It's All in the Family

Please don't sit in my section; please don't sit in my section.

Of course they sat in my section. A family with four kids between the ages of two and ten had selected my center booth. As they sat down youngest screaming, oldest laughing and mom trying to keep everyone under control, dread immediately took hold. As a person I adore children, but as a server I despise them. Children mean kids cups, balloons, crayons, extra hula hooping and noise - all of which lead to messes that I am expected to clean up. In addition to tables of spilt drinks and floors covered in curly fries, families often mean tips that don't reflect the work of keeping two distinct generations happy.

Despite my usual apprehension, I put on my best smile as I distributed beverage napkins and coloring sheets. Preparing for the worst, I continued smiling as drinks were spilled and crayons were ground into the booth seats. When the two oldest boys decided they'd like their own table I made a game of retaking their orders and drawing up their very own check. I drew a different character on five different balloons. I hula hooped until the kids could hula hoop no more.

As the meal was winding down and I was wiping down the wait station, Ariel came over with a stack of plates and whispered, "I bet they give you the crappiest tip."

"Yeah, I hate to say it, but that's usually the way it goes."

Dropping of their $59 ticket I was prepared for a five dollar tip, maybe seven if I was lucky. I thanked them for coming in and they likewise thanked me for my service as I grabbed the American Express card off the table. Then as I was helping a table nearby, the family of six left as loudly as they came.

Returning to the table I was struck by the mess. Food littered the table creating a trail to the floor, spills of ranch intermingled with blobs of ketchup and crushed crayons added a rainbow dash of color to the entire scene. Downheartedly I began clearing the table. Coming across the credit card receipt my heart sank as I read "CASH" in the tip area. I was just waiting to find the five dollar bill that would amount to a less than ten percent tip.

Then, behind a cup at the back of the table, I came across a note:

"You were the best server we've ever had. Thanks for making each of our kids feel special and letting us enjoy a meal. It was really appreciated."

Underneath the note was a twenty dollar bill.

I was pleasantly surprised yet simultaneously ashamed that'd I'd been so quick to judge. Apparently that whole thing about no judging a book by its cover is true.

Happy Birthday

In the scorching August sun of an abnormally hot summer, Hooters of Missoula made its debut. Some people lined up at the door in reverent anticipation, others vehemently opposed Hooters with (oh dear Lord, no) letters to the editor and still more didn't care or didn't know. For the diehard fans clamoring to visit Montana's very first Hooters, there was a week of wing eating contests, discounts on fried goodness and of course hordes of sexy Hooters Girls.

A year later, during a markedly cold, wet summer, Montana's first Hooters turned one. Yes, our shiny new Hooters is no longer so shiny and certainly not as new. We are no longer the baby of the Hooters family, but now somewhere between newborn and forlorn teenager; we're new enough to maintain our excitement but old enough to be comfortable. It's a good place to be.

Here we are one year after our grand opening and once again we are drowning in wing eating contests, Hooters Girl obstacle courses, car washes and beer specials because Hooters wouldn't celebrate its first birthday any other way. Not only will I attempt to force ten 911 wings down your throat in under two minutes, but I will also wash your car and sell you a far larger beer than you probably want because I'm a Hooters Girl and I'm trying to celebrate a birthday, dammit. Some of you revel in my enthusiasm and some complain about the music being too loud. Newsflash, this is Hooters, the music is ALWAYS loud so naturally on our very first birthday we will up the volume to a deafening level because it's our birthday and we can. Remember we're one, we still get our way by stomping, crying and falling to the floor, refusing to move in embarrassing places like the supermarket. It's our birthday; we can do what we want. Happy Birthday to us.

If you want to send gifts I will gladly accept them. I am after all celebrating a first anniversary as well as a birthday. Yes, Hooters and I have been together one amazing year. There have been ups and downs but overall I am still madly in love. Luckily, my continued love for my dear Hooters means even more stories for you. Happy, happy birthday.

Serving Cowboy

I work at Hooters in Missoula. Missoula is located in Montana. I will now allow you a few seconds to imagine Montana and come up with every Montana cliché you can (this may or may not include horses, covered wagons, lack of televisions, Indian wars and cowboys). Now that you've thought about how back asswards my life is I'm going to tell you you're wrong. Yes I've flown on an airplane, I never rode a horse to school and I do know what cable and Nordstrom’s are. I mean there are some seriously podunk places in Montana, but Missoula is not one of them. Missoula is Montana's outlier. In fact, Missoula is a liberal hippy haven in a state known for it's conservative leanings both political and otherwise.

What do western stereotypes and politics have to do with Hooters? Long story short, yesterday I waited on a cowboy and if my above ramblings have taught you anything it's that cowboys and Missoula go together like oil and water. Yes, I have waited on the occasional cowboy before and generally it means good manners, good stories and good tips. This cowboy was nothing like that.

Mid 50's, Cowboy came into the restaurant with two women in tow. Appearing friendly enough, they sat down at a sunny table near a large bank of windows and grabbed menus from the condiment caddy with a sense of familiarity. Cowboy didn't take his hat off. If my ranching grandpa taught me anything it is that a man always takes off his hat when he sits down to eat. ALWAYS. No exceptions. This blatant disregard for cowboy manners should have been my first sign.

After bringing drinks and slinging in their order of three mushroom swiss Burgers, I returned to Cowboy's table a few minutes later with appropriate silverware for each of the diners. As I folded paper towels and placed a fork and knife on each one I noticed Cowboy's water was nearly empty; server mode kicked in.

"Looks like you could use a little more water there. Let me grab it for you!"

"Did I SAY I wanted more water?"

Huh, what?! "Oh, well I just thought you might like a little more seeing as how that's nearly empty."

"If I'd wanted more I would have grabbed you. This was just like on Friday, you kept trying to take my plate. It's annoying."

Friday, Friday. Then it all came rushing back. I had waited on Cowboy before. He'd ordered a Western Burger - of course - and when his plate was finished I'd offered to take it for him as any good server would. He declined, so I left the plate in front of him. Checking back again, I noticed his friend's plate was also empty so once again I offered to take the plates and once again Cowboy declined. I had offered to take the empty plates two times. Heaven forbid.

Recalling the memory of our Friday encounter I cheerily said, "I'm sorry, I see an empty plate and I can't help but grab it. I guess I'm just tidy!"

"Well if I want anything from you you'll know."

"Great, you just let me know." Please let this fake smile look legit.

Backing away from the table I was utterly confused. Was I being yelled at for offering good service? Yes, yes I was. Now I realize that some servers can in fact be annoying by checking on tables too often. I too have bemoaned the overzealous waitress. I however had tried twice to take empty plates and once attempted filling a low water glass. Overzealous? I don't think so.

So I did what any good server would do - I avoided Cowboy. Since I was apparently meant to be spoken to and not be in the least bit proactive, I didn't prebus or offer refills as any waitress normally would. After all, I hadn't yet been told by his highness Cowboy to take a dish or fill a glass.

"Why is my plate still here?" complained Cowboy as he stared at an empty plate a few minutes later.

"I didn't want to bother you. Did you want me to take it for you now?"

"Of course I want you to take me plate. It's empty isn't it?"

"Let me get that out of the way for you!" Fake smile.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't. He left me two dollars. *Sigh*

Accept My Apologies and Get Over It

So apparently in my last post I lied. Ok, lets not go so far as to say lie; lets say that I was sidetracked by the call of warm weather and tanning on lakeshores. You might wonder how a girl with a 40-hour a week "Big Girl" job and a part time job at Hooters can afford to do this. In one sentence I will explain my time off from this blog and then we can all pretend I didn't leave my poor readers for a month. Sound good?

I got laid off from my office job when they could no longer afford to pay me so I made up for an utterly shitty summer by doing absolutely nothing that required thinking.

Ok, good to see you. Lets move on.

Hello World, It's Me, Sauce!

I am a naughty blogger. I have left my poor readers neglected for well over a week, thus committing a cardinal sin of blogging. I may very well be struck down by the powers that be by some nasty plague that may or may not include locusts, death of my firstborn, and incurable boils.

To appease the blogging world I will attempt to deliver some delicious content the next few days - think Slip n' Slides, strip clubs, and bags of Twisted Tea (all mutually exclusive of course). We'll start off with an email I received several weeks ago that poses an interesting situation that occurred at a reader's local Hooters.

I had an odd experience with the waitress at my local Hooters this morning which I've been trying to figure out, but I don't want to ask one of the waitresses, since I thought that it might get her in trouble. Here's the situation:

I went to Hooters kind of early this Monday, i.e., normally a pretty slow day and time. I got a waitress at my table who I haven't had at my table before, but I've seen around a lot - in fact, when she first arrived at our table, she was very friendly, and knew what I was going to order before I told her (I was with two friends, neither of whom have been to Hooters before, so she wouldn't have seen them before).

Just after our table ordered, a big group of school kids came in (at least twenty of them); there were also four or five other regular tables (all two-three people each). Overall there were four girls on the floor, but maybe they weren't prepared for such an influx of people, since the food wound up being cold, and the service was terrible (food delivered by a cook rather than a waitress, and no one even came by to check on our table). Since none of us enjoy cold food and the service was non-existent, we wanted to get out as quick as possible. So, I called our original waitress over, and gave her enough bills to cover the tab, and asked for change, which she promptly brought back. I left a small tip, and since my friends were itching to leave, I left without a second thought - only once I'd left, and checked my pocket did I realize that the waitress had basically given me back the full cost of the meal. Specifically, she kept three dollars, and gave me back the rest in smaller denominations. (I never saw an actual bill for the meal, but I'm at Hooters enough to know pretty much exactly what our bill was supposed to be.)

So, the question is: was this waitress very kind (i.e., did she realize that I was regular customer who'd brought two friends with me, only to have us all get jerked over), very incompetent (i.e., not only couldn't she handle her customers, she also couldn't count cash), or what? I find it hard to believe that it's the latter, since she seems like a veteran waitress. But if it's the former, how could she get away with that? And why keep just three dollars? Am I likely to get her in trouble by asking someone at the restaurant the next time I'm there?

My take: Honestly I think it was simply a mistake. As odd as it may seem to make such an elementary error this seems most probable. Primarily I believe this because no waitress wants to take the cost of a whole meal from her tips. This is the most important thing to realize in this situation, odds are your waitress ended up paying for your meal from her tips at the end of the day and she probably didn't even realize. When paying out what she owed the restaurant from her bank at the end of the day, she'd fork over Hooter's share and think she just had an awful day on the floor. Or she might notice she ended up with less than anticipated when counting her tips and realize her mistake far too late.

So how does a "veteran waitress" make what seems to be a blatant mistake? From the sounds of your visit to Hooters, I'd ventured to say that your Hooters Girl was probably pretty flustered and even with her vast experience she made an error in her math somewhere. Most Hooters Girls are responsible for their own bank and counting out their own change. Some girls will use calculators or the computers at the wait stations to calculate the appropriate change but many - myself included - will simply count back change using mental math. Odds are her math was off somewhere or, more probable, she not only messed up her math but also gave you the wrong stack of money back in her effort to return your change quickly. Sometimes mistakes are made and unfortunately your Hooters Girl ended up paying for it. At this point I'd say there's little to no point to saying anything at the restaurant. Your best bet might be to tip her a little extra the next time this Hooters Girl is your server.

So that's my take, any other opinions?

Harry Potter and The Real World

Like millions of others, I ventured to my local theater in the middle of the night to experience the first public showing of Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Yes, I am a Harry Potter nerd and will admit so proudly. I am unashamed that I have attended midnight book release parties in wire rim glasses, fighting through crowds of tweens for my pre-reserved copy. I am proud to have dawned a Harry Potter costume on Halloween that perfectly represented the beloved character save for the fact that it was unmentionably short and I was blonde. I am not afraid to admit that I cried when (spoiler alert!) dear, dear Dumbledore met an untimely death (in the book ONLY, the movie really failed to create the same emotion). And, as of this very moment I am proud that Dumbledore is apparently a name recognized by the all powerful spell checker of Microsoft Word. Thank you Bill Gates for making my day.

But don’t worry, dear friends, I shall not regale you with a play by play of the movie. I will not tell you that the movie fails to include crucial plot points. Nor will I complain about the lack of action and emotion. I won’t tell you to read the book and take the movie with a grain of salt.

No, I will do none of those things. Rather, I will tell you about the awesome events revolving my movie going experience. You see, there was ever so much more to this outing than Harry Potter. There was mobile Trivial Pursuit while waiting in line, crazy people in shitty costumes, contraband candy smuggled in an oversized purse, awkwardly timed clapping and the realization that Diet Doctor Pepper now comes in the most exquisite cherry flavor.

Yet these midnight joys were not the highlight of my trip to Carmike. The highlight was picking theater 2, finding the only four open seats placed together and realizing whom I was sitting next to. There, directly to my left, was perhaps the closest thing Missoula, Montana has ever had to a celebrity: The Real World girl.

Allow me to elaborate. The last season of MTV’s original reality show, The Real World, took place in Brooklyn. Of the eight roommates picked to create canned drama, one was living in Missoula. Her name was Katelynn and if you don’t know about her you can read up on her here (after crawling out from under your rock of course). If you are too lazy to do some extra homework for this blog, I will save you the hassle and sum it all up and tell you she is a post-op, transgendered woman.

Sitting down, I realized how familiar she looked. It was one of those have I, haven’t I, have I seen this person before type of moments. Then, upon hearing her voice, I realized that this indeed was Katelynn who I have been dying to see for the last nine months. You see, Missoula is a small town and we take what excitement we can get; a girl on The Real World totally counts as excitement. So naturally, ever since I saw her say, “I’m living in Missoula” on national TV I have hoped to chance upon Katelynn.

And then I did, “Cor (awesome roommate who we shall examine in later posts), do you know who that is?!” I whispered in his ear. Needless to say Cor didn’t know when he casually glanced over, apparently he doesn’t watch quite as much shitty television as I do.

But before I managed to get out, “It’s Katelynn from The…”

“Holy shit, from The Real World?!” spilled out of Cor’s mouth. Reality stardom apparently is a big enough deal to overcome television-viewing preferences in a small town.

As I sat there enjoying the feeling of achieving a sad long-term goal, a Twilight preview flashed across the screen.

“Gag, I bet half the girls in here are falling in love right now. Stupid, stupid movie.”

Dear God she spoke! Quick, say something, “Yeah and the other half are smart enough to know the definition of stupid.”

And then she laughed. While making fun of Twilight, Katelynn and I shared a brief moment of bonding that can only be achieved over bashing fantasy films. Not only had I seen Katelynn, we’d shared a disgust for teenage vampire love stories. I was in awe. Midnight Harry Potter, illegal movie treats and Katelynn. Best. Movie night. Ever.

For Meghan

One of my childhood friends passed away on Sunday. She made a bad decision, driving when she shouldn't. Leaving a party, she was driving too quickly when she came to a corner her car couldn't navigate. Her vehicle rolled several times before coming to a stop in a grassy field. At nineteen years old, my dear friend Meghan passed away in the ICU surrounded by her family. Her B.A.C. was just at the legal limit and she was wearing a seat belt.

The following is something I wrote for Meghan. I will always consider her my sister and I hope that she knew that. I love you Meghan and I'll always miss you.

10/7/1989 - 7/12/2009

Growing up in my neighborhood was every little girl's dream. There was a raspberry patch, a park down the road, an apple tree to climbing and a neighbor with an above ground pool perfect for hot summer days. Mostly though my neighborhood was perfect because it was full of other little girls with imaginations as big as mine. We could be princess or pirates or spies; it all depended on the day. The games may have changed, but one thing never did – the fact that everything we did, we did together.

C, A, Z, G, me and Meghan. C was the tomboy, A the ever opinionated smart one, Z and G the ever present, occasionally annoying (to us big girls at least) younger sisters, and I was the protective older sister to everyone. Then there was Meghan. Meghan wasn’t just one thing; she wasn’t the girly-girl or the shy one or the leader. Meghan was the type of girl that got along with everyone in a way that was all her own. In a way, it was Meghan that held us all together with our differing personalities. She ended disputes over what game we were going to play and meticulously divided the earnings from our lemonade stands. When we diversified into snow cones, Meghan worked the hand-cranked snow cone machine and never complained.

And that was the thing about Meghan, she never really complained. She was just happy being there with all of us whether we were riding bikes or playing house or pretending to go on road tripping adventures in her parents’ caravan. Meghan was content no matter the situation and we all loved her for it.

As the years moved on, I began to see Meghan less as life’s priorities moved from Barbies and mud bakeries to boys and gossip. Suddenly, the age difference that means nothing when you’re eight seems to mean everything when you’re fourteen or eighteen or twenty-one. All of us, once so inseparable, drifted apart to focus on those differences between us that before never seemed to matter. A part of me regrets this, but there is also a part of me that is happy it happened this way.

For me, I will always retain that childhood innocence when it comes to remembering Meghan. I will remember selling bookmarks at garage sales and eating sandwiches with butter. I will remember her losing baby teeth and that originally she had an English accent that sounded ever so cute when she said the word ‘bum’. While I will constantly wish I had seen her lately or told her that I still loved her like a sister, I will always cherish those childhood days we spent together and count them among my fondest memories.

We’ll miss you Meghan, all of us little girls from Harvard Avenue. We’ll think back and wish we’d had another day or another hour or another minute. We’ll be happy we had the innumerable moments we did. Once inseparable, always inseparable, the Harvard Avenue girls will always remember.

My Very Worst Date

Apparently my dating life is tragically hysterical. In fact, it is so tragically hysterical it creates perfect material for the ever entertaining blog My Very Worst Date. I am not sure if I should be flattered or be utterly devastated that my love life is featured as the post today. Perhaps I will combine the two and be devastatingly flattered.

To read the story of M and the Sporting Mismatch, please visit My Very Worst Date. Condolences, advice, and all out laughter will graciously be accepted.