Conversations with an Ass

My ex has a way of calling me at awkward times of day. Specifically, he enjoys calling me when I am asleep and he is less than sober. I always answer. Now before you write me off as a really stupid individual, realize that he’s calling me when I’m asleep. The funny thing about your phone ringing in the middle of a sweet dream featuring the one and only Chuck Wicks is that you will answer it no matter what. You won’t even look at who’s calling. You will grope around your nightstand in the dark, knocking shit over, finally find your blaring phone and you will answer it. It’s just a fact (and before you say I’m stupid again for not putting my phone on silent, it’s because I use it for my alarm and my alarm only setting is broken…so hah!). Thank you, ex, for barging your dumbass face into my lovely, lovely dreams.

Now these early morning – or late night if that’s your preference – phone calls are all the more interesting because more recently my ex got a new phone. This has had a dramatic effect on my sleeping patterns. The owner of a new Blackberry Pearl, the ex is unfamiliar with such exciting new features as “key guard.” Yes, just like the commercials I am a constant victim of butt dialing.

“Hello?”

“Gargle blah gargle…take a shot…blah gargle gargle…so drunk….blah blah.”

“Nice to talk to you, butt.”

The thing I don’t understand about my constant conversations with my ex’s ass is that I am not at the top of his contact list. My name is not Abby, hell my name isn’t even Beth. My name doesn’t start with an A or a B or a C – it starts with an S. How does one butt dial someone in the middle of his contact list? How does one butt dial someone that they have not called in well over a month (meaning I am not at the top of his recent calls)? How is my ex’s ass so very smart that it picks me out of all his contacts? You, dear ex, have an ass that should belong to Mensa.

Maybe it’s just your ass’s way of letting me know that you’re a drunken idiot and that I am so much better off single. If this is the case, your ass is doing a phenomenal job. Thank you, ass, for pointing out my ex’s shortcomings, he is even more of an ass then you. Oh and for the record, you probably don’t need that shot of Jager you were discussing with your buddy; it’ll go straight to your ass.

A Very Hooters Birthday

What better way to celebrate your birthday than at Hooters? It’s no Chucky Cheese, but I’d take hot, hula hooping chicks over a creepy, oversized rat-mouse thing any day. Obviously we’re going to sing to you and luckily we have a plethora of highly embarrassing options to regale you with (note: if you appear very shy, really good looking, annoying, or we just feel a smidge mean, your song and anything else we make you do will be extra embarrassing). So you’ve got chicks, fried foods, beer, songs and awkwardly placed balloons; what more could you need?

Well this is a birthday and in my opinion a birthday is not complete without a sugar-induced coma brought on by copious amounts of frosting. No, I’m not talking about licking frosting off a Hooters Girl – though I’m sure you’d thoroughly enjoy that. I’m talking about a cake baked in the most perfect form ever, the form of a Hooters Girl. That’s right, at our Hooters you can order a Hooters Girl cake, boobs and all, very much like the cake pictured here. Now this doesn’t come cheap, it’ll cost you anywhere from $80 to $200 dollars depending on flavor and size, but who can put a price on eating cake-filled breasts?

In all my time at Hooters, I have never seen anyone order the Hooters Girl cake – until last night. Walking into the cooler to grab extra lemons I saw it. There it was next to the creamer, tits perky, logo looking extra orange. This was one sexy freaking cake.

When the party came in at 7:30 they were already drunk. Piling around our most popular table – a large, wooden Montana-shaped table that easily seats twelve – the partygoers effectively took over the restaurant. The birthday boy could barely stay seated on his high stool as he jabbered and gawked and made everyone aware that he was 29 today. The wings came, the beer flowed and finally it was time for the grand unveiling.

“Holy shit, that cake has the biggest tits of any cake ever in the history of tit cakes!” Apparently this wasn’t our birthday boy’s first rodeo.

Now I’ve never seen a “tit cake” but apparently on a scale of 1 to 10 this one ranked an awesome as far as tit cakes go so I enthusiastically said, “Yeah, they used me as the model,” with a joking giggle and roll of my eyes.

“Guys, guys, it’s the tit cake model! This girl IS the tit cake!”

“Well actually, no, I was just…”

“I need a picture and it needs me and the tit cake and Sauce.”

And before I knew it, I was with birthday boy, tit cake in hand, while he proceeded to take a huge bight out of the cake’s C cups. It was probably the most epic moment caught on film (at Hooters at least).

Face covered in cake and frosting, birthday boy smiled, “I bet yours taste so much better! Just one little lick?”

I never even saw that one coming…

Hooters Girl of the Month

What does a Hooters Girl aspire to? Now I’m not talking about grandiose dreams of superstardom or finding the rich, old bastard of your dreams; I’m talking daily basis here. When a girl works at Hooters what can she strive for? Well besides attempting to make her nylons last as long as possible sans runs, obviously she can strive to gain the coveted title of “Hooters Girl of the Month.”

What is so special about an arbitrary honor probably decided through favoritism accomplished by sucking up and the hotness of one’s ass? Well first off you get a big picture of you put up right inside the front door. There is something mildly disconcerting yet entirely awesome about seeing an 8x10 of yourself every time you come to work. I mean, on one level it’s pretty sweet to be recognized as the most amazing Hooters Girl for thirty days straight, but at the same time you better not have an off day because, bitch, you’re Hooters Girl of the Month and you have an expectation to uphold.

I mean really, imagine how utterly crappy it would be if you were like, “Hey, my waitress is the Hooters Girl of the month, this is gonna be a great day!” And she was less then stellar because she was on the rag and had cramps that made her want to bite your head off. Yeah, that would totally suck. Keep that Midol handy.

I had the great honor (used loosely) of holding the coveted title of Hooters Girl of Month several months back and let me tell you it was awesome – my face at the door, my face in every beverage menu and one big, shiny nametag. That is probably the best part, no longer are you stuck with a shitty little orange nametag like every other girl, but a huge gold nametag that drips excellence. That nametag of gold, which marks you as “Hooters Girl of the Month, November 2008,” is like your personal membership to an exclusive club. Shorts? Check. Tiny top? Check. Sketchers? Check. Gold nametag? Check. Come on in and exude sexy!

And that can never be taken from me. You can just call me Miss November from here on out.

Bikini Carwash Thursdays

A new and exciting weekly event has found its way to my Hooters schedule – Bikini Carwash Thursdays! OK so Bikini Car Wash Thursdays aren’t really that exciting, unless you’re a middle aged perv with a beater in need of cleaning, but our managers seem to think this is the best thing they have ever come up with. Apparently my managers have never seen the precision with which a squad of scantly clad, jailbait cheerleaders works a corner with cardboard signs and sponges in hand.

So what makes a Hooters Bikini Carwash different than your average high school cheerleader slut-a-thon? Well besides the fact that we’re legal, we also have a cunning way of drawing you into buying a plate of hot wings and a shirt so quickly that you won’t even know what hit you. That’s right, we are not just hot, wet chicks; we are hot, wet chicks that are strategically placed to sell you shit.

See here’s the thing about working the carwash, I am not paid for my participation. Before you cry, “labor law violation,” realize that every single cent you pay for me to wash your POS Jeep Wrangler goes directly to me. Basically, I volunteer to slip into my favorite bikini, get a tan, avoid your awkward stares, wash your shit and hopefully make some money. That my friends, is perhaps the worst part of Carwash Thursdays, I might make boatloads of cash, but I might also walk away with $3.50 in lose change. You see, it’s not up to me how much it should cost to wash four months of dirt off your car, it’s up to you – this carwash is strictly donation.

Lets break this down: you see hot Hooters Girls in less clothing than usual, you drive in your very dirty vehicle, watch me clean it, give me $5 for the honor and go in and have some Daytona wings because, “hell, I’m already here!” So who wins? Well, Hooters wins of course. Yes, you can argue that the man oogling my goodies as I bend to dip my sponge in a bucket is the winner, but Hooters is the one that more than likely got $30 out of that guy for a meal he wasn’t even hungry for in the first place. Kudos to your marketing efforts, Hooters, kudos indeed.

Obviously there is the odd jackass who drives in his charter bus, gives you $20 to clean the whole damn thing and then leaves to pickup his load of kids from bible camp. Yes that actually happened. Did you know they make special hose attachments just for cleaning buses? Well they do, and Mr. Bus Driver had them on him. How convenient!

As of the first week of June, Bikini Carwash Thursdays will take place weekly. This means that a plethora of pervalicious and truly awesome stories will surely find their way to this blog and unlike the carwash, this shit is donation free! You’re welcome.

The Best Text Message of All Time

Last night, in the middle of a drunken friend to sober friend text conversation, I received what is quite possibly the best text of my whole life. That’s right, out of thousands and thousands of messages from my lifetime I have hands down received a text the likes of which I will never receive again. My texting life is utterly complete – but never over.

My roommate to be, who is basically the male version of me, was drinking in celebration of his impending departure for Europe (lucky) and I was lying in bed finishing my book (loser). He was regaling me with tales of playing beer pong with a wedding party and two possible lesbians when he sent me a text that will forever remain locked in my phone.

P.S. Ur legs make me believe in God

I love my legs. I love my 37 inch inseam. I love short shorts. Apparently I am not the only one to appreciate these facts. Apparently, these facts have not only been appreciated, but appreciated biblically. AWESOME. My legs and I can’t wait to move in.

Life Expectancy and Hooters

I am an old lady. Well not literally, I’m 24, but by Hooters standards I have definitely crested that hill everyone keeps talking about. I was thinking about it recently, there is a Hooters lifespan and I am definitely not at the beginning. I suppose it’s sort of like dog years – you know 7 dog years for each human year – but with hot chicks and not much clothing. Thinking about this the other day I came up with a Hooters timeline of sorts that depicts the lifecycle of a Hooters Girl. Before reading on please note this is simply based on averages, simple math, and speculation. Obviously you’re gonna get those 30+ year-old Hooters Girls, but they’re like the 115 year-old people in the world – few, far between, and similar in mythic awesomeness to a unicorn.

Back to what I was saying before my tangent on unicorns, life at Hooters begins at 18. Since you are required to be 18 to wear the coveted shorts, this is like your infancy. At 18, you are but a child and still naive to the ways of creepy regulars in gym shorts. Worry not though oh young one; the Hooters lifecycle (and the abundance of creeps) will ensure you grow up quite quickly.

My arbitrary decision-making led me to decide that 27 marks Hooters death (on average). At 27 you might as well just hang up the shorts because odds are you should have gotten a real job about 3 years ago (or you can be extra cool like me and have a 9 to 5 job and work at Hooters). At 27, your Hooters time is effectively over, unless you’re the super Hooters 30+ miracle.

So where does that put me? Well if infancy is 18 and death is 27 and the lifespan of the average American woman is 79.1 years – blah, blah, math, blah – then a Hooters year is 8.789 years. Ouch. So at 24 years and 3 months I am nearly 55 years old. Dear. Lord. Told you I was an old lady.

Now that I am thoroughly depressed I think I’ll go drink some Ensure laced with FiberOne. Mmmm, tastes like retirement.

House for Rent

I’ll be moving in the end of June and if my past issues with one of my roommates are any indication, it’s a very good thing. Here’s the thing, I am a very laid back person. In fact I’d go so far as to use the cliché, “I’m probably one of the most laid back people you’ll ever meet.” The thing is, that cliché describes me quite accurately. This is one of the reasons why I have decided to give up on living with girls and move into a house full of boys.

OK, flashback to exactly one year ago. What was I doing a year ago? Well, besides enjoying being very recently graduated, I was just moving out of a house full of big, burly, football playing boys. I loved living with these guys, they were my friends and my brothers and the type of guys that would stand arms crossed on the front steps when any guy came to pick me up from the house. So the obvious question is why did I ever move? Well one of these football-playing boys happened to be really, really good at being a football-playing boy and was signed to the Dolphins. Needless to say, that was the end of my wonderful living situation.

So then I moved in with girls – not just one or two, but four girls. Now, these were the type of girls that say they hate drama but really they need to be the center of it all times to keep functioning. Long story short, I missed my boys very dearly. Yes, the boys were a lot messier and I did more than my fair share of cleaning, but I’d take two hours scrubbing a filthy bathroom over stupid girls any day.

And that, my dear readers, is why as of June 30th I will be happily living with three guys again. The best part of all of this is that thus far my new roommates have gone above and beyond to make me feel welcome. I haven’t even moved in yet and already they have cooked me dinner twice with no expectation of reciprocation. Now part of me thinks these niceties may just be to get a girl that likes to clean and happens to have bakers for parents, who create delicious treats for a living, to move in, but I’ll still take free steak dinners while they last.

Talk to me in a month and we’ll see how much cleaning I’ve already done. Give me a dirty toilet over the mess of she said, she said drama and I’ll happily scrub away.

Hooters Newest Bartender

Apparently bar training is the thing to do at the moment, K.H. is doing it and now it seems I will be too! Unlike K.H.’s training though, our bar training is not open to all the Hooters Girls, but rather only certain girls are trained. Why would they only train certain girls? Well, that’s simple; our management wants a very certain type of personality behind the bar. Specifically, they’re looking for the sort of girl that is commanding enough to keep people sitting around for hours on end aimlessly drinking until they suddenly realize they’re been there fourteen and a half hours and the Mrs. is going to be beyond freaking pissed that your meatloaf is cold. It seems I have just this sort of personality.

Needless to say, at my Hooters it is very exciting to be asked to be a bartender. First, it’s a privilege and not a right, but perhaps most importantly our bartenders typically make more money than our Hooters Girls – and who doesn’t love a little more cash! Also, in a college town where every second door on the street leads to a bar (or at least a sleazy casino), bar training is a heavily prized asset. Basically, after my training I will be a commodity.

So I’m really looking forward to this new chapter in my Hooters life. I do have to say I’m a little nervous to leave my security blanket pouch behind, but I’m sure the extra money will make me forget the possibility of embarrassing front bits.