Money Can Cause Stress

I feel ya, George

I am stressed.  And not totally because of the reason you’d probably think.  Yes, I am once again a student and it is a bit disarming settling back into that lifestyle.  While it’s certainly different – I’ve not been in classes for over three years after all – I actually really enjoy school.  It’s work, but it’s work that I happen to love.  I even don’t so much mind homework (unless it’s my old friend, accounting).

What’s really got me all worked up is the fact that I have gone from as close to overtime as possible to just three measly days a week at work.  And that’s not counting the multiple weekends I have three-day lectures.  So I only get to work Friday – Sunday.  Unless I’m, for example, learning about the Digital Economy.  Then I don’t work at all that week.  That fact, my friends, has not been settling very well.

Here’s the thing about me; I’m a saver.  I love putting money in the bank.  I love checking my balance.  I love having no debt.  And now suddenly I don’t have as much coming in.  That stresses the shit right of this girl.

For the record, I did save up all sorts of money just for this reason.  I knew my first semester would be a heavy one and I planned accordingly.  I put money away knowing I’d be working far less.  Yet that planning didn’t prepare me for the feeling that would come over me watching my balance go down rather than up.  The saver in me doesn’t like to see that even when I made allowances for it.

So if I go off the deep-end and start panhandling or selling organs in the next few months you’ll know why; it’s because I’m completely insane when it comes to my cash flow.  Here’s hoping I can survive the next fifteen weeks with all my body parts and all my consumer electronics.  On that note, where is the nearest pawnshop?

Official Graduate Student

Crayons were not on my supply list this year.  Sad.

Today is my first official day of grad school.  As I sit here enjoying my usual post-workout egg whites and oat bran, I am nervous, excited and anxious all at once.  I’ve already done homework.  I’ve met my classmates.  I am a student once again and after three years of working as a waitress it’s a strange feeling.

My MBA experience began with two days of orientation last Thursday and Friday.  Classes and expectations were outlined, teambuilding exercises were held and I was bored off my half-asleep ass; you know how orientations are.  We began with the usual introductions – all fifty of us.  Of course being that this is business school, it was apparent people were trying to be impressive with their ventures and business experience.  It made me nervous.  As I am so often, I was left to decide if it was appropriate to bring up Hooters.  Would I offend anyone?  Would I lead a professor to stereotype me?  Would it prudent to just not bring it up at all?

As the woman next to me finished her introduction, I slowly stood and gathered my breath.  I started talking.  Out came my name and where I got it, along with my hometown and undergraduate history as a college athlete.  I spoke with ease and before I made a final decision on whether or not I wanted to bring up Hooters, I already had.

“And after being an unfortunate casualty of budget cuts my desk job ended and I – like so many new graduates – found myself working as a waitress.  Lets just say that the place involves owls.”

I got quite a few chuckles and then nods of what I hoped was appreciation as I went on to bring up my blog, it’s surprising success and the experiences that led me to my opportunities Hooters Magazine and Hooters of America.  I spoke about my time in Miami and the social media work I was given that so intrigued me.  I finished by saying that I hoped to continue working for Hooters and move into a corporate position when the timing was right.

I sat down feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension.  I had gotten the Hooters thing out of the way early.  But had I appeared ambitious or pigeonholed myself?  I mean it’s obvious that people were judging me, it’s human nature after all, I just didn’t know in what way. 

When we had a break a short time later, I was approached by several people and asked about my blog.  Not only were they interested they were seemingly somewhat impressed.  Yes, I was a Hooters Girl, but it was the ambition that people apparently noticed.  Even a professor asked about my writing in a positive tone.  I couldn’t help but feel relieved.  It turns out that maybe Hooters wasn’t so big of a deal after all.

So while I’m nervous on this first day, I’m looking forward to what this first semester will bring.  My course load is heavy, I am still working and I’m going to be busier than ever.  Luckily, I have an ambitious streak that will hopefully serve me well.  I’m not just a Hooters Girl.  I’m a Hooters Girl/blogger/MBA student/freelance writer/social media guru/girlfriend/fitness competitor/glorious individual.  And I’m so proud of all of that.

When Hot isn't Hot

I don’t like giving people suggestions when it comes to ordering.  It’s not that I don’t have my menu favorites – Hooters Cobb, chicken tossed in hot sauce or Training Burgers with American cheese and LOTS of jalapeños – it’s that what I like doesn’t necessarily correlate to what you’d like.  This is why when asked what I’d suggest I generally give some bullshit answer that makes sure to include several items that serve as a pretty good cross-section of the menu; you get your suggestions, but still have to rely on personal preference to choose between several offerings.  The last thing I want to do is suggest something I love only to have you not enjoy your meal because it doesn’t suit your tastes.  That’s just not good for either of us.

Enjoy your wings, asshat!

The one exception to my aversion to offering menu suggestions occurs when people order wings.  I will ALWAYS offer my suggestions in this area because in all honestly Hooters basic buffalo sauces aren’t nearly as hot as they are billed.  As I like to put it, our hot is more of a medium, our medium is basically mild and mild is pretty much nonexistent.  And that is not an exaggeration.  For some reason Hooters has “dumbed-down” sauces.  It’s just the way it is.

Knowing that our sauces are milder than their names, I always suggest people order one sauce up from the one they think they want when choosing from our basics.  I relay the fact that our buffalo sauces are butter based and that the spice very gradually increases as you go up the scale while the butter decreases.  And though I’ve had many people be skeptical, most people follow my advice and step their ordering up.  In nearly three years of suggesting this, not one person has said I was wrong.  In fact, most people have thanked me for the advice.

Then there are the people who don’t listen.  They order the stupid mild – which is a lot more butter than spice – and then complain that their wings weren’t sauced.  At this point I’ll do my best to once again explain that the sauces are butter based which means that they melt when paired with the hot, fried wings.  And since mild is so butter heavy it seemingly all but disappears to a lot of people.  I will then offer to grab them a side of the hotter sauce – which I had offered them in the first place.

And some people will be happy with this.  And of course some won’t.  Some people will spend the rest of their Hooters’ experience hating the absolute shit out of me because they are chowing down on some wings that aren’t what they expected.  They will totally forget what I suggested and instead think I’m horrible at my job.  All over some stupid wings. 

Meanwhile, I will think you’re a complete and total asshole who had every chance to have some really awesome wings.  I will think that you should have listened to the girl who has spent 30+ at Hooters every week for the past three effing years.  I don’t just make shit up, people.  I am a Hooters expert.  It’s not my fault you didn’t listen to me.  It’s also not may fault that you’re a stubborn prick.

So next time your waitress offers you a suggestion, remember that she probably knows what’s she’s talking about.  Odds are she is not out to get you and simply wants you to actually enjoy your meal.  It might be hard to believe, but I want you to like what you’re eating.  After all if you hate it you’ll tip me like shit – even though it will be no fault of my own.  Don’t even get me started on that shit.

The Big Boob Lie

When you workout a lot and eat right, one of the results is generally losing body fat.  Now most people would agree that losing body fat is a good thing in most circumstances.  And I would totally agree.  And while it's really nice to have hard work pay off, all that gym time does have one rather unfortunate side effect; your boobs go to.

This isn't rocket science, breasts are composed of fatty tissue and if you're going to lose fat in the rest of your body it's a pretty sure thing that the fat in your chest is going to follow suit.  It's sad but true.  You're working out and watching what you eat and one day you look down and see abs - and no boobs above them.  It's a trade-off.  I gave up my full Cs for small Bs.  But did I mention my hot stomach?

Now for many people this doesn't really matter.  You breasts are smaller, but it's really not that big of a deal.  Of course most people don't work at Hooters.  And lets not pretend that boobs don't matter at Hooters.  Tits effing matter at Hooters.

Luckily, every Hooters Girl knows a plethora of tricks for creating the illusion of cleavage.  And no I'm not talking about augmentation.  That's the obvious one.  Beyond surgery, there a number of tricks that Hooters Girls - and probably women in generally - employ to make their breasts appear larger.  After three years of working at Hooters and closely guarding these secrets, I am coming clean and telling you all the truth.  Welcome to your first lesson in breast augmentation - no toilet paper or silicone required.

Normal Boobs

Itty-Bitty-Titty Committee

Observe the girls in a normal, everyday T-shirt bra.  This is what I look like in my real life.  Yes, my boobs look small because they are indeed small.  In the real world I am totally unashamed of this fact.  Having small breasts allows me to wear all sorts of fun shirts and even go braless if my outfit requires it.  Plus they don't hit me in the face or cause back pain when I run.  I'd say that in most cases that's a win.  Hooters doesn't fall into the "win" column.



Push-up Bra Boobs

Only a little real.

Welcome to the whole reason that Victoria's Secret exists.  Every woman in the world owns AT LEAST one push-up bra.  Hippies are of course excluded from that statistic.  Most push-up bras will increase breast size from one to two cup sizes by the aid of various forms of padding.  Padding can consist of anything from gels to water.  Hell we'd probably wear a bra made of rocks if it gave us perfect decollate.  We're women it's what we do.  The picture to the right is me in a "Bombshell" type bra.  The Bombshell is Victoria's Secret's amazing creation that adds two cup-sizes.  It's the biggest lie ever.  Now I say Bombshell type because I am cheap and got the same bra at Target for a third of the price.  Go Target!  This is my usual Hooters attire.



Chicken Cutlet Boobs

Good eatin'!

No, I am not condoning stuffing your bra with poultry.  That would just make a mess and attract crows.  Chicken cutlets are silicone padding specifically made to insert into bras.  The name is derived from the fact that the shape and feel holds a striking resemblance to chicken breasts.  This effect is only increased when they make they are skin-colored.  Sorry, this girl doesn't own cutlets.  Mostly this is because they cost around $50 for a ice pair.  Plus they tend to make you sweat and end up smelling like ass.  And smelling like ass is always sexy.



Double Bra Boobs

Awkward bulges are not attractive.

This is exactly what it sounds like.  Some Hooters Girls will go so far as to wear two bras to increase their cleavage.  Not only is this usually extremely uncomfortable, but also tends to look really unnatural.  I say this because it gives the breast a very bottom heavy appearance owing to the fact that you have added about 18 pounds of padding to your breasts - not to mention all that underwire and straps and hooks.  All that stuff is just waiting to cause all sorts of awkward lines that don't belong anywhere near a nice set of boobies.  I condone the double bra under no circumstances.  You're welcome for the picture.  My boobs are ashamed.



Bronzer Boobs

Real life airbrushing!

I am a huge fan of using bronzer to contour all sorts of body parts.  Yes, you can use bronzer on your boobs to great effect.  Basically you get a nice dark bronzer - eyeshadow will work in a pinch - and brush that shit all inside your cleavage.  Next, you get all excited and shadow the top, round bits of your breasts.  Suddenly you start to get that totally unnatural, but totally fabulous top roundness that is generally only achievable with either surgery or absolutely perfect genetics.  You can think of it as reality PhotoShop.  It's a simple trick, but easily one of the better ones.


And the magician has revealed a few of the secrets.  I'm fully prepared for a Hooters Girl issued hit on my life.  Sorry, girls, the secret was going to get out someday.

The Seating of Bar Tables

I see some incorrect Hooters pouring technique.  CREDIT.

When working bar, during most shifts I have three high-top tables in addition to my twenty bar stools.  I love having those tables because it means that I can pull families and other “non-bar” diners in addition to my regular crowd.  Basically it’s an opportunity for me to increase my seating which in turn increases my ability to make money; and as much as I adore my job I still love making me some money.

Of course being that I’m working the bar, it can often be difficult for me to actually seat these tables.  While this has a lot to do with the fact that I am making drinks and what not, it also has a lot to do with the bar’s proximity to the door.  It’s just really hard to compete with a girl on the floor because they don’t have to walk out from behind the bar and across the restaurant to get to the door.  The girls on the floor have a definite advantage when it comes to pulling tables.

Luckily, some of the girls are kind enough to include the bartenders when tables are being sat.  Every once and awhile – rather than just seating themselves – girls will seat groups at my bar tables.  Often I love this.  Sometimes I don’t.

Why wouldn’t I love my tables being sat?  Let me break it down.  There are three types of girls in this regard: those who never seat my tables, those who seat my tables and – my least favorite – girls who seat my tables only when they stereotype the shit out of people and assume they will be shitty tippers.  I won’t sugarcoat, some girls will only seat me with groups that they don’t want because they look white trash.  Or groups that are populated by teenagers.  Or groups that fall in certain ethnic groups.  All because they don’t want them because they assume they will make ten percent or less.  When in doubt, pawn them off on the bartender.

Now you can sit there and tell me it’s purely coincidence, but I’ve witnessed this phenomenon often enough from certain girls to know it’s true.  Personally, I think it’s sad.  Yes, there are people that don’t tip, but while certain stereotypes might seem true it’s my opinion that there are people of all types that suck at tipping.  It’s because people suck.  Not certain types of people.  Just people.  If serving has taught me anything it’s certainly that.

Knowing that tipping is a personal thing and – generally – not defined by inclusion in certain groups, I make it a point to give everyone the same great service.  Yes, there are times I can be pretty certain that I’ll get a crappy tip, but I could still never bring myself to decrease my level of service.  I just don’t have that ability.  To me, doing my well job means always doing it well – no matter what.

And guess what?  That mentality has served me very well.  In fact, a vast majority of those tables girls seat based on their stupid assumptions have tipped me a much-appreciated 15-20% or more.  Take for example a table sat last week: two younger guys and a girl who definitely didn’t look like big tippers.  In fact, another girl told me that our coworker sat me because “they looked cheap.”  They ended up being cheap enough to leave me a $20 tip on a $35 tab.  I’d say that’s more than 20% wouldn’t you?

So please continue to stereotype and seat the bar tables.  I’ll just continue doing my job and quietly proving you wrong.  Maybe you’ll learn an important life lesson.  But probably not.  Either way I’ll go on making your money.  My rent thanks you!

Recreational Drug Use

A few months back Skrillex came to town.  This probably means nothing to a lot of you.  Let me explain, Skrillex is a band of the dubstep variety.  Now if this continues to mean nothing to you I’ll just say it’s the type of music that pretty much requires glow sticks, neon and designer club drugs with the price of a ticket; it’s for the cool kids.  Allow me to enlighten you!

Yup, that’s Skrillex.  If you didn’t have the urge to ingest something illegal, you probably had the urge to pierce your ears with something sharp.  Dubstep is somewhat of an acquired taste.

Anyhooters, the night of the Skrillex concert, Hooters was infiltrated by brightly adorned groups of concertgoers.  After all, nothing is a better precursor to a hazed concert experience than fried foods and orange shorts.  It screams America.

A particularly large group of teenage dubsteppers ended up in Ariel’s section.  The girls wore face paint, flashy neon tutus and enough glitter to make a fairy ill – it all screamed wannabes.  They looked more like “lets go clubin’ Barbie” than serious sceners.  Ah to be a teenager again hopelessly trying to fit in to any group you can.

Ariel, being a Portlander and appreciator of all things outside the mainstream, handled the table with ease.  She knows her dubstep and showed those kids a thing or two or twelve.  They were in awe of her awesome musical knowledge.  Ariel is good like that.

As the meal ended, the girls at the table deemed it necessary to photograph their pre-concert meal.  First were pictures with Ariel.  Then pictures of couples.  And finally Ariel offered to take a picture of the whole, boisterous table.  Ariel situated herself at the head of the table and began directing the group into the perfect pose – no faces obscured, hair looking its best.  She snapped the perfect picture and went to hand the camera back.

But something went wrong.  You know how it is when you’re using an unfamiliar piece of camera equipment.  You hit a wrong button and suddenly you end up in some strange menu or turn the flash off or just generally eff things up somehow.  Well Ariel hit something.  Only she didn’t end up changing settings, she ended up scrolling through the camera’s contents only to land on a picture of one of the young girls in front of her snorting what appeared to be a white substance commonly known as cocaine.  Or as Ariel put it, “dude I just saw a photo of one of those girls doing the fattiest fatty line of coke.”

At this point Ariel froze, locking eyes with the sixteen year-old, tutu clad, drug experimenter in question.  It was one of those awkward “I know, that you know, that I know” moments.  She almost threw the camera back as she continued to look at the degeneration of our nation’s youth.

“Well go ahead and add that to the top of the list of ‘awkward Hooters moments,” quipped Ariel.  “I mean I have nothing against that stuff if you’re into it, but she was twelve and her mom probably wouldn’t be too flattered that her allowance is being spent on sweet nose candy.”

I miss you, Ariel.

Hold the Veggies

Sometimes as soon as I answer the phone at work it’s obvious that the person at the other end of the line wants to complain.  Take yesterday for example, the phone rang, I answered and was abruptly greeted.

“Can I speak to the restaurant manager, PLEASE?”

He said please in that way that doesn’t mean please at all.  It was one of those pleases that really says, “I’m being a total dick here and have no effing clue what it means to be polite.”  It was a complaint please and I knew it immediately.

“B, there is a phone call for you and you better put on your manager game face because it sounds like the guy is calling to complain.”

And that’s all it took.  I watched Manager B march to the office like a determined soldier heading to the front lines.  Manager B might be one of the nicest guys ever, but when business needs to be done he handles shit.  I once watched the guy get punched in the face by an inebriated UFC fan and then lean in and ask for a real hit.  If anyone can handle a complaint it’s Manager B.

It turns out I was right.  We had a complainer on our hands.  His complaint went something like this:

The day before, the caller had ordered three plain Double D burgers to-go.  Now for those of you who are not Hooters menu aficionados, the Double D is a two-patty monster that weighs in at one pound of delicious beef.  In a word the Double D screams AMERICA!

Aren't those vegetables offensive?

So he got his plain Double D burgers as he ordered them.  Only the kitchen had the audacity to put lettuce, onion and tomato ON THE SIDE of the burgers.  Heaven for effing bid.  While his burgers were plain, they came with veggies on the side.  Apparently this was the cause of the end of the world.  And apparently this meant he needed his money back.

Now, I didn’t take the order, but it seems to me that he probably asked for plain burgers and that’s exactly what he got.  Odds are he wasn’t specific enough to relay his complete and utter disdain for all things healthful because had he made that known no vegetables would even look at his greasy beef.  But of course we are meant to be mind readers.  Everyone knows that’s a crucial part of any server’s training.

And that is before we look at the fact that this man is utterly ridiculous.  You’re going to freak out over a few vegetables that aren’t even ON your damn burger?  Forgive us for even implying a bit of health to accompany your bagillion calorie gut bombs.  We are so fucking offensive.

Allow me to teach you a trick.  Grab that burger with two – probably not washed – hands.  Now pick that baby up and remove it from the box.  Holy shit, that is a plain burger!   Is that some magic or what?  I know, I even impress myself sometimes.

No, you cannot have your money back.

Note: Before you “he might be allergic” people jump on the ol’ comments bandwagon, don’t you think he would have made that known when ordering if that was the case?  Also, it would totally unrealistic to say that three people (assuming he was sharing) are all allergic to several varieties of vegetables.  This man was just picky and cheap.  And afraid of vegetables.

To Your (My) Health

I’ve always considered myself a pretty active person.  I did run track after all.  But after graduating – and not constantly having someone telling me how to work out and when – I certainly eased into a not so consistent workout plan.  Rather the two or even three-a-days I had grown accustomed to, I instead fell into a schedule of half-assed cardio seasons.  I mean I still worked out (because I do love it) but it was nothing compared to what my body was used to.

Two months, two months, two months.  CREDIT.

Then you pair that with food.  Because I was always getting my ass kicked with lifting, running, form workouts and plyos I just didn’t really think that much about what I was eating.  While I ate fairly healthily, I enjoyed my fair share of sugary sweets and greasy fried foods.  I love food and I didn’t hold back if I didn’t want to.

And then finally you get a job at Hooters.  There is almost nothing better as a lover of wings than being hired as a Hooters Girl.  Wings are everywhere.  Of course being a Hooters Girl means wearing the uniform.  And the uniform isn’t quite as fond of wings.  At first I just didn’t care.

So I gained weight.  It was inevitable.  But I won’t sit here and pretend I gained tons of unwanted pounds.  Obviously I was still able to pull of the uniform of a Hooters Girl.  I just felt heavy.  I felt off.  I felt lazy.  In short I didn’t feel like me anymore.  And while I looked fine to everyone else, that just wasn’t good enough for me.

Finally, I decided to really do something about it.  I stopped saying “I’ll start on Monday” and just effing started.  And let me tell you, at first it totally sucked.  It wasn’t so much the more consistent and focused working out, but rather the showing up to Hooters and avoiding everything delicious and eating salad after salad after salad.  That was torture.

But I stuck with it as much as I wanted to order a greasy Strip Cheese sandwich drenched in extra hot sauce.  I started bring my own food to work to avoid temptation.  I added a morning bootcamp to my cardio routine and introduced more lifting.  I started feeling like me.  I wasn’t as tired – even when waking up at six to hit the gym.  I felt happier.  I just felt good.

Please note the size of that bitty bikini in relation to my heels.

And then I went totally insane and decided to sign up for a bikini fitness competition.  I even went out and purchased a miniscule, shiny bikini and five-inch clear heels (the normal uniform of a fitness competitor); I made the decision and I committed myself.  That decision has taken my already healthy eating lifestyle to regimented, four-hour meals of specific amounts of protein and starchy carbs.  I am one of those crazy people with both a bathroom scale and a kitchen scale; I even use them both daily.  I drink protein shakes.  I no longer drown my sorrows nor celebrate my happiness in the bottoms of margaritas.  I go the gym twice a day even when I think I don’t have the time.  I am bastion of fitness.  Don’t worry I scare myself too.

But here I sit today, just under two months out from my competition, toned, healthy and nearly twenty pounds lighter than I was in January.  Did I think I even had twenty pounds to lose?  Hell no.  But I did and it feels amazing.  My abs say hello.

I’ll be so ready for that shiny, little bikini.

What's in a Name?

Thanks for backing me up, Ting Tings.  CREDIT.

One of the reasons I go by Sauce is because my actual name isn’t exactly common.  In fact, when I introduce myself to tables it often becomes pretty apparent that my name sort of scares the shit out of  people because it catches them so off guard.  Seriously, it does.  Quickly following my name with “Sauce” is somewhat of a necessity.  Otherwise people’s heads might spin off or something and that would make me a murderer.  I’m not into that.

Recently I introduced myself as normal to a guest at the bar and rather than the usual response of “your name is what?” or “how did you make that shit up?” I was met by, “well you’re pronouncing that VERY wrong.”

Wait, what?  You say I’m pronouncing my own effing name wrong?  Yes, that is certainly what the middle-aged man across the bar from me was asserting.  And he was asserting it quite strongly.

“I know a girl with that name and it might be spelled that way, but that is most certainly NOT how you say it.”

He then went on to “correctly” pronounce my name full of all sorts of letters that have absolutely no place amidst or connection to the actual letters in my name.  This guy was pulling shit from all over the alphabet and jamming it all in my name however he saw he fit.  For the record, I’ve heard my name pronounced lots of ways, but this was certainly not even close to one of them.

So I attempted to correct him.  He would have absolutely none of it.

Let me get this straight.  You’re trying to tell me that for twenty-six years I’ve been saying my name totally incorrectly?  You’re also telling me that my father – who is still a citizen of the country of origin of my name – has also been pronouncing my name incorrectly.  This leads you to basically be telling me that a whole freaking country has been pronouncing my name incorrectly for hundreds of years and not giving two craps about it.  Clearly something is not adding up here.

For the record, he never believed that I was pronouncing my name correctly.  It was clearly a lost cause.

If you’re reading this, dude.  It just might be possible that your friend’s parents were the ones who choice an odd spelling of a different name.  I’m not saying they are wrong, I’m just saying I’m definitely not wrong.  I know my shit.  And believe it or not I know my name too.  It’s a gift.

Ode to Ariel

Ariel in cake!  Loving created by our
amazing manager.

This has been a sad weekend in the life of Sauce.  After three wonderful years of friendship, Ariel will be moving back home to Portland tomorrow.  That’s the thing about living in a college town – nothing is ever permanent.  Friends come and go.  They graduate.  They transfer.  They dropout.  And while it’s happened to me before, I’ve never felt as close to anyone as Ariel.

It’s just that from the beginning Ariel seemed to get me in a way that no one really had before.  She understood and shared my slightly girly, totally goofy, marginally awkward and absolutely strange personality.  She got that I loved watching musicals as much as I loved going out.  She just fit my life and I seemed to fit hers.

As we’ve spent the last few days together just hanging out and enjoying her time before moving home, I started to think about how we made the move from coworkers to friends.  Try as I may, the specifics eluded me.  The thing about our friendship is that it’s of the type that you can’t remember ever being without it.  It just feels like it’s always been.  Maybe that’s why I can’t remember.  Or more probably we’ve just had so many fun, random, amazing times that they all blend together.  Either way I don’t really mind.

While I know that distance won’t really matter, I can already feel the change at Hooters.  Weekends were ruled by the Ariel/Sauce duo.  We had random photo shoots and stood on the bar.  We sang show tunes.  We played slug bug with a fervent passion that no else shared.  No matter what we had a good time and it was nearly always infectious.  People came in just to sit at the bar and laugh.  It made me love my job more than I already did.

Now things are different.  Who else knows all the words to “Iowa” from The Music Man?  Who else will wander aimlessly around Target with me spending our just made tips on Starbucks and random shit we don’t need?  Who else will make snow angles with me in -5 degree blizzards?  Who else will speak to me in German?  Who else will run around in ridiculous orange shorts, be totally crazy and not give a damn about what anyone else thinks?

I’ll miss you, Ariel.  To say Hooters will be entirely different without you is a colossal understatement.  Here’s to: virgin Bloody Mary’s, chicken cutlets, hula hoops, soccer balls, Deutsch, Shania Twain, squirrel pounds, coffee runs, yodeling, coloring, D-fine, texting, toast, hangovers, cameras, slashed tires, bus tubs, birthday songs, junior bacon cheeseburgers, nail polish, beach houses, World Cup, Ronnie Dunn, double bras, bad decisions and a million other little things that make absolutely no sense to anyone but us.

Thanks for making my life so totally, absolutely perfect.  Catch you on the flipside. 

People of Hooters

So this happened at work today.  A group of bikers on their way to Sturgis stopped in and amongst them was a rather large woman in athletic shorts and a bikini top accompanied by a man who showed off at least three and a half inches of ass-crack.  It was just begging to be placed on the Internet after some covert cellphone photography.  You're welcome for the nightmares.

Feel free to imagine the view from the front.

It might be time to install a "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service" sign.

Ear Splitting Sharpies

If you’re been to a Hooters in the last – oh – forever, you’re probably familiar with the practice of your Hooters Girl writing her name on a napkin as she’s introducing herself to your table.  Not only is this congruent with the informal, personal feel of Hooters, but it also is a sign to us as servers that the table has been taken care of; it’s a perfectly simple solution.

Yesterday, I was introducing myself as normal and uncapped my Sharpie to jot down my name.  It was business as usual.  No sooner had I put marker to napkin was I suddenly being told to stop.  Yes, a customer was asking me to stop writing my name down.  Actually, to be more accurate I was being yelled at.

Well that explains it.  CREDIT.

“OH MY GOD, DO NOT DO THAT,” he bellowed as he swiftly covered his ears.  This was not a normal reaction.  It stopped me cold.  There I was staring at a middle-aged man forcibly covered his ears.  Surprised doesn’t begin to cover it.

And that’s about the way we stood for a good thirty seconds, because he also had his eyes closed.  There he was doing the “hear no evil, see no evil” as I awkwardly stood there unsure what the eff to do about it.  I was beyond confused.

“Are you done doing that yet?”

I had been done for nearly a minute with half my name scrawled across the napkin as he cautiously opened his eyes.  As he realized I’d stopped long before, I did the only thing I could think of and asked what he’d care to drink as if I hadn’t gotten screamed at for writing my name.  While I took the order I casually grabbed the napkin and crumpled it in my hands hoping that hiding the evidence might lessen my embarrassment.  I was just going to pretend it never happened.

As I poured his beer, my manager came over to ask what happened to cause such uproar.  It was pretty obvious by her blank reaction that the whole thing really was as ridiculous as it sounded.  We both agreed I was probably one of the few people in the world who have been screamed at for writing on a napkin.  I call that talent.

Beer and food were dropped off and consumed, and while the rest of the meal went fine, I was marginally relieved to cash the gentleman out.  It was as I was doing so that he took the time to casually apologize and rattle of some excuse about the sound reminding him of sand.  Yes, sand. 

Naturally this led me to test the combination of Sharpie and napkin and my findings produced little to no noise that you could hear across a table – and most certainly no sound that had anything to do with sand.  Don’t worry; I was as confused as you probably are.

Hey, at least he apologized!

Karma is a Pretty Awesome Tipper

I am a blogger of the most naughty type.  The type of blogger that leaves her poor readers with no new posts and no explanation for her absence.  I could now go in to countless excuses including but not limited to having a summer class and still working full time, spending what little free time I might have training like mad for a fitness competition and being utterly lazy.  While all of that would be true, only the last one would really matter.  But lets just not get into that and jump right in to August.  I’ll save the excuses for my trainer when I invariably fudge up my diet with one margarita or ten.  Preferably ten of course.

Please and thank you!

Once upon a time, I adopted a table as I clocked-on for the night shift.  I say adopt because a day-shifter cashed them out and just up and left without filling anyone in on if the table was totally finished or not.  Being a good little Hooters Girl, I decided to check on the gentleman and their four glaringly empty pints.  This is Montana, friends, no one says no to more beer.  They ordered a round.

So I quenched their thirst and they cashed out.  But they weren’t done.  Even after cashing them out I easily sold them a round two and then a round three.  Each time they cashed out – believing they were done – and several would argue over who would pay the current bill.  All that stubborn instance resulted in bills of various denominations being spread about the table.  It was like a rap video only minus the video hos and thinly veiled drug references.

After the third round, it was finally decided that the time had come to move on.  While a few of the random bills were placed in open wallets, many stayed on the table.  It was instantly apparent to me that some of them had simply forgotten about the money they’d attempted to pay with.

As they stood by the door before heading out, I scooped up the well over $30 and made my way over to the group.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I think some of you might have left a little more than you intended.”

“You know,” said one of the guys looking at the cash fanned out in my hands, “It looks like you’re right, but I think because you’re so honest we’ll just let you keep it.  It’s nice to see that people like you really exist in the world these days.”

The others nodded in agreement as I stood with the bills in my outstretched hands.  Then they all said thank you and made their way out even as I insisted it wasn’t my money to have.  It was certainly not an everyday sort of occurrence.

Attention to all you nonbelievers, karma does exist.  And she is totally bitchin’.