Not So Smart Girl and the Wedgie

When I began my journey at Hooters I figured I'd spend a fair amount of my time defending my job.  Perhaps not even so much as defending my job, but rather defending my own intelligence and substance.  Defending myself as an individual.  And it turns out that yes; I have had to do my fair share of proving myself in a way.  I've had to show people that I am not some stereotype and that - perhaps more importantly - that stereotype doesn't really exist.  But you know all this. 

What I wasn't really prepared for when I began at Hooters was the fact that my family would also have to defend my job.  This leap is understandable, but it's not something that really crossed my mind until the first time I watched my Mom defend me in front of a particularly nosey and outspoken neighbor.  You know the type; we all have one in neighborhood.  It was then that I realized my family had to escape the Hooters stigma too. 

My sister has perhaps done the most in defending my job.  When at a party, she encountered a girl speaking about one of her classmates.  I'm not sure of the full content of the conversation, but I know it was punctuated by "and get this, she freaking works at Hooters" and other such negative things.  The girl she happened to be talking about was Ariel and my sister just so happens to adore her.

Sister:  "Oh you know Ariel?  She is so perfect and gorgeous and smart.  Did you know she's a philosophy major?  And on top of being pretty and smart she's generally awesome too."

Score, sister, score.  But that altercation is not the most heinous thing my dear sister has encountered.  The most awful thing happened in class.  In a university meant to be a bastion of higher learning.  You know, a place where people are supposed to smart.  Apparently admission standards have really gone downhill.  Anyway, there she was one day in class discussing something or other that was generally educationally when this happened.

Not So Smart Girl:  "Well Hooters has the highest fecal matter of any restaurant because the girls there are always having to pick their wedgies.  That's why I'd never eat there."

Naturally, my outspoken, opinionated, awesome sister went on to shut this girl down because she is - as I mentioned - awesome.  And actually has a brain.  That's important to note as well.  I love you, dear sister, thanks for further illustrating the splendid thing that is our gene pool. 

So, Not So Smart Girl, lets break this down shall we.  First off, I don't pick my wedgies at work.  Believe it or not, nylons are rather taut and as such I don't get many wedgies.  I have to say, the whole not having wedgies thing is a pretty nice feeling.  Second, if I did pick a wedgie at work I'd likely follow said wedgie picking with hand washing.  Mainly this is because I'd probably be picking my wedgie in the privacy of a bathroom.  As hot as picking nylons and shorts out of my crack on the floor would be I don't think my customers would really appreciate it.  Finally, why on earth would there be fecal matter involved at all.  I'm pretty sure the best way to pick a wedgie is from the outside, not the inside, of the situation.  Why on earth would I randomly have my hand down the inside of my nylons in my butt crack?  That's right, I wouldn't.  So this leaves me with the idea that you somehow think that I have poop all over the outside of my shorts.  How the hell did that get there?!  That's just awkward.

Don't worry, Not So Smart Girl, my hand did not go from my crack to your Daytona wings.  I'm pretty sure I know about basic hygiene.  Or at least I know a lot more about it than you know about basic logic.   

Hooters and Humanity

Waiting tables makes you believe in stereotypes.  Waiting tables at Hooters makes you believe in certain stereotypes even more.  This is an unfortunately but inevitable fact.  Over time you see patterns.  You read tables and before they've even settled into the booth you can tell if they'll tip a dollar or two or twenty.  You judge, and often you are right.

Many girls refuse to take the tables they think will tip less.  They run to the back or look really busy or just flat out refuse.  Or they'll take the table and give them minimal service.  Why would you give someone extra attention if you know you'll get no return?  Well of course the answer to this is that as true as a stereotype may be it is not always true.  It is not a rule.  It is not a certainty.  

I personally treat every table the same.  Is it because I think I can get a good tip every time?  No, unfortunately I've noticed some truth to the stereotypes too.  But the thing is that every person who comes into Hooters expects a certain level of service.  It is my job as a Hooters Girl to make sure that each and every customer gets that level of service no matter if they tip me zero percent or 100%.  After all, as much as I wish my job were about making money, it's not.  My job is about being a Hooters Girl.  My job is to give that signature service that Hooters is all about.  Every time.  No exceptions.

And this has shown me that as much as serving has made me hate humanity, it has made me love it even more.  Yes, often with giving even the most remarkable service to those people that most would stereotype I get a dismal tip.  It's frustrating and infuriating and is enough to make you hate people.  But then, there are those times you're surprised.  There are those times when that table with six teeth between the four of them leaves you $20 on a $26 dollar tab.  Those are the times when I smile to myself and realize that the world can be just and fair and surprising.  Suddenly you don't just believe in humanity but you are truly inspired by it.

In the end, it goes to show that as much as stereotypes are true - I mean they have to start somewhere after all - they are hardly ever all inclusive.  Girls and people in general may forget this, but personally serving has taught me this lesson more than any experience I've had.  Hooters has taught me many things, but mostly it has taught me to believe in people.