The Invisible Scar

Today I spent three hours enjoying a little self-inflicted pain.  Mind out of the gutter!  No S&M here, boys.  I spent three whole hours at a local tattoo parlor getting a most glorious tattoo.  Now you might wonder why in the world I would get a tattoo of such a size that it would require hours of incredibly fast needles painfully stabbing parts of my body.  You see this was not just any tattoo, but a tattoo meant to cover another tattoo.  Prepare for a story of woe and warning.

When I was eighteen years old I was a very shy young girl.  Having just graduated high school, I was still recovering from the effects of being an ugly duckling that was all legs and about thirty pounds underweight for her height.  I loving refer to myself as having the body of a "twelve year old anorexic boy" during this stage in my life.  Needless to say I was shamelessly picked on.  Thinking myself not worthy of a boyfriend and having never been kissed, I was most surprised to find myself garnering male attention when I arrived on campus for my freshman year of college.  This was a most pleasant change.

Not being used to such things, I immediately started dating the first guy that came along.  I had never had a boyfriend and I could hardly contain my excitement.  I felt cool and wanted and normal.  I had always wished for a boyfriend and suddenly, poof, I had one.  Of course being young and stupid, the thrill of simply having a boyfriend masked all the shitty traits said boyfriend possessed.  He was controlling and alienated me from my best friends.  He cheated on me and used me.  He took advantage of my innocence and kindness.  Suddenly, he'd taken over my life and I couldn't get it back.

Now, I'll spare you the very, very, very grizzly details of our dating history, but when it was all said and done, I had wasted three years on a boy that ruined in me in nearly everyway a man can.  I was devastated and shocked, but in the end I was better for it.  I emerged more confident and self-reliant and proud of the beautiful woman I was.  I also found myself growing into a beautiful, filled out woman - call me a late bloomer.

Realizing that I had narrowly escaped spending my life with a man that would have ruined every part of me, I began getting rid of all the things that held a connection to him in my life.  I got rid of the emails, the gifts, the songs.  I threw out boxes full of broken memories and forgotten promises.   Finally, it was all gone and I felt lighter and ready for my life to really begin.

Now it is nearly three years later and the only thing left of him was a tattoo.  A tattoo I'd let him pick for me off the wall at a local tattoo shop; the tattoo that reflected me in no way whatsoever.  It was his last mark upon me.  So I spoke with an artist, had something personal and meaningful drawn and got a new tattoo.  Not even a faint image remains of the old ink below the deep blue of the tattoo that now rests in its place.  It is a scar invisible.

Note to self:  Don't allow others to make your decisions.  Or pick a tattoo off a wall, ever.

Lars

Lars is a Hooters regular.  Joining us several times a week, his favorite spot is on the right side of the bar, three stools down.  His routine is always the same.  Seldom eating, Lars will order a couple beers and say hello to every girl who passes by name.  We all love Lars because he is just one of those people that is genuinely nice and unlike many Hooters patrons he comes for the conversation over the breasts.  Lars is the surrogate Grandfather we all wish we had.

We also love Lars because he always comes bearing gifts: flowers from his garden, neckties by the bagful, inscribed dog tags from a booth at the fair and always candy.  Lars would never show up at Hooters without his candy.  As he sits in his usual place, the bartender presents him with two short glasses and ceremoniously he fills each with sweets.  Not to exclude anyone, Lars will usually bring a chocolate candy as well as something chewy.  And of course he remembers your favorites.  He'll bring me dark chocolate M&M's, while Ariel gets sour gummy worms and yet another prefers chocolate covered raisins.  Lars will never forget a favorite.

Last week, Lars saddled up to his usual spot and carefully dispersed bags of Hersey's Kisses and Skittles between the two glasses.  Sliding both glasses to the edge of the bar, Lars smiled happily as girls came by to say hello and take a few pieces of candy.  We were happy to see Lars and, as always, he was happy to see us.  Someone however was not so happy to see this Hooters regular.

"I really wish you wouldn't bring the girls candy," huffed a manager leaning at the end of the bar.  "You'll just make them all fat and ugly."

Looking confused, Lars cautiously apologized, "I don't mean anything by it.  It's just a very few pieces here and there."

"Well a few pieces, turns into ten and you know where ten goes,” said the manager as he forcefully pointed to his ass.  "Maybe try some carrots and celery next time."

As the manager walked away Lars was visibly shocked.  Looking over at me he cautiously said, "I didn't mean anything by it.  It really is just a few pieces."

"I know Lars, a little bit of candy is not going to make any of these girls fat and certainly not ugly," I offered optimistically.  "Besides, most of these girls eat a lot worse things than four M&M's."

Letting out a tiny, unsure chuckle, Lars got up from the bar and headed for the door.  He was noticeably dejected as he made his way out into the parking lot.  Luckily, he'd left in time to miss the manager grab the glasses of candy and hide them away in the back office.

Days went by and Lars didn't return.  Fearing he'd been frightened away, girls began lamenting about how horrible it was to dash the hopes of one of Hooters kindest customers.  Everyone knew about the Lars incident and no one, other managers included, liked it.  It seemed to all of us that Lars would stay away forever, ashamed that his gifts had been looked upon so very harshly. 

Then one afternoon Lars came back.  Pulling out his usual chair he sat down and looked at the bartender expectantly.  After a deliberate nod from Lars, she carefully placed two glasses in front of the elderly man as he pulled two bags from the pockets of his windbreaker.  Slowly, Lars filled each glass.

"There, fruit and a vegetable," Lars proudly asserted.

Looking at the glasses I noticed the contents.  One glass contained sour watermelon slices while the other held candy corn.  Fruit and a vegetable.

"Yes, fruit and a vegetable indeed," I smiled as Lars chuckled with the last laugh.

Search Term Sunday: Are Hooters Girls Prostitutes

I know, I know, it's not Sunday anymore.  However, since I'm still sitting here in my uniform and cover-up and I just got off work, it's still Sunday in my world.   So, onward with Search Term Sunday

Are the Hooters Girls prostitutes?  Looking through my search terms, I cam across this little gem.  The most obvious answer is no, Hooters Girls are most certainly not prostitutes.  I don't walk up to my tables and say, "How 'bout some wings, hot and extra wet....oh and a blow job?"  While I'm sure many people would appreciate the added bonus of a sexual favor here and there, it most certainly isn't going to happen at Hooters.  I'll sell you wings until I'm blue in the face, but I will never sell you my body.

I mean really, who even asks such a question?  Do you think the waitress at Perkin's is a prostitute?  How about the nice girl at the coffee hut you frequent in the mornings?  Or what about the guy at the McDonald's drive through if that's more your thing?  You would never assume that these individuals are prostitutes.  Why would you assume that I am?  Oh that's right, I serve food with a smile and dash of sexuality.  It's not an overt sexuality; it's a playful, innocent and even naive sexuality.  Apparently, this sexual undertone makes me a prostitute.  Guess I missed that one in my job description.  Must have fallen right between "girl next door" and "all-American cheerleader type" in the manual.

My question is why would one assume that prostitution is a part of Hooters?  Obviously, as I said above, this has something to do with the way I dress because really that is the major difference between Hooters and any other sports bar.  I mean I also hula hoop, sing, dance, and actually get to know my customers incredibly well, but I'm pretty sure none of those things are red flags that Hooters is a bastion of the sex trade.  So that leaves the fact that I wear a tank top, shorts, nylons and atrocious socks.  Sounds like the outfit of a high-class whore to me.  I mean really, what more could a man want then a pair of ultra nude pantyhose and smell ass socks to go along with his hour of paid sexual promiscuity?

Hate to break it to you, but Hooters really is just about the food...and the breasts.  Unfortunately (for horny, lonely men at least) the breasts aren't for sale.  Hate to be a heartbreaker or a cockblock, but if I wanted to be a prostitute I'd move to the Bunny Ranch and change my name.  I'll stick with wings.

Decisions, Decisions

At Hooters there are days when we don't wear the customary orange and white that is synonymous with Hooters Girls.  This may include Fridays and UFC nights when we wear black, holidays like Halloween, and special events like "Are You Smarter Than A Hooters Girl?" when we, for example, wear school girl outfits.  Outfits other than the orange and black uniforms all have one thing in common, they must be approved by corporate before we are allowed to wear them.  This ensures that any outfit is still in keeping with the Hooters Girl image and that any given restaurant doesn't have too many none Hooters outfits.  After all, you go to Hooters to see Hooters Girls.

Recently, our Hooters was given a choice between two new outfits to wear on football game days.  One is a white and orange Hooters football jersey (as pictured on the left, not the jerseys on the two girls), the other is a referee inspired tank top.  Both uniforms are worn with the traditional Hooters shorts, nylons, socks, and shoes.  Rather than simply tell us to order both uniforms, management placed pictures in the dressing room with a list beneath on which to mark our choice.  Mayhem ensued.

Rather than simply placing names, people began writing pros and cons and made an "either" column until eventually the paper became such a mess than you can hardly even read it.  Of course it couldn't just be a simple decision.  This is Hooters.  Hooters is full of girls.  Girls never make anything easy.  So as of yet a decision hasn't been made, naturally.

So what are my thoughts?  I personally like the ref outfit.  Not only do I find it more flattering in design, but I think it's far more versatile.  Think about it, a ref outfit can be worn not only for football but basketball as well and I'm all about getting the most out of my uniforms when I'm constantly blowing money on nylons every freaking week.  Back to the fit, the referee uniform shows off the curves that Hooters is known for.  It shows off the boobs and the hips.  The jersey, while it is adorable, hides the boobs.  I mean, yeah, it looks great on the model in the photo, but she has huge fake tits.  They'd look good in a paper bag.  Finally, I've seen the jersey in person and as a tall girl I am very worried about the length.  I prefer to not look like I'm wearing children's clothing.  It's just a personal preference.

I'm ref all the way.  What do you think?

Wardrobe Malfunction

"Can we dance the Cotton Eyed Joe?!"

"Of course we can! Let me go drop this drink off and I'll turn the music on for us."

Dancing and Hooters are synonymous. It's just something Hooters Girls do; we serve food, we flirt shamelessly and we dance. The thing about dancing at Hooters, however, is that most girls become tired of dancing. You see, after doing the same repetitive dance about half a billion times there comes a point when most girls simply don't want to do it anymore. For some reason, even after a year of Hooters service, I still enjoy dancing. I dance with the fervor of a new girl. That's the thing, usually dancing is enjoyed my newbies who are excited about doing anything and everything Hooters; they haven't been spoiled by the repetition.

So when the question arose from one of our newer hires of course I said yes. Running over to change the music, I could see her excitedly rushing toward the middle of the floor. With the quick adjustments of a few switches Cotton Eyed Joe blared through the restaurant and I clapped my way to the middle of the floor. Not surprisingly, only the two of us stood there on the floor - new girl and old girl. Five other servers raced around us as we expectantly waited for our cue. None of them joined us.

The music dropped in and we started dancing. I should correct myself, not really dancing as much as bouncing. This is the thing about every dance at Hooters; they are incredibly bouncy. Hopefully I don't have to explain this affinity for bouncing. Lets just say that the bouncing allows certain assets to be more....noticeable. Plainly, Hooters dances have little to do with dancing and lots to with tits.

Bouncing away, the too of us smiled at the expectant eyes before us. The simple steps were completed with ease. As the song continued and we'd done the same four steps about six times, I looked over at my dancing partner. My smile faded away and was replaced by a look of shock. Smiling away, bouncing happily, there was one of our newest employees with her right breast hanging over the top of her tank. Luckily, the nude bra beneath still slightly covered her ample cleavage, but it left very, very little to the imagination.

"Your bra, your bra! We need to stop dancing right now!"

"What? Why?"

"LOOK AT YOUR BRA"

And then she looked down. A look of horror flashed across her face as she began desperately trying to adjust her top. She still hadn't stopped dancing.

"Stop dancing!" I said as I grabbed her arm and pulled her to the waitstation.

Helping her adjust her top behind the safety of a half-wall and stacks of to go boxes, we peeked out at the restaurant. Guests were snickering, point, giggling and reenacting. Everyone had noticed. Her face reddened as she dropped her head to her hands.

"Well at least they got dinner and a show," I tried to say over my own laughing.

"I do what I can!" she said as she cracked a cautious smile.

I flashed her a smirk and we both laughed as we confidently headed back to work.

Dear Bresnan,

Bresnan, allow me to be blunt, you quite honestly suck. I pay good money for your cable and internet services. I pay for your plethora of addictive television channels and awesomely fast cable internet. I pay for things to work. I even pay extra so I can brag to my friends that I can watch shit in HD. I'm a good customer, Bresnan. I have treated you well with my checks religiously sent monthly.

If I have treated you so well, dear Bresnan, then why do you insist on being such a bitch to me? Why must you taunt me with constantly jumbled channels? It is frankly tragic when I sit down to watch the epic stylings of "Project Runway" only to find it is a mess of jumbled lines and garbled german accents. Auf Wiedersehen. You make me miss my favorite shows. Not cool, Bresnan. I have a heavy work schedule and as such I do not take kindly to interruptions to my fleeting moments of couch potatoness. Heaven help me if I miss one more episode of Anthony Bourdain.

Then there is the internet, Bresnan. You taunt me shamelessly with your internet. My laptop says, "Hey look, I have full bars!" Yet you, Bresnan, never load. You act like you're trying, but we all know that's a ruse. Of course you're not really working, that would be effective. So I reset you. I tickle your little boxes and handle your little cords and for a moment you're happy, but your happiness is oh so fleeting. You might be needy with your constant resetting, but I have needs too Bresnan. Needs that require the internet. I have Facebook to check, celebrities to stock, online bills to pay and a blog in terrible need of updating. Yes, Bresnan, I have people on the internet waiting to read about my epic Hooters adventures. You deny me, Bresnan, and you deny them. Shame, shame on you.

Just so you know I called your parents. They said my call was being recorded for training purposes. That's right, Bresnan, your big, scary parents have a record of my call and let me tell you, it wasn't a happy discussion. I'll have you know they're giving me a month free. It's probably coming out of your allowance, Bresnan. You better shape up.

Sincerely,

Sauce

Search Term Sunday: Hooters Ranch Dressing

It seems that many a Hooters patron is curious about that all-important condiment ranch dressing. Various combinations of Hooters, dressing and ranch have occurred in my search terms countless times. You see, Hooters serves wings and ranch goes with wings quite nicely; the curiosity is understandable.

Of course, beyond ranch so perfectly accompanying wings, ranch is quite possibly America's favorite condiment. Feel free to argue with me, ketchup (or catsup if you prefer) lovers, but I will fight for the honor of ranch to the death. Do you eat ketchup on pizza, breadsticks, cheese sticks, salads and wings? I think not. Yes, Americans love ranch and all of its creamy, calorie packed goodness. Ranch has effortlessly captured the hearts of the American people.

As a contrast, I offer you a scenario involving an Italian exchange student who recently had his first Hooters experience. His first statement was that he thought we'd all be on roller skates. I was sorry to disappoint. After realizing we wear shoes, his next inquiry was to try ranch dressing. He hated it. You see ranch is a truly American phenomenon. It is lost on the rest of the world, much like Kraft Mac and Cheese and microwave popcorn (seriously, bring some on your next trip to Europe and watch minds be blown). It's fine though; we'll keep all the ranch for ourselves.

In a country in love with ranch, what makes Hooters ranch so special? Well, it's really freaking good ranch. You know how it is, restaurant ranch is amazing and no matter how hard you search and how many brands you try nothing in the store ever compares. It's like some cruel joke. I can just imagine ranch manufactures laughing at us all now. Hooters ranch is much like that - it's the Holy Grail of ranch. I would even go so far as to say it is perhaps my favorite ranch. Yes, I will denounce all other ranch dressings for the deliciousness of that provided at Hooters. A big deal, I know.

Logically, after all my ranch rambling, you are probably most curious as to what ranch Hooters uses. Well, at my Hooters we actually use a lite ranch produced by a company called Naturally Fresh*. Yes, you heard me right, a lite ranch. Don't let the word lite frighten you, it is still a most epic and enjoyable condiment. And the best news, you can order Naturally Fresh products online! Seriously, YOU CAN ORDER THE BEST RANCH EVER RIGHT HERE.

You can thank me later for the party that will occur in your mouth if you order.

*Please note that as Hooters is franchised some locations may use a different condiment provider. However, all of the Hooters I have personally visited have use this brand.

Epic Grammar Fail Number Two

I have come to realize that Hooters is severely grammatically impaired. It all started with "Hooters Understand." Apparently, Hooters doesn't understand simple, elementary grammar. I say this because once again a sign has appeared at Hooters with an all to obvious error. One mistake I can - grudgingly - forgive, but two and someone is quite obviously a dumbass. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I must be a total freaking grammar idiot.

OK, here's the background on epic signage fail number two. As noted yesterday, football is a major deal. If football is a major deal, you can bet that Hooters, and every other place in town, is going to do whatever it can to cater to fans. One of the more popular game day perks is for bars and restaurants to offer buses to and from the game. The benefits of this are pretty self-explanatory. Anyway, Hooters has of course jumped on the proverbial bandwagon and offered this service as well. And what better way to advertise your sweet game day shuttle than with a big two-foot by four-foot banner.

Pretty sick banner. I especially love how it says that the bus leaves "1 hours" before kickoff. I mean it sort of leaves you guessing; does it leave one hour before or hours before or one or more or less or more? Shit, I don't know! Apparently, Hooters doesn't know either. It's almost as if no one made a final decision on when the bus would leave so they just covered all their bases.

"Should it leave two hours before, an hour before?"

"Oh I don't know, how about both?"

"Oh I like that, we don't even have to decide!"

Pretty solid decision making if you ask me. I mean what's better than simultaneously confusing the piss out of people and making Hooters once again perfectly fit its "hey, we're stupid" stereotype.

Hey, maybe no one will notice, it's only size 400 font after all.