It's love

"I need to feed my hubby so I'm bringing some wings home." I joked with a manager.

"What did you call him?" He had stopped what he was doing just to be able to look at me while he asked this question.

"...Hubby?" I responded. I'll admit, I was a little worried I had said something wrong.

"Does he know you call him that?" He asked.

"Um, I don't think so. I've only really called him that a few times, and usually just when I'm talking to my girlfriends. Why?" I still didn't understand where he was going.

"Good." He said as he turned back to the computer.

"What do you mean; 'good?'"

"I just wouldn't say that around him if I were you."

"He's actually not that kind of guy."

"Well, for his sake, don't say it in front of his friends."

I love my managers, and I love that we're all involved in each other's lives, but sometimes I hate how narrow minded everyone can sometimes be. Most of the people I work with at Hooters are jaded, and with good reason. The male managers are constantly surrounded by whiney, self-absorbed girls; watching them run though boyfriends like they run through pantyhose. Gender stereotyping runs wild in this environment, which is why I sometimes feel like I stick out like a sore thumb.

"Hey, the computer didn't print out my meal time start check." I once said to my manager after they revamped our system.

"It doesn't do that anymore. We're saving paper. I thought you of all people would appreciate that."

"What's that supposed to mean."

"Well... er... you know... you're all.... natural."

"... Thanks."

Or my favorite... after a little chat with one of my mangers:

"I know what you are. You're... eclectic." He said, looking very pleased with his vocabulary word. Which was the first word somebody had ever used in the place of the more common adjective that is associated with me... 'weird'. Well, once in high school, a guy I had a crush on said "You're totally different from the way you look like you'd be."

But either way, I've learned to take these as compliments.

Getting back to my main point... the managers are usually jaded, and the girls are usually about as deep as a paper plate. As I left the restaurant, lugging the 20 wings... naked... daytona of course... I dialed my boyfriend's number.

"Hey babe!" Said the cheerful voice on the other line.

"Hi hunni!" and the normal pleasantries ensued.

"Something kind of funny happened today." I began.

"Like what?"

"Well, I called you my hubby when I was talking to my manager and he told me never to tell you that I used that word to describe you."

"Awwwww you called me your hubby!"

That was his reaction. And it was pure glee.

When I arrived at his place of work, wings in hand, his coworker called out, "Hey Kevin! Your wifey is here!"

Ha.

urban

Los ángeles. The city of Angels.

A stale, yellow smog oozes up from the filth, shrouding the once picturesque mountains. The boulevard of broken dreams drowns in it's broken stars while the derelict crawl to you on their broken knees, begging for the change that feeds their demons. I think about this as I sweat on the hot leather seats. The tint isn't enough to shield my skin from the burn and there is no escaping the sun in this traffic. I can only hope we creep along faster than the semi just ahead, and I can doze in its shade.

Memory Lane

Do you ever have those moments, where something in your environment sets off this chain reaction, throwing you into this mental course that brings you to a screeching halt somewhere down memory lane? And where ever it takes you, you become filled with some vaguely familiar emotion that has such an effect on you, your mind is consumed. Information is so readily available in this present world. I almost wanted to open up my lap top and google this feeling, so I could surround myself with it. Pictures, articles, music, anything. But you can't. Not with memories. You'll have to find everything out the old fashioned way.

Gooooo TEAM!

I have never felt like I belonged to such a tight knit group before. I can now honestly say that Hooters has changed my life. Are you shy? Do you have a hard time making friends? Do you need motivation to stay in shape and take care of yourself? If you answered yes to any of those questions, apply at Hooters. I'm sure each location is different. While reading fellow Hooters Bloggers (see side bar under "coworkers") I've learned that some locations have car washes while we don't. I've learned that it is easy to become a bartender, while at my location there is a waiting list. But every Hooters seems to have that same spirit.

I've never really been a "girl's" girl. I've never had that baby-sitter club group. Girl scouts was on and off for me. Instead of playing a sport for school or cheerleading, I grabbed a surf board, wake board, or snowboard and spend time with nature. My dad was very strict and I had an 8:00pm curfew on school nights and a 9:00pm curfew on weekends until I graduated high school. So I spent a lot of time drawing, reading, or playing musical instruments. While I always had friends, a best friend, and a boyfriend, I didn't have that "circle" everybody seems to have on tv. Hooters changed this. While I'm not "bff status" with any of the girls, I feel like I belong. We put up invites in the break room for parties; everyone is invited. We'll go out for breakfast before putting up with the football rush. Closers go out for drinks after work. Sunday day girls go out for happy hour down the street. Last Sunday was a baby shower and "we" have another one coming up next month. Friday I'm taking two girls surfing in the morning, and then in the afternoon, we're heading over to another girl's pad for a pumpkin carving party. BYOP. Girliness has never been so much fun before :o)

How serving ruined my dining experience

Occasionally I read a post that feels like it was pulled straight from my own head. You probably know what I'm talking about. It's that little moment you have where you feel like somebody can finally understand your pain and torment. So here's a little tasty treat from one of my favorite bloggers... Take it away, Bitchy Waiter!

"Occasionally, The Bitchy Waiter gets to go to a restaurant and have someone fuck up his order for a change. After nearly a score of waiting tables, (as in four score and seven years ago...), the dining experience for me is almost always uncomfortable. I want to help the server; I stack my plates, I never complain, I over tip and God forbid I go out with a large group of people who want to push tables together and all be on separate checks. When I eat out, I spend the whole time overcompensating. Waiting tables has ruined the experience for me. But I went out to dinner a few nights ago.

There was a craving for Chinese food in the homestead so I Googled, Zagated, and CitySearched until I found a place that was highly recommended. The reviews for Hunan Park were good and the price was right, read cheap. It was little bit out of the way but I was feeling adventurous. Why not? Off to the Upper West Side I shall go! With address in hand and salivating for some good orange chicken, my dining partner (none of your beeswax, busy bodies) head to Columbus Avenue and 70th Street. When we get there, we go back and forth on the supposed block and see nothing that serves egg rolls. Every other ethnic restaurant is on that block but not one fucking Chinese place. We look up the address and realize we are standing in front of it, but it is now some lame ass deli that I applied for a job at about three weeks ago. What the fuck? Did Hunan Park up and leave? Never fear, there is another location on 91st Street, only twenty blocks up. We trudged ahead. At 91st street, nuthin'. A grocery store, a post office and a homeless lady who may or may not have been Chinese. We call the mysterious Hunan Park and they say "No! No! Ninety-fifth Street. Five Five!" Four more blocks and we finally behold the wonder that is Hunan Park; the magical mystical Far East heaven that has made me travel all the way from Queens to a neighborhood I didn't even know the name of. Hunan Park was a dump.

"Well, Zagat gave it a 9 for decor but a 19 for food. It must be good. There's no one here though, that's weird." As we ignored every red flag that was waving before us, we stepped into a place that may as well have been next door to me in Queens. Zagat can not lead us astray, could they? There was an old man sitting at a table with headphones on and a pile of food in front of him. He looked like he could be a close personal friend to the homeless lady at 91st Street. The only other people eating were employees on this fine Friday night. We sat "anywhere" and a waitress threw some water glasses and some chips with duck sauce at us. She looked like she was in a real hurry, like she must have been in the middle of giving a manicure to someone else at the same time. She came back about ten seconds later and said "you ready?" We politely asked for more time so she moved about two feet away from us and stood there staring at us. No pressure or anything, Fawn Lawn Young. It was only 9:30 and they didn't close until 11:00 so I don't know what her fucking hurry was. Maybe it was Chinese New Year or something and she needed to go build a dragon mask. We ordered an egg roll (greasy and possibly frozen) and vegetable dumplings (I didn't try them because they were green and I don't like green food) for our appetizers. I then ordered pineapple chicken because they didn't have orange chicken. It came out as some doughy fried chicken with about six cubes of canned pineapple next to it. And a huge bowl of sauce that may as well have been called High Fructose Corn Syrup with MSG. Across from me, my dining companion had a plate of Moo Shoo Chicken that was said to taste like dish soap. Again, I didn't taste it because I don't like food that tastes like dish soap. The only decent thing we had were the two bottles of Tsing Tao beer. Perfectly prepared, they were.

The check came along with an orange slice (fancy!) and fortune cookies. I wrapped up my chicken because even though it was horrible, gummy, disgusting and I thought it tasted like shit, a homeless person might want it. We put down $43 dollars and left. No one else came in the whole time we were there except for a group of three who walked in, looked around and left. And another couple who picked up some food to go. Zagat was wrong. They lied to me and owe me $43. How long will it be before I am ready to again venture to the other side of the menu? Days? Weeks? Hunan Park and Zagat just made this bitchy waiter a little bit bitchier."

Merch Queen

With the economy continuing to sag and business dropping, the fearless leaders (managers and possibly corporate) have decided to step in and boost sales with merch.. i mean "souvenirs." Unfortunately, I suck at it. I can't even sell a Hooters brand lighter for peat's sake. I'm just not a sales person. I feel bad trying to get families that can barely tip me to splurge on shirts for the whole crew. I can't help it. I just feel silly doing it. So now, to motivate us, management has decided that our schedules will reflect our merch... i mean "souvenir" sales. One of my buddies who happens to be one of the "merch queens" told me she actually brings the shirts up to the table during her pitch. Evil, but genius. Does anybody have any advice for me? I like my sweet set of hours that coincides perfectly with school, and I don't want to lose them.

words can't bring me down

I wash my hands and clean my nails, pulling any dirt out from under them.

Clean.

The oily make up remover melts off the mascara and the cleanser polishes. A little stream of blue toner disappears into the cotton ball and I can feel my skin tighten just slightly. Next comes the anti-aging moisturizer and the night-time eye cream.

Because you’re never too young to start.

My skin is soft and pretty. The freckles are barely visible but they’re there. My naked lips are the perfect pink and my cheeks are bronzed from the sun. My hair is pulled back into a tight pony tail and the baby hairs framing my face are pale and delicate. My green eyes smile back at me. The aqua and yellow flecks are brought out by the deep blue ringing my irises. I smile back and the creases in my cheeks look happy.

I’m happy.

And I love myself. And I think I’m beautiful, just the way I am in my naked skin.

For the first time in my life.

Beautiful

The one on the left is eight, the two in the middle are seven, and the two sharing the mic on the right are six.

This makes me happy.

Oh my fickle friend

Everybody has them. They're the friends that see you as a stepping stool; a kind of emotional lift, if you will. They're the friends that call you to ask how your weekend was only to interject halfway through your first sentence in a pathetic attempt at bragging of their own, rather mundane, existence. They're the friends that will use you as their own personal sounding board, and you'll sit there a silent agreement as they pour their sad and "unfixable" stories upon you. But god-forbid you should propose the sticking idea that they just may be the root of the problem. Still, they feel no reason to hold back regarding your feelings. Hmm. Why do you keep those friends...

Sometimes it sucks being a nice person.

My totally awkward tuesday

I'm walking from the food window to my tables, plates of wings in hand. Right now, I am at my most vulnerable. It is the dinner rush, the music volume is at it's loudest, and I have both hands completely filled. It is important to state that my mobility is greatly impaired, meaning it is difficult to suddenly stop or swerve. This is why I must again preach my 5th commandment: THOU SHALT NOT BLOCK THY HOOTERS GIRL. Because I failed to include running into, bumping, or tripping your hooters girl, I was punished for it.

The table was in sight and I could see that another friend had joined them. As I approached the table and was beginning to think to myself that I needed to ask her what she would like to drink, the tallest man in the party decided to jump OUT of the booth and into the isle way, which was, unfortunately, exactly where I was standing.

The wings, once again, became airborne. Flying in all directions, the majority of them landed on my other tables, and on a man wearing primarily white. When I heard the last, sickening thud, I froze. What does one do in this type of situation? Laugh? Apologize? Cry?

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then pulled out my tide pen, handing it to the girlfriend of the poor sauce-covered, white-wearing man. After apologizing profusely, I grabbed my manager.

The assaulting table never went above a giggling apology as I brought them their new plates of wings. They also proceeded to chase me around the restaurant, battling over who was able to treat the others to dinner.

So please accept this amendment to my 5th commandment.

I can take it

A brief summary of a day in the life of the average young woman.

10:45AM "Niiiice boots." said one of the bros in a group of five young adults on my way to my Physiology lecture. "Smokinnnnn" I can hear them stop walking and turn in my direction.

12:15PM A group of three athletes become over-joyed when they spy a tennis ball on the ground and pick it up as I walk towards them on the way to my tennis class. One apologizes for stealing a ball that could have potentially been mine. They begin singing a song: "Ohh tennis girrrrrl..."

12:25PM Walking to the tennis courts, I am forced to pass very closely by two different male athletes and the heckling begins. "Heyyy tennis. Mmmm! Tennis, hey!"

12:45PM My normal tennis partner is absent and I am propositioned by two different men to be their tennis partner. I actively avoid a third who has already tracked me down on facebook and asked for my number.

1:30PM I'm walking to the office where my best friend works, carrying a huge bouquet of roses and star gazers that I am surprising her with for her 22nd birthday. "Baby, I'll get you more than roses." Begins the man as I hurredly pass by.

1:50PM On my way to a discounted medical supply store, I try to pull my shorts down as the man in the truck next to me tries to smoothly lean his head out to peak down at me through my un-tinted windows. I remind myself again to put down "Tint Windows" on my checklist.

2:00PM At the medical supply store, the over-friendly staff guy walks me around half the building looking for what I need, only to "discover" that everything had actually been in one place near the entrance. He then proceeds to ask me about my life story. As he begins to gush over the television show "The Office", I curse myself wearing my Dunder Mifflin shirt. Fifteen minutes later we're finally at the check out station, and I slowly inch my way to the door, smiling and nodding, waiting for him to take a breath so I can grab my plastic grocery bag and run.

2:30PM At the local grocery store buying necessities. An older woman politely compliments my Dunder Mifflin shirt. I smile and thank her.

2:45PM Outside at the local pumpkin patch picking up a few for the house. My total is $18.75. I give him $20 and tell him to keep the change. He carries all of my pumpkins to my car and puts them in the car for me. A little odd, seeing as he didn't for the two he checked out ahead of me, but greatly appreciated. Although it was probably a little inconvenient for the man in line behind me.

3:00PM And I'm home. My shift at Hooters starts in two hours and fifteen minutes. At least I'll be getting paid for it.

Hooters Wisdom

Brit, what's five plus forty-seven plus five?

So... forty-seven plus ten... that'll be fifty-seven.

What? I said five plus forty-seven plus five.

That's fifty-seven.

But where did you get the ten?

*facepalm*

Swamped

I am all too swamped in life at the moment. I wish I had more to write.