You and I - Again

A better version of the song I recorded for my friends' wedding. All instrument parts and vocals are me and were recorded in my bedroom using my laptop. Epically fancy I know.

Oh and my legs...

Moving Time - Again

I am about to be homeless in twelve days.  That's right, homeless.  No, I am not being evicted and I am not a bad tenant.  The situation is much more depressing (or much more humorous depending on how you look at it) than that.  Let me start by saying that my current lease is not so much a lease as a month-to-month "agreement".  Let me also state that I totally and completely love my current living situation.  Yes, the whole thing is most unfortunate indeed.

My landlord has been in a long-term relationship for the past several years.  Now one may wonder what my landlord's personal life has to do with my living situation.  In fact, his personal life seems to have a lot to do with my living situation.  You see, on Halloween, my landlord and his girlfriend decided that enough was enough and they would no longer be seeing each other.  It just so happens they live together.  You can probably see the issue here.  So on the first of November we were told we had until the first of December to relocate.  Well actually, the two of us on the main floor were told to relocate and the two in the basement can continue to inhabit the house - lucky them!  Suddenly, that whole "convenient" month-to-month thing doesn't seem so convenient.

So what's a girl to do?  Play "Parent Trap" and get my landlord back together with his ladylove?  Move in with the other displaced roommate you say?  Nope, Cor is moving in with his parents and I am certainly not Hayley Mills or Lindsey Lohan (even in her cute, innocent, nonlesbian years).  So the two downstairs have a place to live and Cor has a place to live.  Shit, that leaves me in a dire predicament.  After asking, looking, crying and begging it seems that finding a place to live is less than easy.  A lot of this has to do with the fact that I am in a college town and it is the middle of the semester.  Basically, no one is moving right now so openings are few and far between.  On top of few openings, those that are available are either shit holes or way out of my price range.  I'd live in a shit hole, but because I'm looking at studios and will be living alone it seems less than prudent to live in an apartment with a door that would be no match for a toddler with a sandbox shovel.  Just my thoughts.

Then today I found the perfect little place.  Light, airy, cute and all utilities included.  I walked back into the property management company totally relieved as I requested to put in an application.

"Oh yeah, um, I forgot to tell you before I gave you that key, but some girl is already pretty much renting it.  She just has to bring her deposit in before closing today.  Basically that's like nine-tenths rented pretty much."

Mother effing douche fuck.  Sweet, that information would have been really great before I'd imagined how cute my antique, green velvet sofa would look against the west wall.  Thank you so freaking much for that consideration.

So if posting stops suddenly in December you'll know why.  I don't have wireless Internet in my car after all.

A Hooters Uniform Emergency

It's Saturday morning and I'm opening.  Getting to the restaurant I have a clear mission, purchase nylons and a new top.  Yes, I said purchase.  Besides my first two uniforms - one in the traditional white and orange and one black - I, just like every Hooters Girl, am required to buy any additional uniform items.  A Hooters uniform must be immaculate, not a run or a stain or faded logo.  As you can imagine, in a restaurant specializing in saucy hot wings, stains happen.  Runs are even more common.  On this particular Saturday I had a run and a faded top.  That was a quick ten dollars.

Nylons are easy.  I'm tall.  I wear the biggest size.  I know this.  I insert my four bucks into the nylon vending machine (yup, nylon vending machine) and out pop my size D nylons in "ultra tan."  Nylons in hand, I grab the manager to unlock the merchandise closet and he grabs me my usual size tank top.  Then I run to change - nylons on, shorts on, top on.  Something, however, is horribly, awfully, uncomfortably wrong.  My usually awesome fitting top is not fitting so awesome.  Rather than showing just enough cleavage and easily tucking into my shorts, the tank shows no boobage and is unbearably short.  In fact, I can hardly tuck the shirt into my shorts at all.  Looking in the mirror I note in horror that I look as if I've shoved my size C breasts into a top designed for a tween.  I am every pedophile's dream.

"Something is really wrong with this top," I say to the manager as I desperately attempt to pull it into position.  He doesn't even have to say anything; I know he agrees with me by the look on his face.  Marching back once again to the merchandise closet, I start looking through the tank tops.  The thing about Hooters tops is that are never, ever, never the same.  You could grab fifty marked the same size and each one would be a different length, width, thickness and cut.  For some unknown reason there is nothing uniform about the uniform.  Knowing this fact I wasn't concerned as I reached into the bin.  We'd just received a new shipment of tops so there had to be at least one that fit properly.  But looking through the tops I start to notice a trend.  These tops are all high-necked and short as shit.  I'm talking short enough that they all look like Hooters uniforms for little girls.  Can you say inappropriate?

Reaching deeper and deeper into the plethora of tops I start to panic a bit.  What if I can't find one that fits?  What if I am too tall for all the new, not at all improved tops?  My height curses me again as I realize that while some tops are better in the cleavage area, they are all shorter than hell.  I am sure I am effing screwed.  Then, in the very, very bottom of the bin I find the oddest thing ever: a Hooters top in a size medium.  This is like finding a white elephant.  Medium and Hooters don't go together.  In face medium is not a word I have ever heard at Hooters.  I can already tell it's far too wide, but it's long and at this point length is what I'm after.

I run to change into my last ditch effort at a top.  Thankfully, it tucks right into my shorts and shows off my cleavage just right.  Unfortunately, other than the length, the top is quite obviously too big and as such it wrinkles and gathers around my body in a less than flattering way.  I realize that I have no other choice.  I have to wear the ill-fitting top or wear a belly shirt.  I am not Sporty Spice, I don't do belly shirts.  So I rock the shit out of my wrinkles.

Don't worry.  We're getting new tops this week.  We've been guaranteed they won't look like total crap.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Hooters Girl Does Law School

"So basically, I've come to the decision to attend law school next year," I say, ending the usual spiel on my life plan.  Generally, the conversation begins with "you must be a student here at the University" and ends with me regaling my guests about how patent law really is totally awesome.  Then one of two things happens.  Either I am praised for my amazing foresight for future job security or I am laughed at.

"Now that is a great joke, Hooters Girl does law school!"

While I'm struggling to smile and say, "No really, that's my aspiration," most of me wants to kick the crap out of my close-minded, stereotyping, douche bag excuse for a customer.  You see, this has not happened once or twice, but enough times to make me feel like I'm living the real life version of "Legally Blonde."  However, rather than pink I get to wear glaring orange and I'm not going to law school with the goal to get back my frat boyfriend - I will gladly accept the hot yet smart law student falling for me in the end though.  Oh, and I'm not blonde.  But if "Legally Blonde" taught me anything it's that I too can overcome adversity and of course rely on the "bend and snap" for all my man hunting needs.  Thank you Reese Witherspoon.

All jokes aside, I find it utterly ridiculous that my job as a Hooters Girl somehow discredits my ability to become a lawyer.  Apparently, there is no such thing as a smart Hooters Girl.  If all Hooters Girls are attractive and stupid and I am a Hooters Girl then it can be logically deducted that not only am I reasonably attractive and stupid, but that girls that are attractive must also be stupid (forgive the logical reasoning thinking, studying for the LSATS is getting into my everyday life).  It seems that God or Buddha or Zeus or whoever handed out a bunch of sex appeal and a bunch of brains, but no one got both.  Sorry, I guess I double dipped.  I wasn't the only one.

My question is, why is a girl that is both beautiful and intelligent such a foreign concept?  Obviously, the answer is that it is possible for a girl to be both smart and pretty.  In fact, there are tons of girls that have killer looks and scored a perfect score on the analogies section of the SATs (go me!).  Yes, a girl can be hot and intellectual.  If this is the case, we are then led to question why a smart Hooters Girl is such a joke.  Evidently, it is assumed by some that all those smart pretty girls avoid Hooters like the plague.  All the smart pretty girls stay away and Hooters is left with a bunch of dimwitted, hot chicks that luckily know enough to sling in orders and scrunch their socks just so.  Smart girls don't demean themselves by working at, *GASP*, Hooters.  This of course is boldfaced lie.

While there are ditzy Hooters Girls, it is my belief that the vast majority are far more intelligent than they receive credit for.  For example, at my Hooters nearly 100% of the girls are in or have completed some or all of college.  Yes, I am one of these girls.  Not only do I don the famous orange shorts, I do so backed by a BS in Marketing.  Am I ashamed to be a Hooters Girl with a degree?  Not in the slightest.  You see, after graduating I did have a marketing job.  I worked at the corporate level for a Mongolian grill franchise doing marketing and design.  I made a lousy $10.50 an hour and I hated it.  Then I was laid off, a victim of that whole "last hired, first fired" thing.  Even at $10.50 an hour they couldn't afford to pay me in the current economy and they let me go.  So I found my way to Hooters.  Not only do I have a job that I love, I make tons more doing it and I've still had the ability to put my degree to work.  No, I'm not talking about marketing myself (cliché shit I've heard before); I'm talking about helping market my Hooters restaurant through social media and innovative marketing techniques.  Yeah, Hooters let me do that.  Hooters let me be pretty and smart.  Oh, and news flash, being smart and witty at Hooters has a direct correlation to the tips I make.  I guess being smart really does pay.

Now I want to be that pretty and smart girl that goes to law school.  I want to be a Hooters Girl and a law student and be proud that I'm doing both.  In fact it is my belief that Hooters will help me immensely in my law school experience because Hooters teaches you about people.  Hooters teaches you to read people like a book and interact based on such observations.  Hooters teaches you about life.  So next time someone asks me if being a Hooters Girl is respectable position for a future law student (yes, that really happened) I will say what I always say: Yes.  See you on Capitol Hill.  Elle Woods and I will see you there in Legally Blonde 2.Ho

100th Post

That last post was my 100th...I should have been more epic.  Damn

Sibling Rivalry

With the return of the Hooters calendar, Hooters Girls everywhere find themselves looking through the glossy pages and commenting on the many faces looking up at them.  We comment on swimming suits, smiles, eyes and attitudes.  To be blunt, we judge.  As a company full of women that distributes a calendar full of more women, judging is going to happen.  It can be positive and it can most certainly be negative, but it's judgment either way.

This year, however, at my Hooters the comments went beyond "she looks like a stripper" and "I so want that swimming suit" because the 2010 calendar featured several girls photographed together.  Some of these girls looked like - just maybe - they could be sisters.  Probably doesn't seem like a big deal to have a few sets of (maybe) sisters in the calendar.  Yeah, it's a hot fantasy perhaps, but still not a big deal.  What makes it a big deal is that our Hooters is a Hooters of sisters.  Currently, on a payroll of less than 40 girls we have two sets of sisters.  Two sets, whatever, right?  Well two is actually quite low for us.  At the height of our sibling awesomeness we in fact had four sets of sisters.  Yes, ten percent of our waitstaff were sisters (not to each other mind you).

Now, with so many sisters working together I want you to take a moment and appreciate the dynamics of such a situation.  If the sisters are happy, they can make quite a team.  They can play off each other at tables and pickup one another's shifts in a heartbeat.  Now lets hold hands and be oh so happy!  Unfortunately, sisters don't always get along so well.  Sometimes, or always, sisters can be complete and utter bitches to each other.  Add a restaurant centered on how hot you are and simple sibling rivalry can escalate into WWIII.  Yay for cat fights!  Imagine two sisters, wings in hand, trying to fight without making a scene of epic proportions in the middle of a restaurant.  If you are having trouble envisioning such a moment picture two hot girls that look alike glaring at each other and "whisper" fighting all while wearing hot shorts.  Probably hot to you, horrible to work with for me.

All I can say is thank goodness my sister is not a Hooters Girl.  You'd probably be reading my obituary instead of my blog.

Dear High School Students,

I realize that you have no job and your parents support you.  Hell, your parents may even give you an allowance still.   I understand that they may throw money at you to go to the mall or to a movie or even to eat at Hooters.  I get that money is just paper to you and that mommy and daddy have lots and lots of it in their wallets.  Rent, car payments and bills are a world unknown to you.

One day, however, this will all change.  One day you too will have to find yourself a job, cut the financial ties and handle your own shit.  That's right oh young ones, one day your parents will no longer pay for your sorry ass.  On that day you will find a job.  It probably won't be glamorous and probably won't leave you with scores of discretionary income.  Most likely, you will find some job that pays the bills, but leaves little left over for much else.  You will bust your ass in retail or you may even become a server.

Yes, you may become a server just like me.  You will work your ass off waiting on people hand and foot.  You will clean up messes like the ones you left for me.  You will have days that you hate your job, but you will still go to work everyday because you have bills to pay.  Of course your bills won't be paid by the less than mediocre hourly wage you receive but by the tips your guests leave you.  Some will tip twenty percent, some fifteen and some will tip like you do.  Yes, some will leave you a super awesome nine cent tip.  You will wait on them hand and food and split their tickets and teach them the bar stool rodeo.  Yes, the six of them could easily all leave you just one dollar apiece - but they won't.  Instead they will leave you nine fucking cents.  You will resent the shit of them.

So perhaps - as a simple suggestion - you could at least leave your server a measly ten percent because I'm sure one day you'd really appreciate the same consideration.

Sincerely,
Your POed Server

Of Fields and Guitar Strings

It's a Montana fall.  The type of fall that slips into winter before the leaves even find the time to change colors.  The type of fall that leaves summer behind in one effortless motion.  It's the type of fall the doesn't melt the seasons into one another - its motion is far more extreme.  This is a Montana fall.

So in this cold, a recent snowfall struggling to melt, I stand in a field.  It's just me, my guitar and the mountains closing in behind me.  My guitar is my life.  My Montana is my soul.