Coach B

I've held a number of jobs since the ripe age of fifteen. First, I worked concessions at the local baseball park. My summers were spent hawking hot dogs and cokes to drunken baseball fans and awkwardly flirty old men. Actually it was a lot Hooters, the owner would only hire young cute girls because "drunk men buy a lot more food from good looking young ladies" and I always smelled of fried foods. I digress. I've been a concessions worker, a reluctant Old Navy sales associate, slaved in my parent's bakery, spent two weeks folding underwear at Victoria's Secret, lugged guns and ammo around a sporting goods warehouse and showed my nerdy side as a University IT consultant. This is but a glimpse into my varied resume.

Beyond the retail and service positions I was once a high school track and field coach - specifically high jump. Most of my life has been spent on and around the track: my parents met at a track meet in Paris, I received my first pair of spikes at age seven, found myself competing nationally by nine and was signing my national letter of intent for college at seventeen. Lets just say it was a logical job choice for me. While I loved coaching, my students left a lot to be desired. The school had a hard time recruiting athletes for the team causing the season to be a struggle. Yet I appreciated the small victories, breaking personal records and individual victories, rather than medals won. It was a good spring even though I never produced a state level athlete.

So why am I not coaching now? Well mainly because now I find myself in a town that doesn't need track coaches. You see, I coached in my hometown one spring while completing an internship for our State Games. Spending my days writing press releases and contacting the media, I spent my afternoons and weekends at the track. I practiced with the kids, purposely hitting the bar so as not to jump higher than my male athletes. They all knew and loved me all the more for it.

Returning to college the next semester, I finally completed my degree. Then I ended up at Hooters. You are probably wondering what any of this story has to do with Hooters. In fact it has a lot to do with Hooters. Living in one of two large college towns in the state, Missoula is understandably a popular place for high school graduates. My athletes are now showing up here. Athletes in Missoula mean athletes at Hooters.

There is something odd about serving a student of yours in tight shorts and a cleavage bearing tank top. Where once you were in a position of authority, you are now forced to cater to them. Rather than running their asses off with hill sprints they run your ass off as you grab them refills and ranch and whatever the eff else they decide they randomly want. This is especially awkward when the student in question is a male. Where once they looked at you as a coach, they now look at you as a sex object (actually now that I think about it they probably looked at me as a sex object then too). And of course, news travels fast when coach works at Hooters.

"Oh hey, Coach B!"

This is not something I enjoy hearing as it rings across the restaurant. Unfortunately, it's becoming increasingly more frequent. One student told another until suddenly I had a table full of my athletes sitting in my section one evening. I felt like the scandalous, hot teacher that flirts shamelessly with her students. Needless to say they loved it. I made sure to point out that I could still jump higher than them. At least I still have that.

A New Trick

I've almost mastered a new trick. On slow day shifts you have a lot of time to try stupid things that will impress people. Below you'll see an example.

Me and another Hooters Girl are currently in a race to see who'll be able to do it first. So far I'm ahead, though my beers are still a little foamy. Only downside is that my inner thighs are none too happy with me. Apparently, when you remove your hands from the bar stool rodeo it takes a significant amount of muscle from the inner thigh. Luckily my nylons hide my bruises and prevent me from looking like a rape victim. Here's hoping this will help my tips!

Cougars and Kissing

Sometimes you have a moment of recognition when you see someone. It's that instant where you realize you know them but you have no clue from where. Your brain races as you try to place a face with a name or an event or anything that even remotely relates to the person before you. Then, quite suddenly, you figure it out and you come jolting back to reality. Abruptly you are back in the moment realizing the connection that seemed so elusive.

These sorts of moments can occur anywhere: the grocery store, school and even Hooters. On an average night shift a young man walked into the restaurant accompanied by a commonly pretty brunette. As they settled at their table I had the feeling that I knew the guy. It was a gut feeling that grew with every step I took towards their table. I knew him, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't place him; the feeling I had was awkwardly disconcerting.

As I took their drink order I made several casual observations about the couple at my table. First, checking the woman's ID, I noted that being born in 1974 she was eleven years older than her companion - she looked amazing for her age. She ordered a Bud Big Daddy with clamato (a quintessential Montana classic). The young man uneasily ordered the same and as he stumbled with his words as he handed me his ID I realized that he recognized me as well. He was good looking, but appeared self-conscious. He, like myself, had recognized me but seemed unable to place me.

Bringing their silverware and meal and refills I still couldn't place him. I was noticeably perturbed, adding to the uncomfortable nature of the whole experience. Then, accompanying a second refill, it hit me instantly. This guy was a drunken makeout of the most epic proportions. I'm talking hours of swapping spit on a couch while random music videos on late night VH1 lit the room. I'm talking waking up in the morning crammed uncomfortably on a couch with a guy you hardly know and realizing you were a lipslut again. Yes, I was once a lipslut and there over wings and beer sat one of my conquests.

While the realization shown in shades of red across my face, I saw a flash in his eyes that told me he'd figured it out too. We'd both fought through the drunken haze and remembered each other. It only made the situation more uncomfortable. The cougar instantly become possessive of her younger pray as if she knew exactly what was going on. While she clung to his arm, Drunken Makeout ashamedly averted his eyes to the wings before him. And then there was me uncomfortably backing away as my burning red cheeks clashed with the orange of my shorts.

Cowering behind the wall of the waitstation I suddenly realized that I had no reason to be so ashamed. I had the upper hand. He was with an aging and possessive cougar that gripped him like an animal. He was awkward in his conversation. He was wearing jorts, the fashion mistake of long jean shorts that should have died in 1998. I don't do insecurity and I most certainly don't do jorts. Here he was with his cougar and there I was looking smoking hot as Hooters Girl extraordinaire. Yes, I had the upper hand for sure.

So I walked out with confidence, smiled and continued serving the pair as if I didn't have a care in the world. Yes, Drunken Makeout, we spent a shitty night together on a couch, but I don't even care. I am a Hooters Girl and shit happens. Have fun with your cougar.

Search Term Sunday: Black Uniform Hooters

Looking at the analytical data for my blog I noticed that a lot of people end up at my blog by asking questions. They'll wonder something about Hooters, type a question into Google and suddenly they find their way to Girl and Guitar. I've made light of my search terms before, but I figured I might as well start answering some of the questions on a regular basis.

Enter "Search Term Sundays". Now, every Sunday, I'll post and respond to one of the many search terms that led readers to my blog. This Sunday, we'll start with "black uniform hooters."

Black Uniform Hooters
Hooters is known for several things: wings, hot chicks, grease, owl references and the color orange. Entering a Hooters, you will be lambasted with the color orange. You'll see orange barstools, orange paint, orange menus, orange merchandise and, of course, orange shorts accompanied by white tank tops with orange logos on every hot-bodied waitress in sight.

Of course this won't be the case if you come to Hooters on a Friday because on Friday we don't wear orange; we wear black. Yes, Hooters classes it up a little, pulls all the stops and gets all fancy on Friday by making its Hooters Girls dawn black uniforms. So while every office in town is dressing it down for casual Friday, Hooters is dressing it up with black hot shorts and tanks because everyone knows that black makes anything elegant no matter how short it is. Just ask Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman." Black equals class no matter what.

As far as us Hooters Girls are concerned black can equal whatever it wants to equal but to us it simply equals marvelous. Yes, Hooters Girls love black uniforms almost as much as they love lose wallets. Black Hooters uniforms simply fit better. Add that to the fact that black is flattering as hell and you will have a restaurant full of girls thanking God it's Friday. Ask any Hooters Girl you want, but I can assure you she looks forward to Fridays (guess you don't have ask after all). Friday is king at Hooters as far as days of the week are concerned.

What about the customer? Well frankly, Fridays seem to confuse many a Hooters patron. Countless Fridays I have encountered the questions "why do you wear black?" and "don't you wear orange here?" Then I'm left to explain the whole thing and the customer ends either being more confused, not caring, or wishing they'd come either a day later or a day earlier. I apologize that I don't look like a typical Hooters Girl, but the outfit is still just as tight and just as short so suck it up because you're still getting all the ass and boobs you came for. I'm just in a better mood about my outfit so really it's better for you. This Friday is your luck day.

So now you know why we wear black. But just to confuse you a little more I'll let you know that we also wear it on "special occasions" like UFC and home games for the local college football team or whatever the hell else we randomly decide to celebrate. Also, some Hooters make girls that are training wear black so you can differentiate the inexperienced, sucky Hooters Girls from the more experienced, totally awesome Hooters Girls. Basically, black comes out when it wants to just to shake it up and make you think you may be at that other breastaurant, Winghouse.

The Strike of the Grammar Ghost

Back in July, I shared a poster featured at our local Hooters. The thing about the poster was that it prominently displayed a blatant grammatical error. If you'd like to read all about it you may do so HERE, if you are a lazy ass you can just look at the poster below.

For those to lazy to read the original post and to, um, smart to notice the error it's, "Hooters understand...blah, blah blah." Evidently whoever made this poster (a lackey at Hooters Corporate) as well as those who approved it (manager) didn't look all that closely at this stunning piece of graphic design. Whoops!

I won't spend another post ranting about this elementary mistake, rather I'll tell you about the grammar ghost. Last night while cleaning a low-top table the poster caught my eye. Prominently displayed, I began to shake my head at how proud its placement appeared, as if saying, "look at my beautiful mistake, observe all my stupid glory!" Looking closer however I realized that the error I had bemoaned had been fixed. There in black pen was a correction.

Someone had edited the poster with a simple "At" and a "we" with a carrot. While I had always found the error itself entertaining, the fact the someone had taken the time to correct the error was even funnier. It seems Hooters is inhabited with grammar ghosts armed with black pens. Thank you grammar ghosts for being smarter than the average Hooters employee, please come back anytime.

The Curse

There is an epidemic at Hooters of Missoula. Don't worry, it's not the swine flu; thus far that illness has been floating around the college bars downtown (seriously) and avoided us entirely. No, something much worse than vomiting and diarrhea has taken hold of our beloved Hooters, infecting our girls without concern or discretion - no girl is safe from this condition. Our girls have ugly boyfriends.

Since our Hooters opened just over a year ago it has been increasingly apparent that ugly men have weaseled their way into the hearts of many unsuspecting Hooters Girls. Now it's not simply one or two girls, but nearly all the girls have dated guys that could never be described as handsome. Please refrain from finding me shallow because often an

ugly personality has accompanied these less than attractive exteriors. Hooters Girls of Missoula, Montana somehow find themselves with less than attractive douche bags and lets face it, if you're going to date a douche bag he should at least be hot enough to take out in public. It's the classic "why in the eff is she dating that piece of shit" situation.

How these men get into their advantageous positions with Hooters Girls is a mystery that remains unsolved. It is also a mystery as to why this infection claims the lives of so many unassuming young women. Case in point, within month of pulling on the orange shorts for the first time I found myself in the midst of relationship with a classic tool bag who lacked the looks to support his overly inflated ego. How it exactly happened is entirely beyond me, but suddenly I found myself at the beck and call of a man I would usually fervently avoid. The disease that had infected so many Hooters Girls had claimed me as well. Luckily, a level head and a firm sense of self worth where the perfect prescription for uglydouchebagitis.

While I have recovered from this unfortunate ailment many other girls have not been so lucky. Some move from one bad relationship to the next. Others just stick with same a-hole they've been with since day one. Those of us have gotten out can only look on in horror as the ugly takes hold.

"Looks like we've lost another to the curse of the unattractive," remarked Ariel one afternoon as a newer girl gushed about her new boyfriend sitting at the bar.

Yes, souls are still being lost to this dreaded curse and the cause is still unknown. I have fallen pray, Ariel has fallen pray and countless other girls continue to fall pray. I can only hope this epidemic passes. Our causality percentage is already too damn high.

Training a Hooters Girl

"I am so NOT Hooteriffic today," she said with a scowl. "I fucking hate this place."

I shrugged unfazed. Little fits from our Hooters Girls were all too common. In fact, I heard girls bitch daily in a nearly constant hum of discontent. The words, "I fucking hate this place," were certainly nothing new to a seasoned Hooters Girl like myself.

Now, it is true that even the best Hooters Girls are occasionally not in a Hooters mood. This is no different than any other job; sometimes you just don't want to go to work. This girl's entirely shitty attitude however resulted from something else entirely. This was not just a bad mood sort of day, but a bad mood with a definite cause. To simplify, this bad mood was created on purpose.

So why would one purposely be in a bad mood? Well that's easy, girls that are in bad moods are sent home. Once upon a time, a manager thought it would be a good idea to send a less than peppy girl home one night in an effort to keep the "Hooters is always happy" facade going. Other girls took notice and suddenly one crappy attitude multiplied until one was two, two was four and eventually girls were being sent home almost nightly.

The thing is that it wasn't simply that Hooters Girls were in bad moods; it was that they began realizing bad moods were in a sense being rewarded. Want to go out with your friends? Be in a bad mood. Want to see your boyfriend? Be in a bad mood. Want to be a lazy bitch? Be in a bad mood. Rather than punishing a bad attitude, girls began using them to get what they want. It was incredibly effective.

"I am so NOT Hooteriffic today," she said with a scowl. "I fucking hate this place."

While I was unfazed, I also recalled her talking earlier as she applied her lip gloss before jumpstart. "I really want to get super trashed tonight - gonna have to start early."

It was all too familiar.

"I think I may send her home," remarked the night manager about an hour into our shift.

"You realize she's doing that on purpose." I'd let it slip and suddenly I found myself questioning the manager about the backwards logic of essentially rewarding girls for being little bitches.

"It's like training a dog," I said. "You reward bad behavior and it's going to keep doing it. Like my roommate's Jack Russell, she's learned that she gets pet every time she barks. Anyone enters our door, the barking starts."

Yes, I had just likened Hooters Girls to training dogs, but the manager nodded her head in silent agreement.

"You're right, she's staying."

The reward for bad behavior was suddenly gone.

Here's the thing about Hooters; it's a job. Some days you don't feel like going. It happens to everyone, it happens to me. The thing is though, even on those days you suck it up and you go, do the work expected of you and go home. Do I always feel Hooteriffic? HELL NO! But I still pull up my nylons and slap on a smile like a big girl because that's my job. I owe every customer that walks in the doors of Hooters spectacular service because they expect it whether I feel like doing it or not. That's what work is, getting a job done. A job you signed up for.

So will girls be angry that the "I'm a bitch today" routine won't work so well anymore? Of course they will. Maybe though, they'll learn to do their job at the same time.

I Got Sidetracked. Again

So I made all these promises about posting all sorts of amazing stories and not leaving you hanging – and then I went to Jackson. Yes, because it’s summer I find myself once again avoiding responsibility and spending a few days out of town in beautiful Jackson, Wyoming. Luckily, I have a job that affords me the ability to do pretty much what I want, when I want and then come back and make up all the money I blew in a shift or two. Thank you, Hooters.

Promises aside, here I am playing tourist amidst RV driving retires and Japanese tour bus riders. If you are unfamiliar, Jackson lies at the south end of one of our most scenic National Parks, Grand Teton. If you failed geography and are unfamiliar with Grand Teton National Park it’s basically home to big, pretty mountains (observe stock photo that makes my own photography look like crap provided below). Ironically, Grand Teton means something along the lines of “big tit” in French; apparently I am unable to avoid breasts in my life. This is just my way.


You should be proud that I am taking time out of a busy schedule of boating, camping, picture taking and debauchery to let you know I shall return soon – Monday to be exact. Until then I shall enjoy doing nothing involving fried foods or nylons. Lucky me!

P.S. Hooters, Inc., please put a Hooters in Jackson, Wyoming. I realize it’s small, but tourists love that crap and spend all sorts of mindless money on useless shit. Mainly though, I’d just love to wake up somewhere this beautiful everyday. Sign me up for manager!