29 September 2009
24 September 2009
23 September 2009
21 September 2009
19 September 2009
"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!"
"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.
16 September 2009
06 September 2009
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.
05 September 2009
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.
04 September 2009
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.
02 September 2009
Beyond the retail and service positions I was once a high school track and field coach - specifically high jump. Most of my life has been spent on and around the track: my parents met at a track meet in Paris, I received my first pair of spikes at age seven, found myself competing nationally by nine and was signing my national letter of intent for college at seventeen. Lets just say it was a logical job choice for me. While I loved coaching, my students left a lot to be desired. The school had a hard time recruiting athletes for the team causing the season to be a struggle. Yet I appreciated the small victories, breaking personal records and individual victories, rather than medals won. It was a good spring even though I never produced a state level athlete.
So why am I not coaching now? Well mainly because now I find myself in a town that doesn't need track coaches. You see, I coached in my hometown one spring while completing an internship for our State Games. Spending my days writing press releases and contacting the media, I spent my afternoons and weekends at the track. I practiced with the kids, purposely hitting the bar so as not to jump higher than my male athletes. They all knew and loved me all the more for it.
Returning to college the next semester, I finally completed my degree. Then I ended up at Hooters. You are probably wondering what any of this story has to do with Hooters. In fact it has a lot to do with Hooters. Living in one of two large college towns in the state, Missoula is understandably a popular place for high school graduates. My athletes are now showing up here. Athletes in Missoula mean athletes at Hooters.
There is something odd about serving a student of yours in tight shorts and a cleavage bearing tank top. Where once you were in a position of authority, you are now forced to cater to them. Rather than running their asses off with hill sprints they run your ass off as you grab them refills and ranch and whatever the eff else they decide they randomly want. This is especially awkward when the student in question is a male. Where once they looked at you as a coach, they now look at you as a sex object (actually now that I think about it they probably looked at me as a sex object then too). And of course, news travels fast when coach works at Hooters.
"Oh hey, Coach B!"
This is not something I enjoy hearing as it rings across the restaurant. Unfortunately, it's becoming increasingly more frequent. One student told another until suddenly I had a table full of my athletes sitting in my section one evening. I felt like the scandalous, hot teacher that flirts shamelessly with her students. Needless to say they loved it. I made sure to point out that I could still jump higher than them. At least I still have that.
Sometimes you have a moment of recognition when you see someone. It's that instant where you realize you know them but you have no clue from where. Your brain races as you try to place a face with a name or an event or anything that even remotely relates to the person before you. Then, quite suddenly, you figure it out and you come jolting back to reality. Abruptly you are back in the moment realizing the connection that seemed so elusive.
These sorts of moments can occur anywhere: the grocery store, school and even Hooters. On an average night shift a young man walked into the restaurant accompanied by a commonly pretty brunette. As they settled at their table I had the feeling that I knew the guy. It was a gut feeling that grew with every step I took towards their table. I knew him, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't place him; the feeling I had was awkwardly disconcerting.
As I took their drink order I made several casual observations about the couple at my table. First, checking the woman's ID, I noted that being born in 1974 she was eleven years older than her companion - she looked amazing for her age. She ordered a Bud Big Daddy with clamato (a quintessential Montana classic). The young man uneasily ordered the same and as he stumbled with his words as he handed me his ID I realized that he recognized me as well. He was good looking, but appeared self-conscious. He, like myself, had recognized me but seemed unable to place me.
Bringing their silverware and meal and refills I still couldn't place him. I was noticeably perturbed, adding to the uncomfortable nature of the whole experience. Then, accompanying a second refill, it hit me instantly. This guy was a drunken makeout of the most epic proportions. I'm talking hours of swapping spit on a couch while random music videos on late night VH1 lit the room. I'm talking waking up in the morning crammed uncomfortably on a couch with a guy you hardly know and realizing you were a lipslut again. Yes, I was once a lipslut and there over wings and beer sat one of my conquests.
While the realization shown in shades of red across my face, I saw a flash in his eyes that told me he'd figured it out too. We'd both fought through the drunken haze and remembered each other. It only made the situation more uncomfortable. The cougar instantly become possessive of her younger pray as if she knew exactly what was going on. While she clung to his arm, Drunken Makeout ashamedly averted his eyes to the wings before him. And then there was me uncomfortably backing away as my burning red cheeks clashed with the orange of my shorts.
Cowering behind the wall of the waitstation I suddenly realized that I had no reason to be so ashamed. I had the upper hand. He was with an aging and possessive cougar that gripped him like an animal. He was awkward in his conversation. He was wearing jorts, the fashion mistake of long jean shorts that should have died in 1998. I don't do insecurity and I most certainly don't do jorts. Here he was with his cougar and there I was looking smoking hot as Hooters Girl extraordinaire. Yes, I had the upper hand for sure.
So I walked out with confidence, smiled and continued serving the pair as if I didn't have a care in the world. Yes, Drunken Makeout, we spent a shitty night together on a couch, but I don't even care. I am a Hooters Girl and shit happens. Have fun with your cougar.