Receipt Art: September 29, 2010

Today two of my regulars let me know they were thinking about buying a new "toy."  Being that they are twenty-something dudes I pretty much assumed it was a Jeep, a motorcycle, a snowmobile, a large TV, or kegorator.  I was right on the Jeep.  Naturally the Jeep was just begging for a receipt art.

I'm pretty proud of this one.  Mostly this is because for guessing and making shit up I think that Jeep turned out pretty damn well.  I mean you can totally tell it's a Jeep because it has that distinctive grill and headlights.  Yeah, I'm talking out my ass right now.

Oh and I'm trying a few new effects to make the receipt art standout a little more from the beers and hamburgers and fries.  Bear with me on that.

What Barbie Taught Me About Refills

My little sister and I are Red Robin addicts.  There, I said it.  Isn't that step one?  Anyway, our dependence began young.  I wasn't able to drive yet and my parents' business was conveniently close to a Red Robin and nothing else in the way of food (unless you count Bob's Pizza, but I'm not sure you could even count that as food let alone pizza).  Out of simple necessity we would walk over to Red Robin to spend the money Mom gave us on burgers and bottomless Freckled Lemonades.  And that's how they got us addicted.  Apparently they add crack or meth - I hear that's highly addictive - to their shit because once you start you just can't stop.  Ok, so it's probably just the grease and sugar that got to us, but whatever.

But this story isn't about my love for Red Robin burgers and the fact that they give you all the steak fries you can shove in your face.  This story is about how Red Robin taught me to give refills.  Yes, you heard me right.  Refills.

Back in the day at our Red Robin they only hired really, really good-looking people.  That's not even a joke.  Everyone was super hot.  So super hot that even at the age of twelve I knew what was going on.  There used to be one girl in particular that I thought was Barbie pretty, long blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect everything else.  Of course I knew this because I still played with Barbies.  Anyway, I always wanted this girl to be our waitress simply because she was the prettiest.  I was apparently vain as a child.

One fateful day, they sat us in a booth directly under the carousel horse.  This was a good sign as we coveted sitting as near to the carousel horse as possible.  My sister was looking up at the horse contemplating why she couldn't ride it, when I noticed Barbie walking up.  Score.  Mark that goal off my twelve-year-old to-do list.

So there we are in awe of this walking doll when we start to realize she's really not very good at her job.  Now you before you jump down preteen Sauce's little throat realize that afore mentioned business my parents owned happened to be a bakery/cafe.  We knew food service.  And we knew Barbie sucked.  It was mildly disheartening.

Barbie did countless annoying things that now all blend together, but one in particular still stands out even today and has markedly influenced the way I wait tables.  Barbie was an over-refiller.  What I mean by this is that she would CONSTANTLY bring drinks out to us with no prompting.  At first it seemed pretty cool; my bottomless Freckled Lemonade was more bottomless than ever.  But then it got to the point where she was bringing them before our last glasses were even close to half empty.  Suddenly, we found ourselves surrounded by so many half empty glasses that the food runner had a hard time finding room for our burgers.  Seriously.  That's how many freaking lemonades this lady had brought us.

I remember sitting there getting increasingly annoyed.  I didn't want any more lemonade, but it just kept coming.  Of course being twelve and extremely introverted I was way to shy to even begin to ask her to stop.  So we just let it slide.  But at the end of the meal we actually filled out the dreaded comment card.  Yes, an eight and a twelve year old left a negative comment once at Red Robin.  I recall writing something to the effect of "we got too much lemonade and we didn't want anymore."  I also think I said to "be nice and ask next time."  Something like that.  What I wouldn't give to see that thing now.  I can only imagine our "smile meter" marks weren't very high.

And that is how Barbie at Red Robin taught me how to refill drinks.  I almost always ask if my guests want a refill because guess what?  Sometimes they don't effing want one.  It really is possible, even in "I want it now" America, that they may only want one refill.  Or that they possibly only need one, solitary Coca-Cola.  Scary thought, I know.  Either way, I'm going to ask or point or awkwardly gesture or otherwise let you know that I made plans to fill up your glass.  That way I can avoid drink overload.  Trust me, it can be just as annoying as not having enough.  Barbie proved it.

So thanks, Barbie at Red Robin.  Way to train me.

UPDATE:  My mom reminded me that we even went so far as to hide our drinks behind the table tents after awhile so she couldn't see how full they were.  Yeah, it was that bad.

Discounted Dinning Can Suck It

I hate when people use discounts.  I'll be clear that I am all for people saving money.  I mean, I'm the type of girl that begins her shopping at the back of a store.  You know, where the clearance racks are.  I get it; a deal is a good thing.  What's not a good thing is when someone uses a discount of some sort in a restaurant.  I can pretty much guarantee you that most servers automatically hate you when you throw down a coupon.  It's not that you're a bad person, but odds are you are the type of person that really sucks at math.

Ok, so here's the deal.  For some reason it seems to be a common belief that when you get a discounted meal this also means that you get a discount on your tip.  This is most definitely not effing true.  Just because you got 25% off your entree doesn't mean I brought you 25% less food.  Or filled up your drink 25% less times.  Or looked and acted 25% less like a hot ass Hooters Girl.  You see even if you food was discounted it doesn't mean you get to use said discount against your tip.

I hate this the most when people use Lunch Punch Cards.  Hooters has this sweet thing they do during the weekdays and basically you pay for seven meals and your eighth is free.  As you can imagine this can be a pretty good way to bring people in during the week.  And I'm all for bringing people into the restaurant.  What I'm not for is when people get to that coveted free meal and they totally screw me.

For example, today we had two gentlemen who each had full Lunch Punch Cards.  Yay, free shit!  Good for you, dudes.  They had a couple burgers with extra toppings and took full advantage of the whole free refill thing.  Their initial bill was just over $20.  But of course they had their sweet Lunch Punch Cards.  So when all was said and done all they had to pay for was two Diet Cokes - a whopping $4.98.  So do you think they left the $4.00 they should have?  Of course not.  That would make sense.  Instead they left me a whole dollar.  Because that is 20% on $4.98 after all.  Hell that's even a little extra for me to go crazy with.  My bank account adores you.

For the record, please tip on the original amount of your bill.  Even if your whole meal is free.  Actually, if your whole meal is free you could probably stand to give me more than 20% of the original but whatever.  All I'm saying is appreciate your server enough to tip them the correct way no matter how much of a deal you're getting on dinner.  Trust me, you're still getting a deal.  And I effing know deals.

Share Some Sauce

I don't know if you noticed, but I added a fancy little SHARE button to my posts.  See him down there looking all cute and icony?  Yeah, I'm a fan.  A huge, nerdy, blogging fan.

Now if you read a post you particularly enjoy because I'm being extra awesome you can share it with your best friend/grandma/frenemy/boss/crush.  You know, all those special people in your life who could use a little extra Sauce.

Thanks for reading and thanks in advance for sharing!

Is That Bear Really a Wolf?

I just noticed that the picture I randomly stole off the Internet in my "To Working Doubles" post makes absolutely no sense in any way shape or from.  Let us explore.

The words seem to make sense even if they are marginally lame.  Wait are we talking about bears and looking at a wolves?  Yup, that certainly seems to be the case.  It makes me wonder if the artist of this fine creation was trying to say something deeper - as if they are mad as a wolf when asked to work a double - or if they just really don't know what a bear looks like.  I've decided on the latter.  This is just a hunch.

News flash, that is certainly not a bear.  I'm from Montana.  We have bears and wolves and other wild things just roaming around.  This makes me an expert on all thing wildernessy and in my expert opinion that is most certainly a wolf.  But I could be wrong.  Maybe it's a bear in disguise. 

Ah the things I contemplate when I can't sleep.  My mind amazes me and frightens me all at once.

The Internet Freaks Me Out

The other day as I randomly pursuing the Internet looking for Hooters shit because I have no life want to make this blog more interesting, it suddenly dawned on me that I am probably all over the effing Google Machine.  I came to this realization because I started to actually pay attention to the trillion pictures of random Hooters Girls that come up when you search "Hooters Girl."  I've searched this literally a thousand times.  In fact, I bet Google and the government are probably concerned with just how much I search those very words.  Don't worry, Internet Police, I'm a blogger - not a creep.  Promise.

So there I am looking at all these pictures of pretty girls from around the world when I suddenly think about just how many of these pictures could feature me.  Now, I'll say for the record that I haven't come across any random photos of me.  To be honest that would freak the shit right out of me.  I'm fine being in 1,932 radome Facebook albums as long as I don't come across a one of them.  Yes, Hooters may be "relatively famous" and as  Hooters Girl I may just be part of that - but this is a part of my relative fame I would rather choose to ignore.  And here is why.

In this picture the girls look nice.  Yay, we're pretty and pretend to like douches who don't know how to use buttons yet!  Tolerable.

But what if my eyes are closed?  No one looks good when their eyes are closed.  This is automatic grounds for a picture retake.  No exceptions.  But maybe Jim Bob's cousin Bobby Ray doesn't know this crucial rule?  Or what if my ass is hanging out of my ill-fitting old-style Hooters shorts in a completely unflattering way that makes my backside look eighteen feet long?  That would be most unforgivable.

Or what if I'm making some weird face?  Now, I have plenty of weird faces overflowing each and every one of my Facebook albums.  Actually I am the queen of weird face.  It's my trademark and I'm not ashamed.  But I like having the power of untagging pictures where weird face doesn't intersect pretty face.  Yes, you can indeed have both at once.  There is a vast difference between pretty weird face and ugly weird face.  (On an unrelated note, please observe how much cuter the shorts are these days.  Thanks, Hooters, we all owe you one.)

But worst of all, what if someone has posted a picture of my bum.  Yes, I work at Hooters and said bum is on display all the time.  I am clearly fine with this, but a picture of a walking butt isn't all that great if you ask me.  Especially if my shorts are being eaten by my ass.

I wish I could go back to ignorant bliss.

To Working Doubles

We don't do doubles.  It has long been a rule that at Hooters of Missoula that a girl will only work one shift a day.  I'm not really sure why this is, but I think it might have something to do with the fact that most girls can't be truly hooterrific for more than five to six hours at a time.  Just think about being that peppy and happy and nice for ten or more hours while drunks and entitled bitches harass the shit right out of you.  Yeah, that doesn't sound too fun does it?

Of course sometimes - like tomorrow - college homecoming and UFC decide to happen on the same day.  This means two things:

1)  Every collegiate bitch at Hooters will request the day off to get wasted and pretend to give two shits about football.  I understand.  I've been there.  The difference is I legitimately do care about football and actually understand the rules.  But whatever, I had my college experience.  Knock 'em dead, ladies.

2)  Girls not taking the day off to be wasted - which is most - will avoid UFC like the plague.  This is because UFC means you will either make a shitload of money or no money at all - the latter being all too common.  This will depend on your section, which are always small on UFC nights, and who sits in said section.  If you get one or more tables of teenagers in your five to six table section you are totally screwed.  They will all order waters and ten boneless wings for twelve people to split.  It pretty much rocks.

So what happens when a gillion people request the day off?  It means that you might end up working an elusive double.  And by might end up, I really mean that out of the entire staff of Hooters Girls I am the only one working a double.  I think this might be because I am most excellent at always being happy.  And I totally rock my job.

Yup, I'll be at Hooters from 10 a.m. until midnight or maybe even later.  I'm hoping it will give me lots to write about.  I'm also hoping that I will be swimming in money just like Uncle McScrooge.  You know, McSrooge from "DuckTales" only without the funny accent and live-in nephews.  That's a nice visual.

Receipt Art: September 21, 2010

This receipt art is really simple, but I think that's what I like about it.  I also like that I took my ass to Staples and bought a multi-colored pack of Sharpie Pens.  Thanks for being my newest addiction; right after Facebook, string cheese and kissing Dreamy.

Just look at the colorful, peaceful little scene.  Mmmm, Sharpie Pens.

The Smoking Contract

I've got a new man in my life.  And by new man I actually mean a guy I've dated for a while but haven't talked about.  It's not that I don't want to talk about him, it's that for some reason blogging seems to jinx my relationships.  Of course it could also have a lot to do with the fact that I've had rather horrible taste in men in the past.  Horrible, horrible taste.  Naturally, that probably leads you to question my taste this time around.  Fear not, this time I have found myself a nice guy.  I'm talking southern gentleman nice.  And he's tall.  So in tall in fact that he makes me look short even in my most towering of heels.  He is six feet, eight inches of pure tall, dark and handsome awesomeness.  Plus he was a college athlete like me.  Plus he sings.  Plus he cooks me dinner.  As far as I'm concerned he's a keeper.

But not everyone can be perfect.  Even tall, gorgeous, compatible men.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend decides to have a vice that frankly disgusts the shit right out of you.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend smokes.  And that is a major turn-off.  Once upon a time I decided I would never date a smoker.  Then Dreamy came along and I broke my rule right in half.  Now by broke my rule I really mean that I pester him relentlessly to quit smoking.  And I never kiss him after a cigarette.  Maybe that sounds mean, but he's wanted to quit.  Why not help him along a bit by withholding my sweet kisses?

So he's been trying to quit.  Not so much for me, but for himself.  It hasn't been easy for him and though he's cut back significantly he still can't seem to completely kick it.  Which is understandable; it's addictive I hear.  So what are a boy and his adorable girlfriend to do?  Well they make a contract.  Wait, what?  Yeah, they make a contract.  He quits and I do something for him.  So what does he get out of quitting?  He gets blonde Sauce.

You see, long ago in the ancient times of two and a half years ago I was blonde.  In fact though I'm now brunette I was blonde for 23 whole years.  That's a lot of blondeness.  But one day this blonde decided to become a brunette.  And then cut her once long hair into a short A-line cut.  You could call it a change.  A sexy change that got tons of compliments.  But not everyone was happy with the new brunette Sauce.  By everyone I mean my Dutch dad.  After all what is more Dutch than a tall, blonde chick?  Well maybe a tall, blonde chick in wooden shoes, but you get the idea.

Then Dreamy came along and, after seeing a few pictures, joined team dad.  He wanted to see the blonde in person and not just in a bunch of old Facebook albums.  So after some thought I decided to offer to dye my hair in exchange for him quitting smoking.  And he loved it.  If he can quit smoking and maintain it for two months - and my spies confirm - I will become blonde once again.  I think it's a fair trade. 

By Christmas we may again have a blonde Sauce on our hands.  Don't worry, I won't let all the dye go to my head.

Receipt Art: September 15, 2010

I find it mildly ironic that I've managed to do receipt artworks for months upon months and I've never featured an owl.  You'd think that working at Hooters I would have drawn an owl first or second or maybe third if I had really ideas for the first two.  But nope, I just drew my very first little owl today.  I have to say I think I like him.

And not only is he cute, but he's friendly too!  Hoo, hoo!  Thank hoo!

Yeah, sometimes I do make even myself sick with how lamely corny I can be.

All-You-Can-Eat Wings

Tuesday nights mean all-you-can-eat wings at my Hooters.  This means that all sorts of hungry people come out of the woodwork to stuff their faces for $12.99.  I'm pretty sure there are few things more American.  God bless the U.S. of A.!  Whatever.  As I was saying, Tuesday nights mean you can get all the wings your tummy can handle for just $12.99.  Delicious, greasy goodness.

Generally all-you-can-eat equates to twenty wings.  Served in plates of ten, four times out of five people will usually just order two plates.  Sometimes people order three.  More than three plates is a rarity indeed.  Basically what all this means is that we usually get rid of lots of wings and still make money.  Yeah, not as much as we normally would perhaps, but whatever.  A man still has to drink his money away, right?

Last week I sold my share of wings.  And most people hardly took advantage.  As usual the twenty wing limit ruled the evening.  People's eyes just seem to be bigger than their stomachs.  Then the linemen came in.  Eight huge, collegiate linemen with hunger in their eyes and less than twenty bucks in their pockets.  It was evident right away that these guys were here to eat some wings.  Of course by eat I actually mean destroy.  Yes, these guys were here to destroy some wings.  I wisely notified the kitchen.

Ten at time the wings flew out of the sell window at speeds previously unheard of.  Almost as quickly as the wings appeared at the table, the mountain of bones grew.  Naturally, being manly type men who enjoy visualizing their conquests, not a bone was allowed to be cleared from the table.  No pre-busing allowed.  Annoying.  Yes.  Amazing.  Damn right.

Slowly, men began to drop out.  It seems even a lineman can only handle so many wings.  Stomachs were full and happy, but a few were out to prove something.  A few were ready to make both wings and friends their little bitches.  Finally, there were only two in a race to eat the most wings.  And eat they did.  Plates and plates of wings.  And the bone mountain grew.

Eventually the pace slowed and pain set in.  One finally dropped the white flag of surrender.  He'd finished eighty wings.  Being a real man, it was decided that the last competitor would have to finish one more serving for the win.  Ten more wings and he had stomached ninety hot wings.  But what is ninety?  Ninety is just some number that is way more than fifty but not quite 100.  Ninety is a number for pussies.   Why not go for 100 and be a real man?

That's right, last Tuesday I witness a man eat 100 wings.  I was disgustingly inspired.  As such I made him a one of a kind award - a wing plate emblazoned with "I ate 100 wings @ Hooters" in permanent marker.  A real family heirloom to hand down to the kids for generations.  We also gave him a t-shirt.  And a prime spot on our photo "Wall of Shame."  And what I can only imagine is the painful satisfaction of 100 wings.  All for $12.99.  I wonder who got the best end of that deal.

When all was done the eight linemen put down 680 wings.  At $12.99 a piece.  That's 680 wings for $103.92.  Savvy shopping, boys.

Hopefully I'll see you tonight, my linemen.  That's if you've awoken from your food comas yet of course.

Receipt Art: September 12, 2010

I love football.  I love college football.  I love University of Montana college football.  But more than I love Griz football (which is a whole hell of a lot), I love our mascot, Monte.  Monte is quite possibly the most legit mascot ever.  He breakdances, crowd-surfs, streaks, rides horses, hits goal posts at a full sprint, enters the stadium on a Harley and does a million other amazing things that take him from regular mascot lame to totally freaking awesome. I mean one of our past Monte performers is now Benny the Bull.  As in Benny the Bull of the Chicago Bulls.  That's just a sampling of how utterly legitimate Monte is.  I adore him.

Clearly I had to dedicate a receipt art to my beloved little Monte.  It's a decent first attempt.  And yes I know he has a weird leg deformity of some sort going on.  It's ok, I still accept him.

I apologize for the fact that I was apparently drunk when I took the picture causing the strange left side blur..  Unfortunately I was at work when I took it which means the I wasn't apparently drunk.  I was ridiculously sober.  I guess I just suck at taking pictures.  Note to self, photography is not a future career path.

Oh and the Griz lost.  To Cal Poly.  Dear University of Montana, welcome to no longer being #1 in the nation.  Sad face.  Then again if you didn't play like douches you'd still be on top.  I take back my sad face.  Reality says hello!

More important than that crap, Monte is nominated for the Capital One Mascot of the Year.  Again.  He's won twice.  Please go to Capitalonebowl.com and vote for him.  Love you long time.

Hooters Fall Football Menu

Because nothing goes better with football season than deliciousness, Hooters has kicked off their football themed fall seasonal menu.  Being a very dedicated and hungry employee, I made it my mission to try each of the four items available for a limited time only.  The things I do for my job.

Luckily, stuffing my face means that you get a play-by-play of all the menu awesomeness.  I present to you my totally unbiased, honest opinions of Hooters' fall offerings.  I am not responsible for any drooling on your computer.

Speedway Sandwich
The Speedway Sandwich is grilled chicken breast smothered in Hooters signature Daytona wing sauce.  If you haven't tried Daytona on your wings, first off you should and I generally describe it as a "spicy yet sweet sauce with a decent kick."  It's also caramelized on the grill after being applied to your favorite fried or grilled item.  This makes it amazing.  Try it now. 

Back to the sandwich.  Like I said, the Speedway features a chicken breast grilled and tossed in Daytona sauce.  It is then topped with melty cheddar cheese, bacon, tomatoes and green onions all on a ciabatta roll.  The sandwich is served with a side of baked beans.

Sounds amazing right?  Yeah, I thought so too.  Sadly, this offering disappointed me and several customers I've served it too.  For having all that good shit on it the Speedway seemed surprising bland to me.  Not that is wasn't good it just wasn't incredibly memorable.  There was no, "oh shit this sandwich blew my effing mind!"  It's still a decent sandwich, but definitely not my favorite item on the menu.  Also, I get the whole Daytona/Speedway thing they have going with the name, but this is a football menu.  Nascar?  Football?  Step it up, people.

Baja Burger
The Baja burger is a Southwestern style burger.  It features a half-pound all-beef burger covered in provolone cheese, pico de gallo, jalapeños and a delicious ancho chipotle sauce.  Served with a side of baked beans.

You need to go to the nearest Hooters right now and put this burger in your mouth.  I don't care if the closest Hooters is ten hours away or on Mars or whatever; you need this burger now.  It's seriously that good.  Hands down my favorite thing currently on the Hooters menu.  I have dreams about this burger.  Delicious, amazing, wonderful dreams.  I dread the day it leaves the menu.

BBQ Sandwich
The BBQ Sandwich features Hooters barbeque pork topped with coleslaw and onion tanglers (we do onion rings) on a ciabatta roll.  It also is the only special item that doesn't come with stupid beans.  It comes with sweet potato fries.  This makes it infinitely more awesome.

This is my second favorite of the featured items.  Of course by second favorite I actually mean that it wishes it could be half as good as the Baja Burger.  But I'm clearly Baja biased.  All things considered it's a darn scrumptious sandwich.  I even liked the sweet potato fries and those sorts of things generally aren't my style.  So I suppose that means they are pretty delish too.

Nacho Ordinary Cheeseburger
Just like the Baja Burger, the Nacho Ordinary Cheeseburger starts with Hooters half-pound burger.  It's then finished off with a bit of chili, cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato and sour cream.  It is also served with baked beans.

Yeah, this burger is good but I'm not really a fan of chili on my burger.  It's a burger, is more meat really necessary?  Not for this little lady.  This is clearly a manly-man burger meant for someone with chest hair and muscles and rough hands.  This burger is for a man that doesn't mind getting dirty.  This is a burger meant for the man of my dreams.

I suggest you hop on over to Hooters and try all these little delights for yourself.  Or just the Baja Burger.  Mmmm, Baja Burger.

A Tip

I got a tip at work today.  "Don't squat with your spurs on."  Seems like solid advice.

With Warmest Regard

I got some mail at Hooters the other day.  This is always relatively exciting because it means that you are awesome enough for someone to actually waste a stamp on you.  That's practically a gillion cents these days with the way stamps can't ever seem to decide how much they should be.  I mean that's a really big deal.  This was my fourth time receiving mail at Hooters.  You can deduce for yourself how awesome that makes me.

So there I was at jumpstart, getting ready to jumpstart my day, when my mail was delivered to me upon a silver plater.  Ok, that's a lie.  So there I was when my mail was delivered to me by being thrown onto the table.  I hastily opened it and was greeted by both a card and letter.  I felt uber appreciated.  Then I read it.

I now present you the contents of my Hooters mail.

First the greeting card:
To the hostess with the mostest...
from the guest who was impressed!

Thanks!

*WARMEST REGARDS*
J.D.

And the best part, the letter (with my personal comments bolded):
Aug,25,2010

Hi Sauce,
Do you remember me?  (Nope.)  I was traveling the country and stopped by Hooters for lunch.  (Yeah, that doesn't narrow it down.)  You waited on me and we had some laughs.  I never forget people that make me laugh.  THANK YOU!  You are a lovely woman and it was the highlight of my day.

The reason for this note is to ask if we chat occasionally? ( I'm starting to catch just a hint of creepy.)  I have a many friends that I like to keep track of their life and careers as the travel through life.  You told me you have aspirations of becoming a sports announcer (Um, no.  I have never said that.  Ever.) or even higher than that.  Maybe a word or encouragement is all that some people need to take that next step.  It is really up to you.  (OK, not too creepy now.  Maybe it was a false alarm.)  Some of my friends have far exceeded their dreams, others have exchanged a life of mediocrity for a safe boring life.  That is OK too.  Maybe they never saw their potential.  (Not bad at all.  Thanks, dude!)

Let me know if you wish to communicate via email or face-book and would like to be a friend?  If it is not to be that is fine with me and it was a pleasure meeting you.  GOOD LUCK!  Thanks.

*WARMEST REGARD*
J.D.

INFO:
Address provided

555-555-5555 will change soon just so you know (Thanks?)
Email address provided.




You know, overall that wasn't so bad!  Yeah, it got a little creepy for a half of half of second, but overall I just feel appreciated.  How very warm and fuzzy!

Then the Facebook messages started.  And the friend invites.  Over.  And Over.  And Over.  Now that was creepy.

The joys of Hooters!

Things to Come

So I'm sure lots of you are wondering if I got lost in North Dakota.  No, I didn't get lost.  That would impossible because as I was recently told, "you could watch your dog run away for a week in NoDak."  True story.  I didn't get lost.  I just got sidetracked.

You see, big things are happening to this little blog and I've been a little busy tending to things to come.  Yes, I am being vague.  Yes, I realize that is probably annoying.  Yes, there really are big things happening but as of yet I'm not quite ready to let you all in them.  Just know that I am pretty excited about it and I think that lots of you will be too.  So stick with me here.

I promise that posting will now go back to it's more regular schedule.  I'm sure you were worried.

Thanks for hanging in there!

Hey There

Just thought I'd drop a quick line to let you know that the Hootersaurus hasn't gotten me.  I am indeed still alive.  Currently, I am headed east to sing in a wedding in Minnesota.  I'm driving.  This is clearly because I am insane.

I'll be back early next week.  If I don't die driving across North Dakota of course.