings and ranch goes with wings quite nicely; the curiosity is understandable.

Of course, beyond ranch so perfectly accompanying wings, ranch is quite possibly America's favorite condiment. Feel free to argue with me, ketchup (or catsup if you prefer) lovers, but I will fight for the honor of ranch to the death. Do you eat ketchup on pizza, breadsticks, cheese sticks, salads and wings? I think not. Yes, Americans love ranch and all of its creamy, calorie packed goodness. Ranch has effortlessly captured the hearts of the American people.

As a contrast, I offer you a scenario involving an Italian exchange student who recently had his first Hooters experience. His first statement was that he thought we'd all be on roller skates. I was sorry to disappoint. After realizing we wear shoes, his next inquiry was to try ranch dressing. He hated it. You see ranch is a truly American phenomenon. It is lost on the rest of the world, much like Kraft Mac and Cheese and microwave popcorn (seriously, bring some on your next trip to Europe and watch minds be blown). It's fine though; we'll keep all the ranch for ourselves.

In a country in love with ranch, what makes Hooters ranch so special? Well, it's really freaking good ranch. You know how it is, restaurant ranch is amazing and no matter how hard you search and how many brands you try nothing in the store ever compares. It's like some cruel joke. I can just imagine ranch manufactures laughing at us all now. Hooters ranch is much like that - it's the Holy Grail of ranch. I would even go so far as to say it is perhaps my favorite ranch. Yes, I will denounce all other ranch dressings for the deliciousness of that provided at Hooters. A big deal, I know.

Logically, after all my ranch rambling, you are probably most curious as to what ranch Hooters uses. Well, at my Hooters we actually use a lite ranch produced by a company called Naturally Fresh*. Yes, you heard me right, a lite ranch. Don't let the word lite frighten you, it is still a most epic and enjoyable condiment. And the best news, you can order Naturally Fresh products online! Seriously, YOU CAN ORDER THE BEST RANCH EVER RIGHT HERE.

You can thank me later for the party that will occur in your mouth if you order.

*Please note that as Hooters is franchised some locations may use a different condiment provider. However, all of the Hooters I have personally visited have use this brand.

Epic Grammar Fail Number Two

I have come to realize that Hooters is severely grammatically impaired. It all started with "Hooters Understand." Apparently, Hooters doesn't understand simple, elementary grammar. I say this because once again a sign has appeared at Hooters with an all to obvious error. One mistake I can - grudgingly - forgive, but two and someone is quite obviously a dumbass. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I must be a total freaking grammar idiot.

OK, here's the background on epic signage fail number two. As noted yesterday, football is a major deal. If football is a major deal, you can bet that Hooters, and every other place in town, is going to do whatever it can to cater to fans. One of the more popular game day perks is for bars and restaurants to offer buses to and from the game. The benefits of this are pretty self-explanatory. Anyway, Hooters has of course jumped on the proverbial bandwagon and offered this service as well. And what better way to advertise your sweet game day shuttle than with a big two-foot by four-foot banner.

Pretty sick banner. I especially love how it says that the bus leaves "1 hours" before kickoff. I mean it sort of leaves you guessing; does it leave one hour before or hours before or one or more or less or more? Shit, I don't know! Apparently, Hooters doesn't know either. It's almost as if no one made a final decision on when the bus would leave so they just covered all their bases.

"Should it leave two hours before, an hour before?"

"Oh I don't know, how about both?"

"Oh I like that, we don't even have to decide!"

Pretty solid decision making if you ask me. I mean what's better than simultaneously confusing the piss out of people and making Hooters once again perfectly fit its "hey, we're stupid" stereotype.

Hey, maybe no one will notice, it's only size 400 font after all.

Oh Wait, What Are Our School Colors Again?

Tomorrow marks the first college football game of the season. This is a huge deal. Missoula, Montana is love-drunk with the University of Montana Grizzlies. Here, football is king and fall Saturdays are everyone's favorite day of the week. In the stadium, over 25,000 fans will gather in a city home to less than 80,000 people. It is loud and amazing and if it were a city it would be Montana's seventh largest by population. Montana football is not just a sport, but a way of life.

I won't be in the stadium cheering the Griz to (hopefully) yet another National Championship game. I won't even be watching the game on TV. No, I'll be at Hooters watching other people watch the game. I'll watch you cheer and get excited and when you get really loud I'll know to look up from catering to your every need to catch the score. You're welcome for that fifth beer and oh hey, we're winning. Sweet.

Now generally I do enjoy working a football Saturday. Yes, I'd rather be at the game roaming aimlessly from tailgate to tailgate and attempting to avoid death by trampling in the student section, but overall working is not so bad. Football games mean drunk people and drunk people generally forget when they're spending money. Thanks for the 50% tip! In addition to lose wallets, Griz games mean I get to wear my favorite uniform top. When you wear the same thing every effing day you have to appreciate the shinning moments of variety. It's like watching a Family Guy episode where they get dressed up. Oh hey, Stewie is wearing a little tie! How delightful!

Of all my Hooters tops the Griz top is easily my favorite. The glaring orange across my chest is replaced by a pleasant maroon and the owl even gets his own cute, little Griz football helmet. The slogan "Big Sky Country" becomes "Griz Nation" while "Delightfully Tacky, Yet Unrefined" becomes "Go Griz" across my back. I love this top all the more because it black and, as noted earlier this week, I love a black uniform. Basically, this uniform top is pure, freaking sexy.

Unfortunately, all my excitement for my very favorite uniform has been replaced by dread. You see when my manager went to order more tops for the new girls she forgot one all-important request. She forgot to tell them to use maroon. So Hooters did what Hooters does best and used orange. The logo is orange, the helmet is orange and "Go Griz" is orange. Of course, since Hooters Girls all have to look like little clones of each other this means I can't wear my old top anymore. Since I can't wear my old top I am forced to purchase a new top. Essentially, here I am paying for someone else's mistake. Needless to say I am very excited about this prospect. Please note the sarcasm in the preceding sentence.

I realize that a top will only cost me $5.95, but since I already have a perfectly good, much cooler looking Griz top, I'm none too happy about forking over six bucks of my tips tomorrow morning. I'm sorry you forgot to request what is probably the most crucial part of the uniform. Let me go ahead and pay for that for you. After all, I love spending needless money on things I'm going to wear less than ten times almost as much as I loving wearing a sports team top featuring the colors of a rival team. You just have to appreciate the irony in that. I love the orange color of the Griz jerseys, oh wait, that's Idaho State. Oops!

So stop on in and see me in my unGriz Griz top tomorrow. I'd love to explain why I'm wearing orange while you get shitty drunk. Oh, and to add insult to injury I'll be wearing my orange shorts too. Yes, with a black top. Fashion faux pas are so awesome.

Hello, David Cook

Sometimes working at Hooters comes with certain perks. Sometimes these certain perks include backstage guest passes to sweet concerts. OK, so that is not generally a perk of Hooters. I mean usually my perks include tips that aren't shitty, fried foods and the awesome privilege of buying obscene amounts of spandex and lycra. Yesterday however, in addition to being able to enjoy orange spandex, I actually did get backstage passes through working at Hooters. Yes, the concert gods smiled down upon me and six of my favorite Hooters Girl when the one and only David Cook bestowed upon us VIP, all-access passes to his show. Observe our amazing view.

There is something to be said for watching a concert from behind the soundboard (loving dubbed 'T.C. World' by our oh so kind sound expert/host T.C.). There is also something to be said when scores of swooning girls stare daggers from the front row. Yes, oh jealous teenage girls, I am standing here and you are down there; I hate to sound like a bitch, but the view is awesome from up here. No offense.

And for the record, no groupie behavior was exhibited. Forget sugarcoating, let me be blunt - there was NO FUCKING. Well actually, we're not sure about one girl, but from most of us there was NO FUCKING. There was beer drinking, shot taking and musical discussion, but this is fairly representative of many of my weekends. I just included David Cook this weekend. Lucky me!

Oh and the drummer was really cute. It must have been the skinny jeans and playing with no shoes.

Update For the Cook Fans

David was a perfect gentleman. He is friendly, open and incredibly down to Earth. I would feel totally comfortable saying that fame has in no way gone to his head. The whole experience was amazing and I can say it is one I will always remember.

Oh and girl in question...

First off I am not even sure if anything did happen, but if it did it was most certainly not with David.