Drive By Photography

There is nothing that I find funnier than people who want to say they’ve been to Hooters, but don’t actually want to go inside.  Yes, this actually happens.  And I know that it happens because I see the shit with my own eyes several times a week; it’s a common occurrence.

It generally goes a little something like this:

PLEASE, come on in!  CREDIT.

A car pulls into the parking lot.  Rather than parking however, the car will conveniently stop directly in the main flow of traffic – these people are never about the convenience of others.  The car stops, but remains running, and one or more people will quickly jump out.  It’s apparent they’ve planned this out ahead of time as they group together and someone snaps a quick picture.  My favorite of these instances is when the driver remains in the car and also serves as photographer to ensure for the fastest getaway possible.

With photographic proof of their stop at Hooters safely stored on a cellphone memory card, the group rushes back to the car nearly as fast as they got out of it.  I can only imagine the giddy laughter and sexual innuendo-laced conversations taking place as the vehicle speeds away.  We’ve experienced a drive by and it all takes less than a minute.

Now I could be mistaken, but I don’t think this goes down at the Red Lobster.  As awesome as their northeastern, beach theme is I don’t think people stop there specifically to snap a photo for the old scrapbook.  This is a Hooters phenomenon that has to do with the ladies inside.  Apparently those ladies are so awesome even a picture of the building that holds them is worth a Facebook post that will be the envy of all your friends.  By the way, Red Lobster has ladies that work there too in case you were wondering.  I checked.

I find myself wondering how a picture of the outside of a chain restaurant can really be all that interesting.  That’s right, this is because it’s not interesting at all.  Yet this still happens with astonishing regularity.  Such things should be reserved for sports stadiums, national monuments, the homes of celebrities and the occasional Mormon temple.  Hooters isn’t and shouldn’t be on this list. 

From my usual post at the bar, I have a primo view of the photographers as they come and go.  Do you think they know that the best pictures happen inside?  Pictures with real girls in real Hooters uniforms?  Do they also not realize that if they come inside these same girls will bring plates upon plates of delicious fried food until they can longer force another bite into their mouths?  It’s America at its finest within these hallowed doors, my friends.  You attack photographers are really missing out.

So the next time your friend suggests stopping by Hooters for a picture, let them know that Sauce has extended a personal invitation for them to actually come inside.  I’ll even hold the door for you because I’m good like that.  You’re welcome.

A Comparison

University of Oregon women's track team circa 1980-something.

CREDIT.

Hooters Girls cira 2000-something.

CREDIT.

Well doesn't that look remarkably similar.  Yes, there are certain physical differences (being a former collegiate track athlete I can assure you that curves and runners are generally mutually exclusive), but the uniforms are nearly interchangeable in a lot of ways.  So is the uniform inappropriate?  My feelings are certainly not.  Outdated?  Perhaps.

What do you think?

Paychecks or Piercings

When training, sometimes things just don’t work out.  You’ll have a girl who comes in and almost from the beginning you can tell she won’t last long.  The fact of the matter is that some girls just aren’t cut out to be Hooters Girls.  Usually girls will make it through training and few shifts and then they’ll simply stop showing up.  Or there are the times when they don’t make it through training at all.  Either way it’s an awful lot of wasted effort for everyone involved.

Our last trainee had a hard time from the beginning.  In fact she had such a hard time that she only lasted one training shift.  Yes, only shift.  Now generally this wouldn’t really be blogworthy.  After all, this is isn’t the first time a girl has quit so quickly.  This time it wasn’t the outcome that was so surprising, but rather the reason.

She didn’t quit because it was hard or she was uncomfortable or she was overwhelmed.  She quit over a facial piercing and her recently manicured fingers.  Seriously.

I think I like her makeup best.  CREDIT.

Hooters has a rather strict policy on the way you present yourself at work.  This includes no facial piercings and French manicures only among a myriad of other things.  This trainee had a lip ring and a set of deep red nails.  Upon arriving for her first shift, she was told she’d have to remove her lip ring and that she’d also have to change her nails within the next few days due to Hooters’ image policies – policies she’d been made aware of when hired.

“But I haven’t taken my lip ring out in like two years!”

“I just got my nails done yesterday!”

She hemmed and hawed and complained and finally begrudgingly took out her lip ring.  She went through her shift and that’s the last we saw her.  So a manager called inquiring as to her missing her second training shift.  It was at this time she informed the manager she didn’t want to take out her lip ring for a job.  She’d take the jewelry over a paycheck.

Now I realize that Hooters is strict when it comes to image, but most restaurants – and even many other jobs in general – have a similar policy when it comes to facial piercings.  Hooters is definitely in the majority as far as not allowing metal all up in your business.  I mean I have a nose piercing and I’ve never thought twice about taking that shit out and getting my ass to work.  Call me crazy, but I’d much rather have a job than a bedazzled face.  If you don’t have income how do you expect to buy that cubic zirconia lip stud you’ve had your eye on?

All I know is that this little lady is probably going to have a rude awakening when she goes to apply for her next job and – nine times out of ten – they ask her remove her lip ring.  This is the real world and the real world doesn’t like metal faces.  It’s sad, but oh so true.  I have the hole in my left nostril to prove it.

The Hunt for the Perfect Table

Pick a table, any table.  CREDIT.

Believe it or not, when your waiter or waitress asks you if you have a seating preference they actually do give a shit.  Contrary to what is apparently popular belief, I do not ask this question for my own health or amusement.  If you want a booth, I want you to have a booth.  That’s how much I care.

On the other hand, if you don’t have a preference that’s fine as well.  I have no problem choosing for you.  Odds are when this happens I’ll automatically take you to my section.  Or I’ll be nice and seat my coworkers so we can keep an even rotation.  However if you do – like I said – want a booth and I don’t have booths in my section I won’t force you to sit at a high table.

What I really don’t like is when you tell me you don’t care when in fact you do.  Generally these situations happen a little something like this:

Sauce:  “Do you have a preference where you’d care to sit today: booth, high table, bar?”

Customer:  “Oh we really don’t care.  Wherever works.”

So I do what the customer says and take them “wherever.”  This involves arbitrarily choosing a table just because I effing feel like it.

Customer:  “Um, no.  Not this table.”

Sauce:  “Alright, well how about this one over here then?  Will this work better for you?”

Customer:  “No, I think that one.  We’d really like a booth.”

Bitch, please.  Did I not give you a choice?  Yes, Yes I did.  And believe it or not I actually did so on purpose.  I wanted you to sit where you wanted to sit.  Call me crazy, but that just seems polite.  Now don’t waste my time taking me on an exploratory journey through the land of open tables.  I am not Lewis.  You are not Clark.  This is not the freaking Louisiana Purchase.  This is Hooters and I want you to sit your ass down, be happy about it, stuff your face and tip me for the privilege of it all.

Here’s the thing, your server actually has other stuff to do besides go on wild goose chases for a table you said you didn’t care about.  If you know what you want by all means go ahead and tell me and save us all a little bit of time.  As much as I’d like to be a mind reader, it’s a skill I thus far fail to possess.  Can I put on that on my Christmas list?

Dear Santa,
I’d really like the following things for Christmas:
The ability to the read minds of needy customers
20% or more tippers
Nylons that don’t run
Rent that pays itself
A kitten

I don’t think that’s too much to ask for. 

(Nearly) Six Weeks of Freedom

My heaven and hell, Gallagher Business Building.
CREDIT.

Well I did it.  After turning in one last paper yesterday afternoon I have officially finished my first semester of graduate school.  Perhaps the best part is that - I think - I managed to get away with a report card full of As.  I want to scream and laugh and cry and get as drunk as possible.  But most of all I want to spend my mornings sleeping in and not having dreams about accounting or finance.

I am free until the 23rd of January and I fully intend to spend each and every one of those days loving my life.  Next semester is like a thunderstorm looming in the distance, classes tumbling around like thunder.  And there is an awful lot of thunder on the horizon.

In addition to enjoying my life a little bit more, I intend to spend an awful lot of time with all of you.  Now that I'm done bullshitting through papers on my "personal theory of innovation," I have a lot more brainpower that is just begging to be used for less academic interests.  You're welcome, one of those interests is you.

Now who wants to get me a drink?  What, you say it's only 10:00 am?  Well that's what mimosas and bloody mary's were invented for.

I Want to Be On TV

Tonight I am going to a playoff game.  This is awesome for several reasons.  First, it is awesome because here in the FCS (or Football College Subdivision or Division 1-AA or whatever the heck else you want to call it) we actually believe in playoffs.  I'm talking to you BCS.  Stop being a money grubbing whore and instate a playoff system.  Don't even get me started.  Seriously.

Second, now that I'm done venting, this is awesome because it's a night game.  To most this wouldn't be cool, but at our stadium we have no lights.  Yes, a stadium that seats 26,000 and is arguably one of the nicest (if not the nicest) in its conference nationally has no lights.  We're working it.  Until then, to host a night game portable lights are brought in at a cost that would have easily paid my college tuition in full.  And probably bought me a car.  Or two.

Now this might seem ridiculous, but it makes sense when you consider the third and definitely most awesome thing about this game is that it's airing tonight, in primetime, on ESPN.  And those Disney sports people are footing that light bill.  Anyway, this is a big deal for the University of Montana.  While we're a favorite since the playoffs started, this means that ESPN thinks we're pretty great too.  This is ESPN people, they know their shit.

While our playoff games have made national television before, they are usually relegated to little sister channel, ESPN 2.  This my friends is the big show.  I, for one, am very excited.

Now, I need you to do the following things:

1. Watch ESPN this evening beginning at 8:00 p.m. Eastern.   You will receive extra credit if you wear maroon.  Double extra credit if you TiVo.
2. Realize how warm your house is when the commentators inevitably remark on the fact that it is fifteen degrees fahrenheit.
3. Become deeply enthralled in the excitement of a playoff.  Yup, I'm talking to you again BCS.
4. Perhaps most important, look for the following sign.  If it is being held by a chick, that's likely me.  If it's being held by a giant man who towers over all the regular looking people, that's probably Dreamy.  If you don't see anyone holding it we have both passed away from hypothermia or alcohol poisoning.

The sign is a reference to the fact that first off, we are hardly ever on ESPN and also that our playoff game last week was only aired on ESPN 3.  If you are unfamiliar, this is an Internet service.  An Internet service that isn't available in the majority of the state of Montana due to limited bandwidth through many providers.  It was a big deal.  In fact it was such a big deal that enough people whined and complained to ESPN (including our representatives and governor) that they ended up offering it on pay-per-view.  And ending up making lots of money.  Everybody wins!

Whatever, all you really need to be concerned with is the fact that it has glitter on it.  That's more important than anything really.

So I hope you'll follow my steps for Friday night enjoyment.  Think of me as I freeze my ass of in a peppermint schnapps induced euphoria.  

GO GRIZ!!!

The Death of a Taco

Just imagine all those soldiers left behind.

I’ve always snickered at people who left to-go boxes behind after eating.   How hard is to remember the leftovers from a meal you just ate?  I’ve thrown away wings and burgers and countless fried pickles.  And every time I’ve thought to myself how silly that is.  Yes, I have judged.

And then it happened, Dreamy and I enjoyed a lovely meal at one of our favorite restaurants in town.  They legitimately have the best potato soup I’ve every stuffed my face with.  This is coming from a girl who loves potato soups above all other soups; you know this shit is good.  Anyway, I’d had my soup and settled on the grilled mahi tacos for my entrée.  Of course being that is America, I was soon staring down at a plate consumed by two huge tacos.  I knew immediately I would only be able to tackle one.

That’s just what happened.  Finishing one taco, I nicely asked for a box to take the other home with me.  I loaded up my taco and Dreamy and I sat and talked for a bit.  And the taco waited.  Finally we got up to leave and made our way to the door.  I was already on my way when I’d realized the taco had been left behind.  First, I was disappointed because it was a good effing taco.  I had already planned my lunch around its deliciousness.  Second, I was disappointed because I’d spent so many shifts judging those who left behind their food.  Karma had gotten me and she was a bitch.

From this day forward I vow to no longer judge your forgetfulness.  I vow to simply remove your food from the table and mourn the loss.  I vow to remember my poor, lonely taco.  I’ll miss you, old friend.

The Internet Doen't LIke Productivity

This is fairly accurate.

You're welcome for that insight.

And we can't leave out you boys.

And with that my day is officially complete.

If Martha Stewart Worked At Hooters

If Martha Stewart worked at Hooters, she would have spent the day as I did and produced the most delightfully tacky, yet unrefined Christmas tree that Hooters has ever seen.  Here's the thing about Martha effing Stewart, she's a master crafter.  You could give the woman anything and she'd turn that crap into the most marvelous thing you've probably ever seen.  Martha is the MacGyver of the craft world.  And if MarthGyver worked at Hooters she would have done this today.

Drink it in.

Observe the most beautiful use of orange koozies, golf towels and other miscellaneous crap to ever grace a Christmas tree.  I even put To-Go menus on that effing tree.  It's beautiful and kitschy and ridiculously awesome.  I'm proud as shit.

Santa is going to poop his pants.

Belated Thanks

With the arrival and passing of Thanksgiving it’s hard not to think about all the things you’re thankful for.  I remember growing up and my mom always starting our holiday meal with a conversation based on all the things we wanted to give thanks for.  Back when I was six I was thankful for Barbies, at eight I was all about my set of Little House books, teenage years brought thanks for friends and boys.  But what am I thankful for now?  I might be a few days late, but here are a few of the things I’m thankful for:

Dreamy
I’m going to be honest here; I’ve dated my fair share of douche bags.  There was the guy who got angry with me if I had group projects with male classmates and the guy who dumped me for being “too nice.”  Yes, in the past my taste in men was poor at best.  I’m thankful to now have a guy who loves to cook me dinner.  He loves to talk about me and loves showing me off even more.  It’s nice to date a nice guy.

Just looking at it makes me
want to take a nap.

My Couch
Way back when, I moved into a studio apartment.  Actually it was a “junior one bedroom.”  I had everything in my junior one bedroom except a couch.  Mostly this was because I am a cheap person.  After sitting on the floor for approximately three months, I finally broke down and decided to buy an affordable sofa – meaning the cheaper the better of course.  This was a fine idea, until I walked into effing Furniture Row and saw the most beautiful couch in the world sitting about ten feet from the door.  It was big and comfy and awesome.  And it was $700.  I bought it anyway and have loved the shit right out of it ever since.

Pumpkin
If something is flavored with pumpkin I will eat it.  I have tried everything from ice cream to Eggos.  I even put pumpkin in my oatmeal in the morning.  I am obsessed with its goodness.

The Kindle
I love everything about the Kindle, except for the fact they came out with a cooler one.  The Kindle is pretty much the perfect facilitator for my book addiction.  In effect it is my dealer.  It also helps me look cooler in airports.

Fabulousness.

Socks
Recently, I have developed this weird affinity for buying socks.  I’m not talking normal socks, but tall, snuggly socks that are usually cable-knit and remind me if nights spent drinking adult hot chocolate in a mountain lodge.  My favorites are a pair of over-the-knee socks I accidentally bought at Target.  I say accidentally because the fact that they were so tall was a total surprise even though the package clearly indicated that fact.  Evidently that Kindle hasn’t helped me much with my reading skills.

Regulars
I love my regulars.  They brighten my day and make me hate shitty customers less.  Regulars just make my day better.  In fact this weekend, one of my favorite couples even brought me a gift they bought for me while they were on vacation.  Now that will really brighten a day.  I love my regulars and they love me and for that I am thankful.

Daytona Sauce
If you’ve tried this, you probably understand.  If you haven’t, get your ass to Hooters and get Daytona sauce on everything you order.  Everything.

Doing Al proud.

Joan of Artic Snow Boots
My mom got me these boots and they make me want to frolic in the snow just to show off how good I look.  Usually I’m the girl in wildly impractical shoes in two feet of snow because I have to look good no matter the consequences.  Somehow these boots manage to both look good and keep me from falling on my ass.  For that I am thankful.  And of course also for the fact that they make me look like a fashionable Al Borland.

My Family
Speaking of my mom, I’m always thankful for my family.  First off, my parents own a bakery.  Awesome.  And I have a wildly fashionable sister who plays the ukulele like a badass.  Basically we’re amazing.  This is of course before you consider the fact that my dad has a sweet accent.

So what are you thankful for?

The Lady Who Gummed a Burger

Once upon a time – meaning Sunday – an elderly couple settled into a nice booth near the front of the restaurant.  They ordered two iced teas and a short time later ordered lunch.  Lunch was fish and chips for the gentleman and a big, juicy burger for the lady.  With fries.  Now I’m going to make it clear that we only serve half-pound burgers.  In addition, our behemoth burgers don’t come with fries but rather come with your choice of bake beans, coleslaw or potato salad.  Fries, at our store at least, will cost you an extra fifty cents because most people can’t handle all that food anyway.  All of that background information serves the purpose of proving just how impressed I was with this rather frail looking woman manhandling a giant burger and taking no effing prisoners.

It was only after their meal had ended and the couple had made their way back into the Montana cold that I really understood how impressive, and disturbing, the burger eating had actually been.  As I moved her nearly empty plate to begin busing the table, I was greeted by the upper-half of her smile staring up at me.  She had left her dentures right there on the table.

So do you come here often?  CREDIT.

My first reaction was utter disgust.  Here were a woman’s teeth just hanging out on the table under the edge of her plate.  She hadn’t even placed them on a napkin like I did with my retainer when I was fifteen.  That would make sense.  Instead, the elderly woman had taken out her slobbery teeth and just let them rest on a table in a busy restaurant.  Germs apparently weren’t a consideration.

After getting over my initial reaction of disgust, I began to contemplate how I should go about removing the dentures from the table and what to do with them anticipating the couple’s return for the rather important item.  I finally decided to go in with a paper towel and a plate and go after her teeth like a man.  Just so you know, even with a paper towel it is not an enjoyable task to pick up a pair of someone else’s dentures.  They felt warm and slippery and altogether unpleasant.  I would place it on the same level as picking up dog shit with a plastic bag.  I don’t care who you are or how many dogs you’ve owned, no one likes feeling poop on the other side of a thin layer of plastic.  Dentures easily fall in this category.

Once I’d finally worked up the courage to get the dentures on a plate and safely to the office, I had time to truly appreciate what an incredibly feat gumming a half-pound burger is.  That takes some serious skill.  This woman didn’t even go in with a knife and fork.  She picked that bad boy up and managed to decimate it without a full set of teeth.  And I didn’t even notice until I was left to pick her dentures up from the table.  Kudos, old lady.

The next time someone complains about our burgers being too big, I will suppress the urge to compare them to a toothless old woman who knows how to get shit done.  I will similarly suppress the urge to laugh at them and tell them that they – and their teeth – are not as awesome as they think they are.  Unfortunately, regaling my guests with a story involving picking up someone else’s dentures is not exactly appropriate mealtime conversation – no matter how incredible that story is.  This will just have to be an inside joke between you and me.

And don’t worry; she came back for her teeth.

Occupy Hooters

I'm not one for discussing politics.  While I find them interesting, I find politics often have a way of turning pleasant conversation into something else entirely.  In fact, my Hooters manual smartly tells me to avoid the subject all together along with matters of religion. And I am very much a rule-abiding Hooters Girl.

Regardless avoidance of political topics, when this shirt arrived in our merchandise shipment today I decided to buy it immediately.  I liked it so much that I decided to spend $16.95 I made working at Hooters on a shirt from Hooters.  As a rule I don't buy Hooters things.  Instead I wait and win shit in contests - and I'm very good at winning.  This is because I am cheap.  And because I don't enjoy the idea of giving back my wages to my place of employment whenever possible.  This shirt was good enough that I didn't care about any of that.

I think I much prefer occupying a place with heat, indoor plumbing, a full bar and plentiful fried food.

Can you say LOVE?  I feel like I should wear this shirt, march down to the courthouse (because as a liberal college town we have our own occupy movement braving the Montana elements) and hand out wings or some shit.  Because can't we all agree on the goodness of fried food tossed in various sauces?  I like to think that we can.

I for one will be occupying Hooters all weekend.  Perhaps I should pitch a tent and just live behind the bar.

Is Hooters Exploiting the Hooters Girl?

About 17,000 years ago – because that’s exactly how long the Internet has existed according to ancient pictographs – someone asked me the following question on my Formspring account:

An SAT word for sure.

Do you think Hooters exploits women? What do you think of the word exploit? It seems to be used all the time whenever a woman is showing skin.

At the time I decided not to answer it because it had all the makings of a great post topic.  Of course good intentions don’t always turn into good actions.  In some cases good intentions actually turn into you being lazy as shit and not doing anything at all.  That, my friendies, is what happened to this poor question.  So it sat there and felt all lonely as other questions were promptly replied to with all sorts of wonderful answers.  And now 17,000 years later this little question is finally get its chance to shine.  Cinderella is going to the ball, bitches.

First off, lets go ahead and look up the definition of exploit according to my totally intelligent MacBook:


exploit
verb |ikˈsploit| [ trans. ]
make full use of and derive benefit from (a resource) : 500 companies sprang up to exploit this new technology.
use (a situation or person) in an unfair or selfish way : the company was exploiting a legal loophole | accusations that he exploited a wealthy patient.
benefit unfairly from the work of (someone), typically by overworking or underpaying them : making money does not always mean exploiting others.

There you have it.  Does Hooters make use of and derive benefit from me?  Yup, they sure as shit do.  But then again pretty much every restaurant and profit-seeking business does that.  That’s called being an employee.  You work, and they make money.  Capitalism is fun!

Moving on from there however, I’m forced to consider if Hooters uses me in an unfair or selfish way; in this case I have to say no.  While some probably won’t agree, I cannot see Hooters employment of me (or thousands of other women) as a Hooters Girl as selfish or unfair.  Yes, they make money because of certain traits I may have, but they also pay me for those same traits.  In my opinion as long as I’m being paid for a job that I willingly accepted there is nothing even the least bit unfair about it.  And as the last definition further points out, I have to be overworked or underpaid for it to be true exploitation.  I work three to four days a week and make enough to support myself while getting a graduate degree.  Seems pretty fair to me.

Besides, if Hooters exploits me to make money then whom am I exploiting to make my own?  It could be argued that in all reality I – as the Hooters Girl – am exploiting the countless people who come in and sit at my tables.  After all so many people, falsely, think Hooters Girl are all simply skanky flirts who practically rape people for tips.  If that were the case the real exploitation would be directed at the customers, not the staff.

Lets be honest, does Hooters use sexuality to its advantage?  The very clear answer is most certainly yes.  But this is hardly a phenomenon limited to Hooters.  A casual stroll in your local mall will easily prove my point.  In fact if you don’t believe me, I dare you to stop in front of an Abercrombie where a half naked, poster-sized man or woman will great you in dramatic black and white before you even step inside the store.

Sex sells, it’s a simple fact that countless companies and individuals have taken advantage of for a very, very long time.  Does that mean that someone is exploited in doing so?  Certainly not.  Exploitation by its very definition involves someone doing an awful lot and getting no return.  In most cases, including Hooters, all parties are willing participants who know what they’re getting into and know what they are expected to give and receive.  You eat, you pay, I work, I make money, Hooters gives me a wage and I in turn help Hooters make a profit.  That’s just business 101. 

So what do you think?  Is Hooters exploiting me?

Slug Bug is Serious Shit

This is more than a game.

If you have the great misfortune of ever having to take a car ride with Dreamy and me I sincerely apologize in advance.  My apology is due to the fact that Dreamy and I play the classic game Slug Bug.  Actually, play isn’t really an accurate representation of intense rivalry that exists between Dreamy and I when it comes to tracking down Volkswagen Beetles.  For us Slug Bug is not simply a game, but a way of life.

In fact, we are so intense that we have alternative rules.  Most notably, we have several Beetles that may only be called when away from their usual locations.  For example, a local aquarium shop has a Bug painted like a clownfish (think Nemo).  Nemo is off limits unless he is away from his usual parking spot in front of the store.  If he is even a space removed from the usual spot Nemo is fair game.  This rule also applies to the red Beetle down the street, the silver one that belongs to an employee at Walgreens, the Geek Squad Bug and any being sold at any dealership (cars not for sale are callable).

If I haven’t made it apparent already, Dreamy and I don’t joke around when it comes to Slug Bug.  Every time I get in the car and buckle my seatbelt I’m on edge the whole freaking ride.  No matter the destination I am constantly on alert because the last thing I want to do is miss one.  We keep a daily count and every Beetle matters.  But of course as much as losing the whole thing sucks, get punched can suck even more.  In fact once Dreamy punched me so hard – forgetting his I’m-a-six-eight-giant-of-a-man strength – my instant reaction was to scream multiple obscenities and punch him right the eff back.  Yes, friends, he hit me so hard I broke the "no hit-backs" rule.

And that got me to thinking; Slug Bug is basically a perfectly acceptable form of domestic violence.  What other game can you play with you friends, your kids, your boyfriend or your grandma that lets you punch them?  When else is punching someone you care about considered appropriate?  Now correct me if I’m wrong, but generally punching your girlfriend as hard as possible would usually be called spousal abuse.

Let’s pretend for a minute that the police were actually called to handle a domestic violence case and it ended up being a game of Slug Bug.  You know, I’m just going to stop right there, because they’d probably laugh in your face.  Or at least look at you like you were nuts.  Because punching in Slug Bug is accepted, expected and just the right damn thing to do.

All of this has lead me to believe that a game of Slug Bug is perhaps the best way to relieve the everyday pressures of a relationship.  Why not solve any and all disagreements by hoping in the car, hunting some Beetles and punching the shit out of each other?  I think with a little Slug Bug we can make the world a better place. 

RED ONE!

Arizona vs. Frost

One reason why Montana, winter and I are friends.

It’s November and the snow has begun to fly in Montana.  Winter is here and likely will be here for the next four or five months.  Or it could be really awesome again this year and snow in May, drawing the whole damn thing out to six glorious months of ice, cold and overcast skies.  Now for the record I’m only partially complaining.  I like winter.  Winter lets me ski, wear cute sweaters, cuddle, buy boots and have an excuse to shave my legs less often.  I just don’t need to do those things for the half the year.

A lot of people don’t share my love for the colder part of the year.  With Montana being full of transplants from warmer climates – specifically California – real winter can be a bit of a shock to the system for some.  Suddenly they’re faced with lots of real, bone-chilling cold.  They have to deal with snow.  And then they realize they actually have to function in it.  Because in Montana life doesn’t stop for two inches of snow.  Or two feet.

Once upon a time, we had a Hooters Girl who had recently relocated from Arizona.  Just barely eighteen, she had followed her football-playing boyfriend who had accepted a scholarship at The University of Montana.  While he spent the day in classes and practice, she worked at Hooters.

And then one fall morning it was actually a little cold.  I say a little cold because there was no snow and the sun was shinning, but there was frost.  Trees, grass and windshields were all covered in a delicate layer of crystalized white.  After a little scrapping and a bit of a defrosting, I made me way to work ready to open the store.

Cleaning tables, the clock crept closer and closer to eleven.  At 10:40 one of the two eleven girls made her way into the store to ready herself for her shift.  Minutes ticked by and Arizona, our second eleven o’clock, was nowhere to be found.  10:40 became 10:45, which in turn became 10:50.  With eleven imminent, the phone rang.

“OhMYgod, there is something all over my car and I can’t get it off!”

Arizona was panicked on the other end of the line.

Arizona: “There is white stuff on my windows and stuff and I tried to like wipe it off with my wipers but it’s still there.”

Sauce:  “Do you mean the frost?  You need to scrape that off or turn on your car and let it heat up.”

Arizona:  “Well when I called my dad he said I could push the button with the wavy lines and that it would go away.  But I did that and it’s still there!”

Sauce:  “Well did you wait a little bit?”

Arizona:  “No, shouldn’t it just go away?!”

For a moment I was at a total loss for words.  I explained that no, it wouldn’t go away instantly.  She would have to wait – because of course she had no windshield scraper.

A few minutes passed, the frost cleared and Arizona let us know she was on her way.  It was very, very apparent that winter and Arizona wouldn’t be getting along very well. 

And of course I was right.  After just a couple months of snow, Arizona packed her things, shipped them back home and hopped a plane back to the sunshine.  Some people just aren’t built for Montana it seems.  Neither are rear wheel drive sports cars.

Double the Devastation and Finally Getting Over It

I – once again – have failed you as a blogger.  It seems to be one of my greatest talents as of late.  And by talent I mean shortcomings.  And by shortcomings I mean ways in which I totally suck at my typical ability to be marginally awesome.  I suck.  I’m sorry.  That’s that.

The truth of the matter is that ever since the “Blog Change Incident of ‘11” things have been different.  Part of me honestly was very, very turned off by the whole situation and that lead me to not even want to blog.  In a way I was almost in mourning.  And as lame that sounds it’s totally the truth.  Eventually though, things got better and I once again found the desire to blog.  I had the desire to connect with all my readers again.  I realized that with or without Hooters I still had a voice and I enjoyed sharing that voice.

And then Hooters Magazine arrived at our store.  Before I even flipped open the first page I was devastated all over again.  I’d never been told the theme of the issue.  I’d never received a deadline.  I’d never even received a reply to the emails I sent enquiring about both.  I knew I wasn’t included and while I understood the reasons, I wasn’t prepared for the way it felt to actually see the magazine in front of me.  I wasn’t ready to not see my column in the table of contents or my name in the credits.  Holding that magazine in my hands made it all very real.

Just like that, I was – once again – devastated.  It wasn’t so much the situation that hurt most, but the way it was handled.  I felt unimportant and dispensable and not worthy of even the slightest consideration.  I felt like a nothing.  All I saw was an opportunity lost.

For a while that’s all I felt; I felt like my one great opportunity had passed me by.  Or more accurately, that my one great opportunity had been taken away from me.  It was an overwhelming feeling.  Yet as overwhelming as it was initially, I slowly began to get over it, step away from the situation and realize that regardless of the outcome the opportunity had still existed.  No matter what.  I had still accomplished something pretty amazing and that said a lot about me as an individual.  Perhaps the real opportunity was realizing the power of my own abilities.

That’s the thing about opportunities, it turns out that not all of them work out perfectly.  In fact, I’d go so far as to say that an awful lot of them don’t work out.  But each and every one teaches you something about yourself.  You learn your strengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes; you learn all the things that will be truly valuable when the next opportunity comes around.  Perhaps the great value isn’t in the opportunity itself, but in the journey it creates.  In that way the real opportunity is internal.

In life people love to talk about their successes, but this situation has shown me that there is also great importance in apparent failures.  Sometimes things just need to not workout so something later will.  And I’m pretty darn excited to see what that later is.

Now I promise not to leave you out of the journey.

Meet D

The original.

Of the many things I like about my job, one of the biggest has always been my regulars.  Regulars are common in the restaurant world.  I think it probably has a lot to do with the fact that humans are creatures of habit; if we enjoy something we are quite apt to repeat it again and again.  One visit turns to two, two turns to a few more and suddenly trips to your favorite eatery more than once a week aren’t uncommon.  There is comfort in repetition.

Now I have many types of regulars: men, women, families.  And while they’re all different, they all share an easy connection with my coworkers and me.  They’re the sort of people you’re happy to see walk through the door.  They’re the type you worry about if you don’t see them for a while.  It’s just one of those natural progressions.

While I have a dozen or more such regulars, a few cross that fine line that lies between customer and friend.  Of my regulars, a select few are the type that I would call in a bind and likewise do anything for.  They know about my successes and failures.  They will be invited to any future weddings.  I care about each and every one of my regular customers, but these really mean something to me on a personal level.  With them it goes beyond simply enjoying their company.  These are my friends.

One such regular – we’ll call him D – actually doesn’t even live in Montana.  D, though he once called Missoula his home, currently resides in Kansas.  His heart however lives here and every vacation work allows brings him back to the state he loves.  Corresponding his trips with different hunting seasons, D makes it back at least once a year though often more.  D just can’t stay away.

D’s last trip occurred this past spring.  Work was busy and it appeared to be his only opportunity to travel for pleasure for the year.  When he left he was markedly upset, unsure when he’d be able to return.  He said it would be a year most likely – at the very least.  I took his word for it.

And then, a couple weeks ago, D said he was coming to visit out of the blue.  He’d be here in just a few short days for a week of vacation.  It was very unexpected, but anticipated.

D’s trip was mainly spent bear hunting, but I still saw him often.  I noticed right away that something was wrong, but it’s never polite to bring up such things with a friend you haven’t seen in months.  D just didn’t seem as upbeat as the last time he’d come to visit.  I was slightly worried, but brushed it off as me being hypersensitive (which I have a tendency to be now and again).  Things just went like they always did despite the feeling in my gut.

On his last day, D finally confided in me that he had been diagnosed with cancer.  His trip was hastily made after receiving the news.  A gift to himself, he said.  I was at a loss for words.  I was even at a loss for thoughts.  No one tells you what to say when a customer confides in you that they have cancer; that part isn’t in any of my Hooters Girl manuals.

So I did the only thing I could think of.  I hugged him.  Normally, I would never hug a customer at work no matter how familiar I am with them, but at the moment I knew it was the only thing I could offer.  It was a small thing, but as I felt D against me I knew how much he needed it.  Here was a man afraid and I desperately tried to offer what comfort I could.  It all made me feel helpless.

I hope that back in Kansas D knows how much I really care about him.  I can’t help but worry and wonder how he’s doing.  I’m sure he’s fine, but the worrier in me will continue to think anything but that.  Go ahead and call me a girl.

When you start being a waitress, the last thing you think about are the real connections you’ll make with people.  While you’re busy memorizing wing sauces and table numbers making lasting friendships is the last thing on your mind.  But they’re inevitable and even more than that they’re fulfilling.  It makes me love my job even more.

So here’s to you D.  I hope Kansas is treating you well.  I know you miss the mountains, but they’ll be waiting for you up here.  As will that bear that you didn’t get this year.  We’ll all be waiting.  

Did you vote today?!  Vote for Sauce in the Hooters Halloween Contest so she can afford to pay for the classes she just registered for today.  Seriously.

VOTE HERE!

Why Yes, I Am Skinnier Now

It's not like this for serious. CREDIT.

In becoming more fit again, I’ve realized that it’s something people are very uneasy addressing.  What I mean is that though people notice the change and want to offer some compliment, they have no idea how to do so.  I’ve noticed this the most at work where my required uniform is especially form fitting, making it pretty obvious that I’ve slimmed down.  It’s nearly impossible not to notice in form-fitting Lycra and spandex.  And this makes people uneasy.

Usually this happens most with regular customers.  I’ll be working at the bar, mixing drinks like a true master of all things alcoholic and a customer will clear their throat in a way that quite obviously means “I have something to say with absolutely no idea how to say it.”  After acknowledging the dramatic throat clear, I’ll find myself in the middle of a stammering, uncomfortable conversation that boils down to asking if I’ve lost weight.

“Um, I don’t really know how to say this, but have you…um…maybe lost a little weight?”

“You know, you look different.  I guess I’m not sure, but maybe you’ve been at the gym a bit lately?”

“I think, well maybe I don’t know, that perhaps you’ve toned up some.  I’m not really sure.  I don’t come here that much.”

Actually, you’re here twice a week, but whose counting anyway?  No matter the delivery, it’s pretty obvious that people have no idea how to address the change in my body.  Of course I totally understand.  We live in a society that has – rightfully – taught us it’s disrespectful to make inquires regarding a woman’s weight.  Hell, it’s rude to make inquires about anyone’s weight.  But sometimes, regardless of the situation, it’s nice to hear a compliment.

And that, my friends, is the difference.  If it’s apparent that someone has had a positive body change odds are they’d probably love a positive response to that change.  I’ve literally worked my ass off of my body after months of very hard work.  I’ve sweated.  I’ve sustained myself on boiled chicken.  I’ve consumed more protein in liquid form than some people probably eat in a year.  And most of it has totally sucked.  It was hard and it’s nice knowing that all of it really did make a noticeable difference.  Yes, I can look in the mirror everyday like a vain little twit and spew affirmations, but nothing is better than someone else taking notice and saying something nice.

If you notice a change in someone, go ahead and say something.  If they’re anything like me, they’ll really appreciate the compliment.  After all, a girl cannot live on protein and complex carbs alone; those don’t feed the soul.

So go ahead and sit at my bar and confidentially ask if I’m a personal trainer (yes, that actually happened).  Point out that I may have lost weight.  Because guess what?  I have.

If I can generalize, remember the importance of complimenting people.  Yes, it can occasionally feel awkward to do so, but it can really make a person’s day.  It’s just nice to be noticed and – even more so – appreciated.  I’ve made it my new personal goal to compliment someone everyday because the world could use a little love.  Let’s spread love people!

Oh, and thanks for letting me know how much you like my “guns.”

And, because I like votes and I'm a shameless self-promoter, don't forget to vote daily in the Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook.  Once again I made my costume from scratch this year.  I'm hoping - with your help - to break into the top three and win some money to support my student ass.  Please help me buy Ramen liquid egg whites.

VOTE HERE!

Then feel free to LIKE ME ON FACEBOOK!  It's where the magic happens.

The New Girl's Boyfriend

Over three years ago I began my job at Hooters.  Now three years is an awful long time, but even now one question stands out from my interview.

“Do you have a boyfriend or husband who would be jealous or uncomfortable with you working at Hooters?”

While that question would seem odd in most interview situations, it’s fairly understandable in an atmosphere like Hooters.  At the time, I got to say no and luckily I can still say no – though now just in regards to the second part – to this day.  This weekend however I got a front row seat to why that question, and an honest answer, is oh so important.

Saturday, we had a new girl on her second day of training.  She seemed like a good hire which given recent trend was rather refreshing.  She was inquisitive, helpful, friendly and actually studied for her tests.  No on ever studies for their tests no matter how many times I reassure them that they are actually hard.  Believe it or not I’m not lying to you when I say that it’s difficult.  And yes, I do take a slight amount of pleasure when you fail.  I did warn your ass after all.

Anyway, this girl – even on only her second day – seemed to me like a great Hooters Girl in the making.  Of course she just had to go and prove me wrong.  Or more specifically her creepy, clearly overbearing boyfriend decided to prove me wrong.  He just had to ruin the fun for everyone.  Douche.

New girl comes in, we set up the restaurant in record time and things are going well.  We’re ready way before opening at eleven because we’re totally awesome.  By the time we unlock the doors we’re ready to go and apparently so are the football fans; as soon as the doors are open people come streaming in.  Tables are quickly sat and drinks are run.  It’s a typical NFL Sunday and new girl is handling it like a champ.  I mentally add that to the list of things that will make her good at her job.

This is less creepy than what actually happened.

Then she gets weird.  She goes from bubbly to quite so quickly I think she’s gotten sick.  Suddenly something is wrong and it’s glaringly obvious.  Scanning the restaurant it’s apparent that the “something” is a single customer sipping a soda and intently staring at our newest trainee.  It is a powerful, disconcerting stare and even without being directed at me, makes me uncomfortable.  He watches her every move from her interactions with tables to the dumping a plate of leftovers into the garbage.  It’s all weird as eff.

“That’s her boyfriend or fiancé or whatever,” remarks the girl who’s directly training her today.  “He was here on her first shift too just hanging out and watching her work.  It’s so uncomfortable and awkward.”

And it was uncomfortable and awkward.  Especially when he started shooting the “I love you” sign at her across the room shaking his hand until she took notice.  That’s when enough was enough and my manager went to talk with him.  After a few minutes of talking, the boyfriend got up and left.  Finally.

Things returned to normal. Until he came back and found his way to my bar.  He took a spot in the corner and continued his staring.  Eventually, as I was putting in an order, he turned to me.

“Is it against the rules for you girls to flirt or something?”

I wasn’t really sure where he was going with the question, but I told him that while there was no rule against it, flirting wasn’t really acceptable but that often people take our good service and kindness for flirting.  Suddenly I found myself on the receiving end of him validating his reason for being there.  For a while I just let him go.

“You know,” I said eventually, “you really don’t need to justify anything to me.  And while it’s not technically against any rules for you to be here, it seems to be making your girlfriend really uncomfortable.  I mean don’t you think it makes it a little hard for her to do her job with you hanging around?  I promise nothing is going to happen to her while she’s at work today, but honestly it may if you keep doing this.  Our owner really doesn’t like boyfriends hanging around and I don’t think you want to put the job she just started in jeopardy.  I’ve seen people let go for far less.”

He thought about all that for second and again tried to justify why he was there.  I realized then it was a lost cause.  This guy was a controlling boyfriend in every sense of the word and nothing I was going to say would change that.

The next day, the new girl never showed up for her shift.  But I wasn’t surprised.  I had a pretty good feeling that she went home, he got pissed and she was told she couldn’t work at Hooters anymore.  It’s a shame, but hardly unexpected.  Boyfriends always have issues with Hooters, but really in the end the issues are far deeper than a job involving short shorts.

Too bad we lost such a good one.

Please remember to keep voting for me in the Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook!  You can vote once per day, per account until November 1st.  My poor, MBA school ass would really appreciate you taking the time to vote.  And telling your friends.  Or your mom.  Or you cat if he has a page.  You get the idea.

VOTE HERE!

Hooters Halloween Costume Contest

Once again, I'm part of the national Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook.  On the line are some awesome cash prizes that would certainly help out a busy MBA student - specifically this busy MBA student.

I'd really appreciate you taking the time to vote ONCE A DAY from your Facebook account.  Heck, maybe you have two Facebook friends, maybe you have 2,136 friends, maybe you're a computer genius who knows a great way to get me lots and tons of votes.  I love all of those things!

VOTE HERE

All you have to do is like Hooters and then you can proclaim your love for Sauce each and every day!

And because I love you, this year I'll actually post a picture - all parts included - here on the blog.  Maybe it will entice you to vote.  Or whatever.

I made this.  It's because I have no social life.

The Spray Tan

Like this only naked. CREDIT.

In addition to experiencing my first fitness competition this past weekend, I also had the pleasure of receiving my first spray tan.  Now this was no ordinary spray tan.  This was a competition spray tan and it is another beast entirely.  And when I say beast I effing mean it.  This spray tan had a mind of it’s own.

It’s common for competitions to bring in a professional spray tanner to give tans to competitors.  For the sake of this post, “give” actually means it cost me $100.  That tanning bitch was raking in money all weekend long, one faux tan at a time.

Anyway, I made my appointment a few weeks in advance that consisted of two separate sprays the day of the show.  Yes, I got two sprays two hours apart.  They’re not joking around with this tanning shit.  In fact, they’re so serious that they send you all sorts of rules to properly prepare your skin for ultimate tan reception.  So I exfoliated, cut out body washes, avoided moisturizers with oils and otherwise prepared my canvas for ultimate darkness.  If I’m gonna pay $100 for something I’m going to take that shit seriously.

I showed up for my first tan and was freezing my naked ass off before I knew it.  While this was awkward in itself, the whole thing was made as uncomfortable as possible by being done in a strange little hut in the open ballroom of a Hilton – surrounded by several more little huts.  All of which have weird plastic windows right at face height.  So there you are naked and waiting while you look out this weird little window and try not to make eye contact with the muscle-bound dude across for you.  And all of this is before you’re given the pleasure of being blasted with icy tanning solution from what is essentially a paint gun.

First tan down, and I was immediately warned to avoid water at all costs.  This would seem easy enough, but of course it’s raining and has been for two days.  The whole world was against my tan from the very beginning.  Then I was told I should pee in a cup.  Like a high school physical.  Or a drug test.  I decided to ignore this rule as soon as I hear it.

Within seconds of being outside, my legs were flecked with water leaving glaringly white splotches on my newly tanned skin.  Mother Nature had won round one.  She won round two when I rebelled and peed without a cup.  I popped a squat so as not to touch the toilet and – even though I was careful – the result was an obvious drip down my right thigh.  I bought the stupid cups on my way to tan number two.

After a second round of tan two hours later, my mistakes were fixed and my skin was a color that can only be described as 100% unnatural.  Lets just say that I was tan enough to frighten people at WalMart and nothing surprises people at WalMart.

And while being a spectacle can be mildly uncomfortable, the inability to touch anything was definitely the worst part.  Like King Midas anything a tanned fitness competitor touches turns to gold.  Only this gold is actually orange and not worth lots of money.  After leaving smudges on everything from toilets to walls to car doors I eventually just stopped touching things and let Dreamy take over.  I stained my clothes, I stained my –purposely-shitty – sheets, I even stained the light blue polish on my toes.  Nothing was safe.

And then the next morning, they tanned me again.  I went from insanely dark to full on black.  It was at this point that I’m pretty sure I forgot what my actual skin tone was.  I was just layers upon layers of tan.  With one final spray before the night show, I had received four spray tans in just over 24 hours.  And for the record it felt totally disgusting.

When it was all over and I was finally able to shower the tan came streaming off of me, darkening the water instantly.  Never before has a shower felt so good.  Or resulted in an immediate need to clean the bathtub.  Magically I was white again and all that tan was down the drain. 

Thank goodness.

Sauce's First Fitness Competition

Not me.  Or my lady trophy.

And just like that I competed in my first fitness competition.  That’s about how fast the whole experience was.  I walked on stage, hit a couple poses, stood in a line and in less than a minute was judged.  I was not judged a winner.  Instead I was judged thoroughly disappointed somewhere in the middle.  My competitive streak was most unhappy.

My division, tall bikini had thirteen competitors.  Divided by height, the show had two bikini divisions: one for those under 5’4 and one for those over.  Now if this seems rather unfair, it was.  The lower division had only five competitors.  A division has five finalists.  Yes, everyone was a winner in the lower division.  In comparison, most people were losers in my division.  I got the pleasure of being first loser.  And yet again it sucks to be tall.

Anyway, judging is completed in the morning.  This consists of you walking out, hitting poses at three marks and then all lining up at the back of the stage.  They then have everyone turn around and a split second later they called five girls to the front.  This ended up being their top five.  They were picked in all of about two minutes. 

After calling the top five and viewing them front and back, they called up the rest of us and we also posed front and back.  At this point, I was called forward along with another competitor.  Generally this is a very good sign and I figured I was being compared for inclusion in the top five.  This was not the case.  Rather than comparing again – which is common in big divisions – they put us back in line and moved us off stage.  And that was it.

After judging, given that I had been moved, many people thought I was a shoe in for a top five finish.  I felt confident as well, sure that I had at least landed myself a fourth or fifth place.  Really I didn’t care as long as I got a trophy.  I’m a girl.  I like shiny things that say I’m awesome at stuff. 

Since judging was over, Dreamy and I decided to have a little lunch at which point I let myself go a bit.  Yes, I had to put on a bikini again, but the hard part was over.  I had earned an effing tamale.  And rice.  And a daiquiri.  And ice cream.  Yes, I ate all of that before putting on a bikini six hours later for the night show.  I only felt marginally guilty.

The night show is basically just all flash.  Since the judging is complete, they parade everyone around and hand out prizes.  It’s easy.  I went out and hit my poses again and then they called the top five.  One name.  Two names.  Three names.  Four names.  Five names.  WHAT THE EFF?!  None of the names belonged to me.  I left the stage dejected as they begin announcing the places of the girls left on stage.  Why hadn’t I been called?

Initially I got mad.  I got upset.  I let it get me down.  Yes, I’d gotten sixth and done well overall, but being an intensely competitive person I wanted more.  I wanted that shiny, lady statue.  I wanted people to know how well I’d done.  I wanted recognition.

I was about halfway through the best burger and coconut milkshake of my life when I realized I really didn’t effing care.  No, I didn’t do as well as I’d hoped, but I still had accomplished something pretty amazing.  I’d been incredibly dedicated for months.  I’d worked hard and while the results hadn’t led to a silly trophy, they had led to a strong, confident body.  And as awesome as it would have been to get totally wasted while carrying around a trophy in the shape of a buff lady, the physical and mental results are far more rewarding.

Besides, judging is subjective.  As Dreamy reminded me, “Any given Sunday, babe.”  And inappropriate football movies aside, he was totally right.

Then, a few days later I checked my email.  Now generally I don’t get many emails at According to Sauce.  So when I logged in and saw two, I was pretty excited.  But what really got me was the fact that apparently my journey and hard work had inspired someone.  Both of the emails said that I had motivated them to get off the couch, go to the gym and make a change in their life.  Reading those two messages left me feeling so incredibly inspired.  While it’s nice to do something for you, it’s something else entirely when that personal change can positively affect another.  That was never my plan, but I’m so glad it’s become an outcome.

So will I do another fitness contest?  Honestly, I’m not sure.  While I enjoyed the process, the diet left me with a short fuse and nearly entirely changed how I treated those closest to me.  Nothing – no matter how much you like it – is worth treating those you love poorly.  Let’s not sugarcoat; I was a raging bitch.  I’ve heard that though changes in mood can be common they are avoidable with changes to the diet, but if it’s not than I’ll be going into retirement.

What won’t be changing is my dedication to maintaining a healthy lifestyle.  I’ll still be mindful of my dietary choices.  I’ll still go to the gym.  I’ll still treat my body the way it deserves to be treated, because it feels good to do that.  And maybe – if I’m lucky – I’ll inspire another person or two.  It’s not a lady trophy, but it will certainly do.

P.S:  I treated my FACEBOOK fans to a peak at what I looked like at the contest.  Feel free to become a fan and take a look!