Moving

I hate moving. I especially hate moving when I've been made a mute by some hellish illness that has been utterly dominating the shit out of me. Lugging mattresses and swallowing fire is not a happy combination and has resulted in causing me to be quite cranky. Add the loss of my voice - and with it the ability to complain - and quite cranky quickly evolves into PMS worthy bitchiness. Needless to say, I am eagerly anticipating a three day weekend. God Bless America.

So please forgive the lack of posting. My posts would probably be so incredibly dripping with my usual sarcasm that you'd have to carry a weed whacker or machete just to get through them. You can thank me for my consideration if you like.

On a lighter note I did meet a guy who's favorite word is plethora. I have been in word love with plethora since junior high. Perhaps this is a match made in vocabulary heaven.

Mr. Gym Shorts

A busted Oldsmobile turns into the parking lot. It’s blue, but the dirt caked upon its hood and side panels nearly turns it gray. It’s a Bikini Car Wash Thursday so I grab my bucket and walk up to the window trying my very best not to realize how much this feels like car wash prostitution.

“I can just bet you’re lookin’ for a wash. Looks like she’s really needing it!”

“Mmmhmm, she’s a messy girl”

I take a moment to choke down his disgusting attempt at innuendo and say in my cheeriest voice, “Well hop on out and head in for some wings, she’ll be better than new when you’re all finished!”

“Oh I’m not hungry, just came here for a good cleaning,” he says as he opens his door to get out. “I seen (I shudder at the sound of my most hated grammatical error) you while I was at Jiffy Lube – real convenient.” Real convenient, you get to stand around admiring young, hot asses in itty bitty bikinis while your beater gets a good cleaning. Real convenient indeed.

As he gets out of the car I notice more about him. His hair is greasy and he wears worn gym shorts over skinny, blindingly white legs. He looks me up and down intently, going over me slowly and deliberately, taking his time in a way that makes the act inappropriate.

I casually lead him to a row of chairs on the sidewalk and I’m sure he’s watching my ass wiggle as I walk. What I do know for certain is that he’s close enough that I can hear him breathing with every step.

I turn quickly on my heal and pat the seat, “There ya go! Get comfortable!”

I suds down his Olds, desperately trying not to make eye contact. He was the sort that makes you uneasy so you avoid looking even though you know he’s staring. I can almost feel the filth in his mind – that he’s imaging railing me in unmentionable places every time I bend over to dip my sponge. I become increasingly uncomfortable as I feel his eyes trying to see right through me; I speed up my work and quickly rinse the car.

“Mmmm,” he said, walking towards me, “She looks great. All clean and ready for me.” Once again I attempt to disregard his dripping innuendo.

“Yup, all ready to hit the road!”

Getting in his car he hands me four dollars out his open window, “Thanks, honey, best wash I’ve ever had. Might have to dirty her up and come back for this one.”

*Ugh* “We’ll be ready and waiting!”

As he pulls out, Ariel giggles behind me. I look at her quizzically and she bursts out laughing with one of my coworkers.

“I know right, he was so awful!” I whine.

“Awful, not quite the word I’d use. I’d personally use totally and utterly disgusting,” Ariel stated matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, he was pretty bad”

“Oh my God, you don’t even know do you?!”

“Know what?” I say as confusion appears on my face.

“He obviously likes gym shorts for a reason. He was stroking himself so hard he might as well just pulled down his pants and jerked off. And the way he looked at you the whole time…just like going at it hardcore and staring at you. He was totally hard when he got back in his car.”

“Apparently in my hurry to get away from him I didn’t notice his ragging boner.”

“Oh, it was ragging all right,” Ariel said with a giggle.

And with that little incident we have our first Bikini Car Wash ban. You see, fondling yourself while I wash your car is most definitely not allowed, Mr. Gym Shorts. I’m sure that was the best four dollars you’ve ever spent, but next time, please keep your “car wash” activities to yourself.

Random Searches

Every now and again I check my analytics because I get some weird kick out of seeing how many people are reading my blog. I also enjoy seeing how people got here. The paths are varied: site referrals, links and my very favorite, searches. Looking at random Google search terms, I am amazed at some of things people come up with to find information.

"Girl with one leg Ihop"
The joke is as follows: If a girl with big boobs works at Hooters, than were does a girl with one leg work? Ihop. I can't believe you had a need to look that up, ever.

"Hooters 'smidge mean'"
Newsflash, it's not just Hooters girls that are a 'smidge mean,' all chicks are a smidge mean. It has something to do with having a vagina. Concentrate lots of good lookingish girls in one restaurant and that whole smidge thing may just get thrown out the window at times.

"Hooters cameltoe"
Cameltoe happens, end of story.

"Cheer car wash jailbait"
Shame on you for looking that up. Actually, shame on high school cheerleaders for looking like little sluts on street corners.

"Hooters sidework"
Contrary to popular belief there is sidework at Hooters. I may not roll silverware, but I wash dishes, sweep the floors, bus my own tables, dust random crap and do whatever else I'm told to do. While some Hooters may be sidework free, remember that Hooters is franchised so every restaurant is not the same.

"Hooters in shiny legs"
Thanks for adding the word 'in' here; it was completely unnecessary. Yes, I get into my shiny legs everyday and skip on down to Hooters. Putting those legs on is really tricky stuff.

"My boyfriend in nylons"
Word to the wise, honey. If your boyfriend is wearing nylons he probably shouldn't be your boyfriend anymore. However, he could be your girlfriend if you're into that sort of thing.

Finally, my personal favorite...
"How to frost a tit boob cake"
First off, I am a fan of your redundancy; in case you didn't know tit and boob are synonyms for future reference. Next, kudos for making a 'tit boob' cake. Finally, I will suggest fondant for that realistic tit skin look. If you prefer the goodness of frosting, I guess you'd just start at the nipple and work your way out. I am no tit boob cake expert here, but I am an expert in awesome and you, my friend, are awesome

Conversations with an Ass

My ex has a way of calling me at awkward times of day. Specifically, he enjoys calling me when I am asleep and he is less than sober. I always answer. Now before you write me off as a really stupid individual, realize that he’s calling me when I’m asleep. The funny thing about your phone ringing in the middle of a sweet dream featuring the one and only Chuck Wicks is that you will answer it no matter what. You won’t even look at who’s calling. You will grope around your nightstand in the dark, knocking shit over, finally find your blaring phone and you will answer it. It’s just a fact (and before you say I’m stupid again for not putting my phone on silent, it’s because I use it for my alarm and my alarm only setting is broken…so hah!). Thank you, ex, for barging your dumbass face into my lovely, lovely dreams.

Now these early morning – or late night if that’s your preference – phone calls are all the more interesting because more recently my ex got a new phone. This has had a dramatic effect on my sleeping patterns. The owner of a new Blackberry Pearl, the ex is unfamiliar with such exciting new features as “key guard.” Yes, just like the commercials I am a constant victim of butt dialing.

“Hello?”

“Gargle blah gargle…take a shot…blah gargle gargle…so drunk….blah blah.”

“Nice to talk to you, butt.”

The thing I don’t understand about my constant conversations with my ex’s ass is that I am not at the top of his contact list. My name is not Abby, hell my name isn’t even Beth. My name doesn’t start with an A or a B or a C – it starts with an S. How does one butt dial someone in the middle of his contact list? How does one butt dial someone that they have not called in well over a month (meaning I am not at the top of his recent calls)? How is my ex’s ass so very smart that it picks me out of all his contacts? You, dear ex, have an ass that should belong to Mensa.

Maybe it’s just your ass’s way of letting me know that you’re a drunken idiot and that I am so much better off single. If this is the case, your ass is doing a phenomenal job. Thank you, ass, for pointing out my ex’s shortcomings, he is even more of an ass then you. Oh and for the record, you probably don’t need that shot of Jager you were discussing with your buddy; it’ll go straight to your ass.

A Very Hooters Birthday

What better way to celebrate your birthday than at Hooters? It’s no Chucky Cheese, but I’d take hot, hula hooping chicks over a creepy, oversized rat-mouse thing any day. Obviously we’re going to sing to you and luckily we have a plethora of highly embarrassing options to regale you with (note: if you appear very shy, really good looking, annoying, or we just feel a smidge mean, your song and anything else we make you do will be extra embarrassing). So you’ve got chicks, fried foods, beer, songs and awkwardly placed balloons; what more could you need?

Well this is a birthday and in my opinion a birthday is not complete without a sugar-induced coma brought on by copious amounts of frosting. No, I’m not talking about licking frosting off a Hooters Girl – though I’m sure you’d thoroughly enjoy that. I’m talking about a cake baked in the most perfect form ever, the form of a Hooters Girl. That’s right, at our Hooters you can order a Hooters Girl cake, boobs and all, very much like the cake pictured here. Now this doesn’t come cheap, it’ll cost you anywhere from $80 to $200 dollars depending on flavor and size, but who can put a price on eating cake-filled breasts?

In all my time at Hooters, I have never seen anyone order the Hooters Girl cake – until last night. Walking into the cooler to grab extra lemons I saw it. There it was next to the creamer, tits perky, logo looking extra orange. This was one sexy freaking cake.

When the party came in at 7:30 they were already drunk. Piling around our most popular table – a large, wooden Montana-shaped table that easily seats twelve – the partygoers effectively took over the restaurant. The birthday boy could barely stay seated on his high stool as he jabbered and gawked and made everyone aware that he was 29 today. The wings came, the beer flowed and finally it was time for the grand unveiling.

“Holy shit, that cake has the biggest tits of any cake ever in the history of tit cakes!” Apparently this wasn’t our birthday boy’s first rodeo.

Now I’ve never seen a “tit cake” but apparently on a scale of 1 to 10 this one ranked an awesome as far as tit cakes go so I enthusiastically said, “Yeah, they used me as the model,” with a joking giggle and roll of my eyes.

“Guys, guys, it’s the tit cake model! This girl IS the tit cake!”

“Well actually, no, I was just…”

“I need a picture and it needs me and the tit cake and Sauce.”

And before I knew it, I was with birthday boy, tit cake in hand, while he proceeded to take a huge bight out of the cake’s C cups. It was probably the most epic moment caught on film (at Hooters at least).

Face covered in cake and frosting, birthday boy smiled, “I bet yours taste so much better! Just one little lick?”

I never even saw that one coming…

Hooters Girl of the Month

What does a Hooters Girl aspire to? Now I’m not talking about grandiose dreams of superstardom or finding the rich, old bastard of your dreams; I’m talking daily basis here. When a girl works at Hooters what can she strive for? Well besides attempting to make her nylons last as long as possible sans runs, obviously she can strive to gain the coveted title of “Hooters Girl of the Month.”

What is so special about an arbitrary honor probably decided through favoritism accomplished by sucking up and the hotness of one’s ass? Well first off you get a big picture of you put up right inside the front door. There is something mildly disconcerting yet entirely awesome about seeing an 8x10 of yourself every time you come to work. I mean, on one level it’s pretty sweet to be recognized as the most amazing Hooters Girl for thirty days straight, but at the same time you better not have an off day because, bitch, you’re Hooters Girl of the Month and you have an expectation to uphold.

I mean really, imagine how utterly crappy it would be if you were like, “Hey, my waitress is the Hooters Girl of the month, this is gonna be a great day!” And she was less then stellar because she was on the rag and had cramps that made her want to bite your head off. Yeah, that would totally suck. Keep that Midol handy.

I had the great honor (used loosely) of holding the coveted title of Hooters Girl of Month several months back and let me tell you it was awesome – my face at the door, my face in every beverage menu and one big, shiny nametag. That is probably the best part, no longer are you stuck with a shitty little orange nametag like every other girl, but a huge gold nametag that drips excellence. That nametag of gold, which marks you as “Hooters Girl of the Month, November 2008,” is like your personal membership to an exclusive club. Shorts? Check. Tiny top? Check. Sketchers? Check. Gold nametag? Check. Come on in and exude sexy!

And that can never be taken from me. You can just call me Miss November from here on out.

Bikini Carwash Thursdays

A new and exciting weekly event has found its way to my Hooters schedule – Bikini Carwash Thursdays! OK so Bikini Car Wash Thursdays aren’t really that exciting, unless you’re a middle aged perv with a beater in need of cleaning, but our managers seem to think this is the best thing they have ever come up with. Apparently my managers have never seen the precision with which a squad of scantly clad, jailbait cheerleaders works a corner with cardboard signs and sponges in hand.

So what makes a Hooters Bikini Carwash different than your average high school cheerleader slut-a-thon? Well besides the fact that we’re legal, we also have a cunning way of drawing you into buying a plate of hot wings and a shirt so quickly that you won’t even know what hit you. That’s right, we are not just hot, wet chicks; we are hot, wet chicks that are strategically placed to sell you shit.

See here’s the thing about working the carwash, I am not paid for my participation. Before you cry, “labor law violation,” realize that every single cent you pay for me to wash your POS Jeep Wrangler goes directly to me. Basically, I volunteer to slip into my favorite bikini, get a tan, avoid your awkward stares, wash your shit and hopefully make some money. That my friends, is perhaps the worst part of Carwash Thursdays, I might make boatloads of cash, but I might also walk away with $3.50 in lose change. You see, it’s not up to me how much it should cost to wash four months of dirt off your car, it’s up to you – this carwash is strictly donation.

Lets break this down: you see hot Hooters Girls in less clothing than usual, you drive in your very dirty vehicle, watch me clean it, give me $5 for the honor and go in and have some Daytona wings because, “hell, I’m already here!” So who wins? Well, Hooters wins of course. Yes, you can argue that the man oogling my goodies as I bend to dip my sponge in a bucket is the winner, but Hooters is the one that more than likely got $30 out of that guy for a meal he wasn’t even hungry for in the first place. Kudos to your marketing efforts, Hooters, kudos indeed.

Obviously there is the odd jackass who drives in his charter bus, gives you $20 to clean the whole damn thing and then leaves to pickup his load of kids from bible camp. Yes that actually happened. Did you know they make special hose attachments just for cleaning buses? Well they do, and Mr. Bus Driver had them on him. How convenient!

As of the first week of June, Bikini Carwash Thursdays will take place weekly. This means that a plethora of pervalicious and truly awesome stories will surely find their way to this blog and unlike the carwash, this shit is donation free! You’re welcome.

The Best Text Message of All Time

Last night, in the middle of a drunken friend to sober friend text conversation, I received what is quite possibly the best text of my whole life. That’s right, out of thousands and thousands of messages from my lifetime I have hands down received a text the likes of which I will never receive again. My texting life is utterly complete – but never over.

My roommate to be, who is basically the male version of me, was drinking in celebration of his impending departure for Europe (lucky) and I was lying in bed finishing my book (loser). He was regaling me with tales of playing beer pong with a wedding party and two possible lesbians when he sent me a text that will forever remain locked in my phone.

P.S. Ur legs make me believe in God

I love my legs. I love my 37 inch inseam. I love short shorts. Apparently I am not the only one to appreciate these facts. Apparently, these facts have not only been appreciated, but appreciated biblically. AWESOME. My legs and I can’t wait to move in.

Life Expectancy and Hooters

I am an old lady. Well not literally, I’m 24, but by Hooters standards I have definitely crested that hill everyone keeps talking about. I was thinking about it recently, there is a Hooters lifespan and I am definitely not at the beginning. I suppose it’s sort of like dog years – you know 7 dog years for each human year – but with hot chicks and not much clothing. Thinking about this the other day I came up with a Hooters timeline of sorts that depicts the lifecycle of a Hooters Girl. Before reading on please note this is simply based on averages, simple math, and speculation. Obviously you’re gonna get those 30+ year-old Hooters Girls, but they’re like the 115 year-old people in the world – few, far between, and similar in mythic awesomeness to a unicorn.

Back to what I was saying before my tangent on unicorns, life at Hooters begins at 18. Since you are required to be 18 to wear the coveted shorts, this is like your infancy. At 18, you are but a child and still naive to the ways of creepy regulars in gym shorts. Worry not though oh young one; the Hooters lifecycle (and the abundance of creeps) will ensure you grow up quite quickly.

My arbitrary decision-making led me to decide that 27 marks Hooters death (on average). At 27 you might as well just hang up the shorts because odds are you should have gotten a real job about 3 years ago (or you can be extra cool like me and have a 9 to 5 job and work at Hooters). At 27, your Hooters time is effectively over, unless you’re the super Hooters 30+ miracle.

So where does that put me? Well if infancy is 18 and death is 27 and the lifespan of the average American woman is 79.1 years – blah, blah, math, blah – then a Hooters year is 8.789 years. Ouch. So at 24 years and 3 months I am nearly 55 years old. Dear. Lord. Told you I was an old lady.

Now that I am thoroughly depressed I think I’ll go drink some Ensure laced with FiberOne. Mmmm, tastes like retirement.

House for Rent

I’ll be moving in the end of June and if my past issues with one of my roommates are any indication, it’s a very good thing. Here’s the thing, I am a very laid back person. In fact I’d go so far as to use the cliché, “I’m probably one of the most laid back people you’ll ever meet.” The thing is, that cliché describes me quite accurately. This is one of the reasons why I have decided to give up on living with girls and move into a house full of boys.

OK, flashback to exactly one year ago. What was I doing a year ago? Well, besides enjoying being very recently graduated, I was just moving out of a house full of big, burly, football playing boys. I loved living with these guys, they were my friends and my brothers and the type of guys that would stand arms crossed on the front steps when any guy came to pick me up from the house. So the obvious question is why did I ever move? Well one of these football-playing boys happened to be really, really good at being a football-playing boy and was signed to the Dolphins. Needless to say, that was the end of my wonderful living situation.

So then I moved in with girls – not just one or two, but four girls. Now, these were the type of girls that say they hate drama but really they need to be the center of it all times to keep functioning. Long story short, I missed my boys very dearly. Yes, the boys were a lot messier and I did more than my fair share of cleaning, but I’d take two hours scrubbing a filthy bathroom over stupid girls any day.

And that, my dear readers, is why as of June 30th I will be happily living with three guys again. The best part of all of this is that thus far my new roommates have gone above and beyond to make me feel welcome. I haven’t even moved in yet and already they have cooked me dinner twice with no expectation of reciprocation. Now part of me thinks these niceties may just be to get a girl that likes to clean and happens to have bakers for parents, who create delicious treats for a living, to move in, but I’ll still take free steak dinners while they last.

Talk to me in a month and we’ll see how much cleaning I’ve already done. Give me a dirty toilet over the mess of she said, she said drama and I’ll happily scrub away.

Hooters Newest Bartender

Apparently bar training is the thing to do at the moment, K.H. is doing it and now it seems I will be too! Unlike K.H.’s training though, our bar training is not open to all the Hooters Girls, but rather only certain girls are trained. Why would they only train certain girls? Well, that’s simple; our management wants a very certain type of personality behind the bar. Specifically, they’re looking for the sort of girl that is commanding enough to keep people sitting around for hours on end aimlessly drinking until they suddenly realize they’re been there fourteen and a half hours and the Mrs. is going to be beyond freaking pissed that your meatloaf is cold. It seems I have just this sort of personality.

Needless to say, at my Hooters it is very exciting to be asked to be a bartender. First, it’s a privilege and not a right, but perhaps most importantly our bartenders typically make more money than our Hooters Girls – and who doesn’t love a little more cash! Also, in a college town where every second door on the street leads to a bar (or at least a sleazy casino), bar training is a heavily prized asset. Basically, after my training I will be a commodity.

So I’m really looking forward to this new chapter in my Hooters life. I do have to say I’m a little nervous to leave my security blanket pouch behind, but I’m sure the extra money will make me forget the possibility of embarrassing front bits.

You and I

The following is an original song that I wrote for one of my my very good friends who will be getting married later this summer.  When someone asks you to write a song for their wedding it is quite possibly the most daunting thing in the world.  I've never been in love like that, hell I don't know if I've been in love at all when I really think about it, so how in the world am I supposed to write about it?  So I decided to have them each write a list about all the the little things they love about each other and found that what they wrote was strikingly similar.  Those two simple lists abstractly evolved (how in the world do you put "the time she puked on the paddle boat" into a song?) into this song.

The song is sort of a work in progress, but the basic form is all there.  I'm working on adding some overlapping guitar parts and harmony, as well as a cello part with the help of my sister.  I'm pretty happy with how it's turned out so far and hope you enjoy it!

And please excuse the tinish (yay new word!) quality of the recording.  It's originally recorded as a video on on my MacBook, but I gotta work with what I got!

Running From Camera

I chanced upon an incredibly legitimate (that's right, so good that 'legit' wasn't even enough to handle this shit) blog today. It's called Running From Camera and that's it, just running and cameras. The man behind this ingenious blog does nothing more than puts his camera self-timer on for 2 seconds and then turns and attempts to get his ass as far from the camera as he can.I also enjoy the fact that my faceless, running friend does all his running in the Netherlands. Besides the fact that the Dutch are crazy fun, I am in fact Dutch - I have the passport and wooden shoes to prove it - so I like this blog all the more. You can always count the Dutch to do something so random that it is purely amazing (if you don't believe me you should meet my dad and then proceed to make him say words like 'marijuana' and 'vodka').

Maybe I'll try this sometime...in front of the vuck...

What The...?!

Behold the most amazing piece of automotive beauty that has even been created by the hands of American autoworkers. It is not van, not truck, but rather some amazing combination of the two that I had once only dreamed of. Driving past this vehicle everyday I can't help but be inspired by its white trash wonder. I imagine its driver to sport a mullet of the most epic proportions because a man that's truly business up front and party in the rear would probably revel in the ability to bring this motto - nay lifestyle - to his daily driver.

Behold that which before could be captured by no name, for it is two things, not one. It is van, it is truck, it is...

THE VUCK

No vehicle has ever captured the imagination of a household as the vuck has captured the awe and reverence of me and my roommates. To the man, woman, or amazing otherworldly being that designed this vehicle, we thank you. Not only have you created a deep love for the vuck, but inspired the most epic house Christmas card every produced at a Wal-Mart photodesk. That's right, the vuck was in our Christmas card and now it's in my blog. The world is good.

A First Date: The Morning After

It’s the morning after my date with Little Bro and I can safely say that this relationship will be going nowhere but the “friend zone.” I can also safely say that the fact that there was no romantic chemistry is probably the best thing in this particular dating scenario. As my dear blogging friend, K.H., put it in a helpful middle of date tweet to my phone, “Go, have fun, don’t get too attached, and refuse any future dates. This could be serious career suicide!”

Reading that tweet as I snuck away to the bathroom, I realized K.H. was right. Well it wasn’t so much that I realized she was right as I realized that she had perfectly captured what I already knew in 140 characters or less. After all this wasn’t some guy I’d just randomly met or a mutual friend that came highly recommended, this was my boss’s little brother and even if he was the one and only Prince Charming nothing could change that.

Honestly though, I think more than anything the idea of going on an actual date was the exciting part of the whole thing. Maybe that sounds shallow, but I haven’t been asked on many dates and as such a girl is going to get a little excited when one shows up on her schedule. The thing is, Missoula is a college town, it’s a hookup town, it’s a grinding drunk, at the nastiest bar ever at 2:00 a.m. town – it is certainly not a dating town. That can be hard for a girl that isn’t the hookup, grinding type. So I got excited, I saw possibility and I tried to forget the obvious.

So I enjoyed the date. I enjoyed my delicious grilled chicken with green chilies. I enjoyed the deck of a nice restaurant on a warm summer night. The conversation was fairly enjoyable, but often lulled to awkward pauses and silences that made it readily apparent that there was no spark. And really, that lack of spark was for the best.

And that’s it; Little Bro took me on one and only one date. While he’s a nice guy, he just wasn’t for me on many levels. I mean yes he is my boss’s sibling, but more importantly he just didn’t have that something that gives me butterflies. I’m sure Little Bro and I will remain friends, but as far as romance the road ends here and I have to say I’m happy about that. My job is safe, my love life is boring, and the world keeps turning. I couldn’t be happier.

A First Date

I’ve been asked on my first real date since the breakup with my not-so-long-distance boyfriend.  The guy is really nice, fun, and though not my usual type, pretty darn cute – we’ll be calling him Little Bro.  Why would I call any guy that I am considering dating Little Bro?  Rest assured, I promise that choice of name will make more than perfect sense by the end of this post, so be patient darn you!

Little Bro and I met at Hooters.  Now to make it perfectly clear, I was not on shift when I met Little Bro and he had never seen me working there before – he was oblivious to my Hooters Girl status.  I was sitting at the bar, waiting for my best friend Ariel (not her real name obviously) to be done with work, enjoying a most delicious plate of boneless wings, hot, extra wet, when I met Little Bro.  Sitting just one stool down, Little Bro was also enjoying some boneless wings in his sauce of choice, Daytona. 

And that’s how it all began, over boneless wings and Big Daddy beers.  We talked effortlessly about anything and everything.  He made me laugh and he made me smile.  Little Bro had things I haven’t found in a guy in awhile – most notably a personality.  Then it happened, up walks my manager.  Prepared for her to tell me I couldn’t sit at the bar and to kindly move my ass, I had already grabbed my Big Daddy in anticipation, but that didn’t happen.

“How’s my little bro,” she said throwing her arms around my newly acquainted friend.

“Seriously, you know I hate that.  Do you really have to call me that?!” he answered back.

OMG, this guy was my managers little brother.  This just wasn’t some guy; this some guy was closely related to one of my bosses.  I stared at them as they talked and realized that this could become very interesting, very fast.  And now that Little Bro has asked me out to one of the nicer restaurants in town it has certainly become even more interesting.

“You better not break his heart or piss him off or anything.  I mean he’s our managers little brother, you gotta watch yourself,” Ariel offered.  Thanks for the words of wisdom, dear friend.

But I know she’s right.  What if it does get more complicated?  What if the shit hits the metaphorical fan?  I’m not a pessimistic person, but I could easily end up in one hell of a predicament.   So what’s a girl to do?  A girl goes on a damn date that’s what she does, but she treads lightly.  So Little Bro and I are hitting the town, he'll be here in half an hour.  Wish me luck and stay tuned.

The Strangest Tip Ever

Yesterday seemed unoriginal, another depressingly slow Monday night at Hooters. When nights are slow and Hooters Girls have ample time it is not uncommon to see girls sitting and conversing with their guests for long periods of time. Really it presents an interesting paradox: you’re making less money and thus unhappy yet you’re talking and enjoying your time with your guests more, thus happy. Luckily, I received what is easily my most creative tip in my Hooters history, which easily made my night.

Mid-shift, a group of 20something guys pull up stools at one of my high-tops. Normal enough, the guys sport athletic shorts, flip flops, and of course the young American male staple the backwards, well worn baseball cap. After ordering beers and plenty of hot wings, I sat down with the guys and talked for a while – nothing spectacular, just normal conversation.

The meal came to an end and I dropped off their ticket as they all threw cash down on the center of the table. I couldn’t help but notice as they gathered their cash that I was looking at a pretty hefty tip. Score!

Filing out one by one as I hold open the door, the last guy grabs my arm, “Just so you know I left something extra for you in that napkin,” he says gesturing toward the table.

“Thanks! I’ll totally check it out,” I hear myself saying as I’m simultaneously thinking, ugh, another number I’m sure. I’ll call you back never.

Busing the table I’ve pretty much forgotten about the number I expected to find tucked into the folds of a bevnap. I grab my cash and start organizing it neatly by denomination when I see the napkin. As I pick it up I realize that it’s not just a number, but there is actually something in the napkin. Unfolding it, a familiar scent wafts gently and before I even see what it is I know it’s weed. Now I have never smoked weed before (it’s not that I’m against it it’s just that I’ve never really cared to try it) but living in a liberal college town populated with hippies and spoiled rich kids pretending to be hippies I have certainly seen my share of the stuff. I can smell weed a mile away and I certainly know a nug when I see one.

I was rather surprised and looking at the drug there on the napkin I remember thinking that it was rather presumptuous. I mean what if I was one of those goody-goody tattletale types or a sexy cop involved in an undercover investigation (stretching it, I know) and turned his ass in? Of course I’m not like that, I’m just a Hooters Girl and I could care less if John Doe likes to toke now and again so I just got a good laugh out of the whole thing. If I knew more about weed I could have calculated it’s worth into my tip, but instead I just threw it away because even if I did smoke I certainly wouldn’t smoke some random, possibly PCP laced, stuff left on my table – I’d smoke the good shit.

Thank you cliché college boys for more than making my night. I won’t be lighting up anytime soon but I will smile knowing you left me the best tip ever.