According to Sauce

Wintertimes

2012-02-09T13:08:00.001-07:00

We had some snow here recently. In fact, we had enough snow that the county declared a snow day. Schools were closed for two days straight. To put this in prospective, I've spent the entirety of my educational career in Montana school systems and never ONCE had a snow day. I've seen more snow than I know what to do with, but none of it kept me from school. This is Montana and that's just the way it is.

Now where did I leave that bike again?

Of course Hooters wasn't closed. Snow may stop school, but it doesn't stop wings. We're like the U.S. Postal Service only with different uniforms and alcohol. Snow or more snow Hooters doesn't give a shit.

So enjoy these pictures of the snow. These were taken at about the halfway point of the storm on a night of "totally sober" fun. That's the beauty of living three blocks from downtown, you can go out when cars have been asked to stay off the road. I call that appropriate planning. By the way, blizzards don't keep bars closed either. That's some valuable knowledge, my friends.

Normally a busy, main street.

Shit happens in the snow.

And don't forget to enter my Shoes for Crews Giveaway! You could win a pair of shoes of your choosing. And lets be honest, free is good.

Just submit a picture of your shoes and let me know why you need a new pair. Enter by EMAIL or submit your photo via FACEBOOK!

CLICK HERE for more information on the giveaway.

Shoes For Crews and a GIVEAWAY

2012-02-07T13:13:00.002-07:00

February is awesome. This awesomeness comes from the fact that it features a holidaycelebrating chocolate – whether you’re single or not in my opinion – andbecause February marks my birthday. Sobasically February is a month of sugary goodness for Sauce. Happy girl.

So since I get presents this month (all I could think of toask for was workout clothes – seriously), I figure it’s fair to start Februarywith a giveaway. That way you can getpresents too! Only you have to work foryours. I mean I’m nice, but not THATnice.

Initially not impressed.

Recently, I was approached by Shoes For Crews to reviewtheir products. Now, if you’ve beenreading this blog for a while, you know how cheap I am, certainly cheap enoughto jump on any opportunity that includes the word free. So I checked out the site - which features a crazy wide selection of slip resistant work shoes - and decided on asweet pair of Old School Low-Riders in white.

I picked the Low-Riders because they were the cutest thingon the website. While I would havepreferred to order something I could wear on the floor at Hooters, the strictuniform policy wouldn’t allow me to do so. So I ordered the shoes and waited.

Shipping was fast, but when my shoes got here my firstreaction was that the packaging was janky as shit. Actually it wasn’t so much packaging as theshoebox simply taped shut and put in the mail. Not initially impressed. But Igave the shoes a chance, opened the box and legitimately fell in love as soonas I put them on my feet. In fact Iliked them so much initially that I quickly decided the shipping was not simplyjanky, but rather environmentally conscious. It’s all about perception.

Then I put the shoes to the test. I picked up a casino attendant shift at work– where we wear black slacks, t-shirts and any shoes we want – and laced up mynew shoes. To give you a little sideinformation, our casino features a tile floor that is perhaps the most slipperysurface in the world. Even the smallestpuddle can make you eat shit on that floor. So I did the best test I could think of and spilled water all over thetile so I could run into it. I was aworkmen’s comp nightmare.

My shoes lookin' all good.

I spilled the water, I backed up and I ran. And I ran right through. It was like Jesus walking on water; I haddone the impossible. After that itdidn’t matter that my feet were happy the whole eight hours I was standing onthem, I was already impressed.

For the record, I was fully prepared to hate theseshoes. The packaging sucked and franklyI picked a style that, in other brands, is known to be uncomfortable. But it turns out I totally love them and seemyself wearing them both inside and outside of work. The look really cute with skinny jeans, likea non-slip hipster.

Since I’m a convert, I’m also here to convert you! I have FOUR pairs of these babies to give tomy readers. I’ll be likely giving themaway a few different ways, but here’s what you can do for the first two:

Show me why you need new shoes. Email a picture – or upload one on myFacebook – of your current shoes. Alsofeel free to leave a compelling plea for why you really need a new pair ofkicks. An esteemed panel of judges (me,Dreamy, Ariel, my sister) will pick two winners.

Deadline forsubmissions is Friday, February 10 at 11:59 PM MST

EMAIL YOUR PICTURE HERE

UPLOAD YOUR PICTURE TO FACEBOOK HERE

Divert Your Eyes, Dude

2012-01-26T22:21:00.000-07:00

Because nothing says fitness like lifting in the nude.
CREDIT.

I workout. When I saythis, I don’t mean that I do excessive amounts of cardio followed by even morecardio and a splash of abs. While I doenjoy cardio intervals, I also spend my gym time lifting weights. I’m talking dumbbells, barbells and maybeeven real bells if it could make me look like a badass. I’m a firm believer that lifting free weightshas actually made me thinner and has definitely made me happier in my own skin,but that is of course another story.

At the gym where I workout, it’s rare to see a woman liftingfree weights. Generally I’ll be the onlygirl hefting the heavy stuff. If I’mnot, it’s usually me and this one middle-aged lady who is a complete and utterbadass. Either way, I am in theminority.

Given the lack of females in the weight area, I occasionallyget a look or two. This is eitherbecause I’m awesome, because I have a propensity for spandex shorts, or likelyboth. Usually people will look over andlook away. It’s just human nature atthat point; a normal occurrence that is really just people watching at itsfinest.

But sometimes, shit just gets creepy. A glance turns into a prolonged looked and aprolonged look turns into an awkward stare. It goes from acceptable to completely unnerving.

A few days ago, I was doing some lifting and had thatfeeling of being stared at. It only tooka half second scan of the gym for my eyes to meet those of a bearded gentlemanin his 50s or 60s. I looked away nearlyas quickly as I locked eyes with him. Usuallythis is enough. After a person is caughtgawking, their eyes usually immediately divert to something else in a poorattempt to avoid being caught in the first place.

But that didn’t happen. I could still feel the stare and as I looked up again his eyes continuedto pry. I became increasinglyuncomfortable as I grabbed a new set of weights and continued my workout. As I started lifting again I realized thestaring wasn’t about to stop. So Ilooked up, met his eyes and didn’t blink. I was going to call his bluff.

Or I thought I was. He just. Kept. Staring. So Ifinally freaked out and dramatically mouthed, “Stop staring at me!”

And that’s just what he did. He finally got a clue and I moved across the gym. To work on my creep repellent gums of course.

Some People Shouldn't Have Phone Privileges

2012-01-24T19:07:00.000-07:00

This would have been a much better use of my phone
on Sunday afternoon. CREDIT.

On Sunday I received two calls at work that both left me speechless. Welcome to the world of answering the phoneat Hooters.

Sauce: “It’s ahooterific day at Hooters of Missoula! This is Sauce, how can I help you?”

Probably Drunk Person: “Yeahss, juz wonderin’ if the Hooters is open on Sun-Sa-weekends.”

Sauce: “We’re openeveryday of the week!”

Probably Drunk Person: “Sooooo, you’rzz open then? Righnow?”

Sauce: “Yup, we’rehere!”

What I actually wanted to say: “It’s a pretty good indication that we’reopen when someone answers the phone within the first three rings. If you ask the question twice and the answeris still yes than we are definitely open. Figure it the eff out.”

Believe it or not, like pretty much every other chainrestaurant in the world, Hooters is open seven days a week. Regardless, it’s a fairly novel concept itwould seem. Next time, get your drunkass to the Internet and save yourself the embarrassment by finding the answerthere. The Google Machine can doanything.

The second conversation was even more ridiculous than thefirst.

Sauce: “It’s ahooterific day at Hooters of Missoula! This is Sauce, how can I help you?”

Man: “Um, who’splaying football today?”

Sauce: “Well todayare the AFC and NFC championship games.”

Man: “Oh sweet! And who plays in those?”

Sauce: “The earlygame is the Ravens and Patriots and the later game is the 49ers and Giants.”

Man: “Great!”

Seriously. If youhave to call HOOTERS and ask a GIRL who is playing on the second biggestweekend of football we have some serious issues. In fact, I believe that’s grounds to haveyour man card revoked completely. I meanI know not everyone is in to football, but if you have enough interest to callto enquire who is playing that you have enough interest to not have to call inthe first place. Once again I suggestthe Google Machine because it won’t make fun of you on the Internet like I justdid.

All jokes aside, I don’t mind answering questions no matterhow ridiculous. But it’s a damn goodthing I know my football.

Thou Shalt Not Judge if Thy Carry a Playboy Handbag

2012-01-23T23:30:00.001-07:00

I’ve always made a point of being totally accepting ofnegative opinions of Hooters. The factof the matter is that pretty much everyone will have pretty much differentattitudes towards pretty much everything. That’s just human nature, my friends. Think what you want and I’ll just go ahead and think what I want. It only seems fair.

Now what I don’t so much enjoy is people who let theiropinions blind them. What I mean is wheneven the most positive of experiences is totally lost because a person is soset in their ways. I’m not so muchbothered by the fact that the opinion doesn’t change – that’s somewhat againstmy original premise – but rather bothered that they can’t even see the positiveat all.

Beyond that, people whose opinions appear hypocritical alsobother me. My reasons for this areprobably fairly obvious. I mean ifyou’re going to have a stance on something you damn well better have a similarstance on similar issues. That’s justcommonsense.

Recently, a family consisting of parents and one child satdown to a meal at Hooters. Given themake up of the table, I did what I always do in that situation – make a pointof taking care of the woman first. I dothis because, for one, it’s polite and because I like to do everything in mypower to make women, who perhaps have less favorable feelings toward Hooters,feel more comfortable.

Now usually that tactic breaks the ice pretty well, but inthis case nothing I could do would make this woman like me. In fact, nothing I could do would probablyeven make this woman think of me as a person. I could have given her the winning lottery numbers and she’d have glaredat me. Her indifference practicallyscreamed of her disdain for me while the rest of her family seemed tothoroughly enjoy everything about their experience; mom just wasn’t having it.

Mmm, glittery. CREDIT.

While that alone bothered me, what bugged me even more wasthe fact that she had her purse on the table. A purse with a giant, glittery Playboy Bunny displayed prominently onthe side. So Hooters isn’t ok, butPlayboy is? I don’t think that makes adamn bit of sense.

Do me a favor and don’t judge my shorts, tank top andso-opaque-they’re-practically leggings nylons if you support naked chicksenough to proclaim it on the side of the purse you probably bought atSpencer’s. That’s unfair and messed upon more levels than I can even begin to elaborate upon. What I will say, though, is that I think myjob at Hooters is pretty innocent when compared to nearly everything involving Playboy. But maybe that’s just me.

I hope your Playboy purse continues to treat you well. And by that I actually mean that you can goand stuff it into somewhat inappropriate places on your hypocritical body. Who knows, you might be in to that.

The Phone Number

2012-01-23T11:52:00.001-07:00

This morning I was wondering why my posts had been receiving no comments lately. It seems somehow my shit wasn't actually posting. Apparently the Internet was mad at me. Sorry for the absence and be expecting some posts and double posts. We have some effing catching up to do.

Pimps. CREDIT.

There comes a time in the life a young man when girlssuddenly aren’t icky anymore. Fear ofcooties is replaced by a curiosity for kissing and holding hands. Generally this happens between the ages often and thirteen. Before ten girls areto be avoided and after thirteen girls are the subject of fantasies thatinvolve a lot less innocence and a lot more nudity. But during that golden period in between,girls are a mystery that are loved and feared all at once.

Boys of this age come into Hooters and spend most of theirmeal staring into their root beers and boneless wings. While they have a curiosity that makes themeager to experience Hooters, they also have enough embarrassment that any andall young bravado stays in the car.

Recently a table of boys came in between the ages of ten andthirteen – the golden age. Cheeks burnedred as the table was addressed and whispered giggles echoed in the backgroundas Hooters Girls hurried past with arms full of wings. It was all standard procedure.

Meanwhile, I was tending bar serving beers to Talladega whohappened to know the party of boys and their chaperone. Next to Talladega sat Ariel. And in case you forgot, Ariel is a completeand total badass

As the boys’ meal came to an end, Talladega, jokingly saidthat we should give our numbers to one of the boys. While I was already shaking the idea off witha laugh, Ariel had that look in her eye. It was a version of the look that makes me drink vodka on a Tuesday.

With little to no further prompting, I grabbed a napkin andscrawled Hooters’ number across it in green permanent marker. I added a heart for good measure. No sooner had I capped my marker and Arielwas out the door dropping off the folded napkin on her way.

I looked over just in time to catch the boy opening thenapkin and his eyes lighting up. He’dachieved the unachievable and all his friends were noticeably envious. He was the coolest ten-year-old ever.

Flash-forward a few hours and the phone rang. I picked it up with my usual greeting and anapprehensive voice muttered, “Um, you left a number for me to call?”

I knew immediately who it was.

Sauce: “Oh, actuallyAriel left her number for you, but unfortunately she left a bit a go. But I’d love to take a message for her. How does that sound?”

Boy: “Yeah, thatsounds pretty good.”

Then there was a long pause.

Sauce: “Well whatwould you like me to tell her for you?”

Boy: “Well tell her Isay hi and that’s she really pretty.”

After some background whispering and another pause.

Boy: “And thank youfor leaving the number.”

Sauce: “Ok, I’ll lether know all of that and I took down your number too, just in case!”

Boy: “Thanks. Oh and you’re pretty too.”

And with that, I’d had the most wonderful phone conversationI’d ever had at Hooters. As much as we’dmade his day, he’d made mine too. Sometimes it’s the little things I guess.

FOLLOWUP: Arielinvited the boy back anytime for a milkshake on the house. We’ve yet to see him, but I’m pretty sure hiswhole school knows by now. I also assumehe recently began dating between three and five girlfriends.

Sauce Gets Serious

2012-01-17T11:45:00.002-07:00

Recently, I've been doing a little extra writing. This really means that I did one article for the website I Want Her Job. The mission of the site is to highlight successful women across various industries as a way to inspire others and create a community of strong women working hard to pursue their goals.

Over a year ago, I was interviewed - complete with a picture I now epically hate - for the I Want Her Job. After being interviewed, I became friends with the creator, an inspiring young woman in her own right, and sought to become involved with the site in anyway possible.

The article posted last week is the beginning of some writing (and maybe more) I'll be doing for the site. I hope you'll both read the article and browse the site a bit; I Want Her Job is a great place with a great mission.

Oly's Story

2012-01-10T09:35:00.001-07:00

This is a true story.

Oly is reunited with his family. CREDIT.

Oly, a welsh corgi, was an avid skier. Or rather, Oly’s owners David and KerryGaillard were avid skiers; Oly just liked to go along for the ride. Unfortunately for Oly and the Galliards,winter was rather late getting to Montana. Usually a skier’s paradise, the early season had brought more rain thansnow in most parts of the state. Resortsusually busy by early January were struggling to keep even a handful of runsopen.

So Oly’s owners did what many truly devoted skiers would doand went looking for the snow. Generally, this means backcountry skiing, which doesn’t involve theluxury of lifts or cozy lodges. Instead,skiers hike into wilderness areas to enjoy pristine powder and more advancedterrain. It’s for the love of the snow.

This search is what brought David, Kerry and Oly to HaydenCreek just outside of the small town of Cooke City, Montana on New Year’sEve. They were all bringing in the NewYear doing what they loved. David andKerry skied and Oly was close behind.

But backcountry skiing is dangerous and things can change ina hurry. Without notice, an avalanchebroke bringing snow hurtling down the mountain toward the small group. Kerry, who was on the edge of the avalanche,managed to grab onto a tree to avoid being swept away by the chargingsnow. David and Oly hadn’t been solucky. Kerry began searching, but afterthree hours was unable to dig her husband or her dog from the deep snow.

Returning with help, David’s body was located using hisavalanche beacon – a necessity for any backcountry skier – but Oly was neverfound. The task of finding a rathersmall animal beneath all that snow was impossible. David was taken home, but Oly stayed on themountain.

Days passed and plans were made to hold services for bothDavid and Oly. It was right about thattime that the Galliards received a call from the owner of the hotel the couplehad stayed at in Cooke City. Oly was atthe hotel and the owner was personally going to bring him home. It had been four days since the slide andmiraculously the corgi had been patiently waiting right in front of the roomwhere his owners had been staying.

Curious about what had happened, a few members of the searchteam return to the site of the accident to look for evidence of what hadhappened to Oly. There, a few hundredfeet below where they found David was a hole that hadn’t been therepreviously. Filled with fur and themarks of pawing, it is where Oly spent days buried deep in the snow only tosurvive, dig his way out and walk himself back to town.

Even in tragedy, Oly is a glimmer of hope. If a corgi, a dog that stands a foot and a halftall on stubby little legs, can survive an avalanche for four days I’m prettysure I can do just about anything. I'm an Oly.

Here is the video taken of the area where the avalanche occurredand evidence of Oly’s survival.

Ole's Story - A Video Documentary from Blackmore Media on Vimeo.

Be Patient, Get Served

2012-01-09T12:27:00.001-07:00

Believe it or not, you are not the only person I’m servingwhen you choose to sit at my bar. Infact, you are often one of at least a handful of people I’m helping while alsomaking drinks for all the girls on the floor; it’s a job characterized bymultitasking. For most people this isobvious, but nearly every day I work I’ll have at least one person who doesn’tget it. One oblivious asshat alwaysthinks everything should be about them.

For serious, dude. CREDIT.

Now when I say oblivious, I mean a person will take a seatand be so effing blind that they’ll just start talking no matter how busy I am or who else I am currently serving. To them it is as if they sat at an empty bar and I’m just eagerlyanticipating their request with every fiber of my being. They’re the asshole who waves their arms orsnaps or most often just starts ordering shit because they are thirsty dammitand when the king is thirsty the king gets served. Generally this will occur after I shoot thema friendly welcome and an “I’ll be right with you.” For the record that doesn’t mean I’ll be withyou immediately and you can just start asking for shit at your leisure. It’s means I’m doing work-type things and I’ll get to youin a second.

Believe it or not it’s rude to interrupt me while I’m in themiddle of taking an order while I’m simultaneously throwing together a mojito(which only get ordered when we’re busy and which every bartender on the earthdespises). If I were just making thedrink I’d gladly help you, but see that person? The one who was patient and friendly and is consequently hungry? It’s their turn. It is not your turn. Actually your turn just got pushed back evenfurther because you’re a giant, inconsiderate douche.

What you should do is be patient. When I say “I’ll be right over” you shouldreturn the statement with a friendly “thank you” or – even better – “that’sfine, take your time.” If you do eitherof those things I’ll finish what I’m doing and get to you quickly. If you decide to choose another adventure,however, I’m going to draw what I’m doing as long as possible because you’reeffing rude. I know your type, it’s notlike you were going to tip me well anyway. You can wait.

Remember, your bartender is the one in charge of giving youyour alcohol. If you’re going to bedemanding and inconsiderate you’re probably not going to get what you wantedhalf as quickly as if you’d just been a normal, polite human being. I don’t respond well to snapping, whistlingor a screamed “NEED A WHISKY SEVEN OVER HERE” – especially when I’m helpinganother guest. Wait your gosh darnedturn like everyone else so patiently did. I promise your need for alcohol can wait at least 36 seconds. If it can’t, you probably shouldn’t besitting at my bar anyway. Just sayin’.

Oh you’d like a mojito? I’ll be right with you.

Target and Paying it Forward

2012-01-04T19:26:00.001-07:00

Those who know me well know that I have a deep and undyinglove for Target. Seriously, Target and Ihave a love affair that has lasted the majority of my life. I will go there for any reason or, sometimes,for no damn reason at all; I’ll just go to bask in its existence. If I’m sad, Target is probably where you’llfind me wandering around aimlessly with a cart full of shit I find on clearanceendcaps. It’s my happy drug.

This will probably be me someday.

On a recently trip to my favorite store just before NewYear’s, I grabbed a few things and found a place in line behind a woman withtwo kids and an elderly lady. All of ourchosen items were laid on the belt neatly separated by the plasticdividers. It was business as usual.

As the checker was ringing in the family’s items, the mothersuddenly turned around and moved toward the elderly lady. She began to speak to her and as she did sheremoved the plastic separator between their purchases, moving forward a bottleof aspirin and a few personal items that the elderly lady was about to buy.

“I’m going to take care of your shopping today,” she said tothe woman as she placed her arm around her. “Might as well start the year of right!”

I have never seen a person more thankful than that littleold lady in line at Target. Theadditional items likely totaled less than $20, but to this woman, in thismoment it meant the world. A simplegesture had made her day.

It might seem like a rather small act, but sometimes thesimplest things mean the most. It didn’tchange the world or make a difference to a lot of people, but in that oneinstant it was perfect. All I know isthat it made me want to be more conscious, considerate and thoughtful of others. It made me want to pay it forward.

I haven’t found my moment yet, but I’ll know it when thetime comes. Or at least I hope itwill. Until then I’m just going to makesure that I’m mindful of the people around me. Maybe I can make a little difference too.

So how do you pay it forward?

Wintertime Adventures

2012-01-03T17:02:00.000-07:00

I alluded to the fact that I spent my holidays in and around Yellowstone National Park this year. Though I have visited Yellowstone many times, this is my first real visit to the park in winter. I present you now with select pictures from my winter adventures.

Before Yellowstone, we stayed at Chico Hot Springs. Chico is located north of Yellowstone and features naturally heated outdoor pools. It's a favorite of cowboys and celebrities alike (Dennis Quaid and Jeff Bridges are regulars). The accommodations range from turn of the century, more rustic rooms to well appointed suites and guest cabins.

The resort also features an AMAZING gourmet restaurant that is easily my favorite meal in the state of Montana. Every meal I've had there has been finished with a flambéed orange. The orange is hallowed out, lined with chocolate, filled with orange zest ice cream and topped with meringue. When brought to your table the orange is doused in alcohol and lit to toast the meringue into gooey goodness. I've had it countless times and it's still impressive. And effing delicious.

At the north entrance of Yellowstone, just outside Gardiner, Montana, stands the Roosevelt Arch which was dedicated by Teddy in 1903. The top of the structure is inscribed with words from the original act of congress that created the park, "For the benefit and enjoyment of the people."

Originally, this was the primary entrance to the park when trains were used to bring visitors to the park where they would enter in carriages. Today cars still enter under the arch when arriving via the northern park entrance.

After entering the park, we stayed at the Mammoth Lodge. Due to heavy snow in the winter, only two lodges are open to guests and only Mammoth - a few miles inside the north entrance - is reachable by car. The Winter Lodge at Old Faithful is also open, but is only accessible by tracked vehicles. The following pictures were taken in and around Mammoth.

Mammoth is home to thermal features consisting of terrace like steps on a hill of travertine. Overtime, spring water that is rich in calcium carbonate is cooled and the deposits create natural, steplike terraces.

My parents wandering the boardwalks around Mammoth Hot Springs. Yellowstone uses boardwalks in most of its thermal areas and geysers basins as a way to both keep visitors safe and to protect the delicate nature of the environment. While the danger of thermal features might seem apparent, people are often ignorant of their power and delicacy. In fact several geysers and hot springs throughout the park have been changed or even rendered extinct due to human interference, especially in the early years of the park.

Yellowstone in winter boldly contrasts from summer visits. The landscapes are often stark and cold, but lend themselves to truly appreciating the heat emitted from thermal features and simply the ground itself.

The remaining pictures were taken on excursions outside of Mammoth in both the Lamar Valley - an area for prime wildlife viewing - and on a trip to Norris Geyser Basin. Norris, while perhaps less known than the Old Faithful basin, is home to the world's largest geyser, Steamboat. Steamboat reaches a height of over 400 feet during eruption (nearly four times the height of Old Faithful), but is unfortunately very unpredictable with intervals between four days and fifty years. Steamboat's last eruption occurred in May of 2005.

A lone elk rests in the Lamar Valley, which - like the rest of the park - has significantly less snowfall than usual. Generally the area will be covered by several feet of snow by late December.

A snowcoach (a tracked vehicle) tour to Norris Geyser Basin took us through Swan Lake Flats and offered us glimpse of the Gallatin Mountains.

To the left, a view of the tracks left by snowcoaches. While the roads are groomed to make for a less bumpy ride, the majority of Yellowstone remains unplowed through the long winter months. On the right, a snowy trek into Norris Geyers Basin.

So how was your holiday season?

A Tale of Skechers

2012-01-02T21:01:00.001-07:00

After returning from an epic winter Montana/Yellowstone adventure (more on that in an upcoming post), I arrived back at work to my Christmas present to myself. Of course because I am what I would consider a rather frugal person the present was functional rather than fun. A fun self-gift would only lead me to financial anguish because I take sick pleasure in growing - or during school simply maintaing - my bank account. A functional gift, while still depleting my funds, is at least necessary and thus justifiable.

So I didn't return to a new purse or an iPad or a dragon, instead I returned to a pair of shoes. But these weren't cute shoes with sparkles and spiked heels, these were the horrible white Skechers Hooters forces me to wear at work. While they're comfortable enough for work, they are the type of shoes that no one would choose to wear in real life. They are shoes reserved for waitresses and nurses and cheerleaders. And I pretty much hate them.

Mostly my disdain for the shoes has nothing to do with how ugly they are, but rather with the fact that I have to fork over $40 to my place of employment for the pleasure of wearing them. I love my job, but I don't love giving them my Jacksons. I especially don't like giving them Jacksons I made working my ass off for them. Something about that just feels wrong to me. And lets face it, to cheap ass me $40 is about $40 too much.

Eventually though buying new shoes is totally unavoidable because Hooters wants me to have clean, white shoes all the time. And that shit is effing hard. I work in a minefield of booze, wing sauce and ranch dressing just waiting to mess up my whole day. And while you'll keep your shoes clean for awhile they will undoubtedly succumb to the powers that be. I bleach and wash and even paint, but the process of the dirtying of the shoes cannot be stopped.

While my old shoes were definitely not new, I actually didn't think they were that bad. That was until my new shoes arrived and I compared the two. It was disturbing to say the least.

If the ones on the left are white, the ones on the right are a new color never before seen by human eyes.

It's official, I was a naughty Hooters Girl with some really shitty looking shoes. I maintain that the only way I didn't get my butt in trouble was that I spent the majority of my shifts hiding my feet behind the bar. Regardless, that shit is embarrassing. Sorry for being sucky.

Drive By Photography

2011-12-20T18:18:00.002-07:00

There is nothing that I find funnier than people who want tosay they’ve been to Hooters, but don’t actually want to go inside. Yes, this actually happens. And I know that it happens because I see theshit with my own eyes several times a week; it’s a common occurrence.

It generally goes a little something like this:

PLEASE, come on in! CREDIT.

A car pulls into the parking lot. Rather than parking however, the car willconveniently stop directly in the main flow of traffic – these people are neverabout the convenience of others. The carstops, but remains running, and one or more people will quickly jump out. It’s apparent they’ve planned this out aheadof time as they group together and someone snaps a quick picture. My favorite of these instances is when thedriver remains in the car and also serves as photographer to ensure for thefastest getaway possible.

With photographic proof of their stop at Hooters safelystored on a cellphone memory card, the group rushes back to the car nearly asfast as they got out of it. I can onlyimagine the giddy laughter and sexual innuendo-laced conversations taking placeas the vehicle speeds away. We’veexperienced a drive by and it all takes less than a minute.

Now I could be mistaken, but I don’t think this goes down atthe Red Lobster. As awesome as theirnortheastern, beach theme is I don’t think people stop there specifically tosnap a photo for the old scrapbook. Thisis a Hooters phenomenon that has to do with the ladies inside. Apparently those ladies are so awesome even apicture of the building that holds them is worth a Facebook post that will bethe envy of all your friends. By theway, Red Lobster has ladies that work there too in case you were wondering. I checked.

I find myself wondering how a picture of the outside of achain restaurant can really be all that interesting. That’s right, this is because it’s notinteresting at all. Yet this stillhappens with astonishing regularity. Suchthings should be reserved for sports stadiums, national monuments, the homes ofcelebrities and the occasional Mormon temple. Hooters isn’t and shouldn’t be on this list.

From my usual post at the bar, I have a primo view of thephotographers as they come and go. Doyou think they know that the best pictures happen inside? Pictures with real girls in real Hootersuniforms? Do they also not realize thatif they come inside these same girls will bring plates upon plates of deliciousfried food until they can longer force another bite into their mouths? It’s America at its finest within thesehallowed doors, my friends. You attackphotographers are really missing out.

So the next time your friend suggests stopping by Hootersfor a picture, let them know that Sauce has extended a personal invitation forthem to actually come inside. I’ll evenhold the door for you because I’m good like that. You’re welcome.

A Comparison

2011-12-19T18:01:00.001-07:00

University of Oregon women's track team circa 1980-something.

CREDIT.

Hooters Girls cira 2000-something.

CREDIT.

Well doesn't that look remarkably similar. Yes, there are certain physical differences (being a former collegiate track athlete I can assure you that curves and runners are generally mutually exclusive), but the uniforms are nearly interchangeable in a lot of ways. So is the uniform inappropriate? My feelings are certainly not. Outdated? Perhaps.

What do you think?

Paychecks or Piercings

2011-12-18T00:05:00.003-07:00

When training, sometimes things just don’t work out. You’ll have a girl who comes in and almostfrom the beginning you can tell she won’t last long. The fact of the matter is that some girlsjust aren’t cut out to be Hooters Girls. Usually girls will make it through training and few shifts and thenthey’ll simply stop showing up. Or thereare the times when they don’t make it through training at all. Either way it’s an awful lot of wasted effortfor everyone involved.

Our last trainee had a hard time from the beginning. In fact she had such a hard time that sheonly lasted one training shift. Yes,only shift. Now generally this wouldn’treally be blogworthy. After all, this isisn’t the first time a girl has quit so quickly. This time it wasn’t the outcome that was sosurprising, but rather the reason.

She didn’t quit because it was hard or she was uncomfortableor she was overwhelmed. She quit over afacial piercing and her recently manicured fingers. Seriously.

I think I like her makeup best. CREDIT.

Hooters has a rather strict policy on the way you presentyourself at work. This includes nofacial piercings and French manicures only among a myriad of other things. This trainee had a lip ring and a set of deepred nails. Upon arriving for her firstshift, she was told she’d have to remove her lip ring and that she’d also haveto change her nails within the next few days due to Hooters’ image policies –policies she’d been made aware of when hired.

“But I haven’t taken my lip ring out in like two years!”

“I just got my nails done yesterday!”

She hemmed and hawed and complained and finally begrudginglytook out her lip ring. She went throughher shift and that’s the last we saw her. So a manager called inquiring as to her missing her second trainingshift. It was at this time she informedthe manager she didn’t want to take out her lip ring for a job. She’d take the jewelry over a paycheck.

Now I realize that Hooters is strict when it comes to image,but most restaurants – and even many other jobs in general – have a similarpolicy when it comes to facial piercings. Hooters is definitely in the majority as far as not allowing metal allup in your business. I mean I have anose piercing and I’ve never thought twice about taking that shit out andgetting my ass to work. Call me crazy,but I’d much rather have a job than a bedazzled face. If you don’t have income how do you expect tobuy that cubic zirconia lip stud you’ve had your eye on?

All I know is that this little lady is probably going tohave a rude awakening when she goes to apply for her next job and – nine timesout of ten – they ask her remove her lip ring. This is the real world and the real world doesn’t like metal faces. It’s sad, but oh so true. I have the hole in my left nostril to proveit.

The Hunt for the Perfect Table

2011-12-14T23:31:00.002-07:00

Pick a table, any table. CREDIT.

Believe it or not, when your waiter or waitress asks you ifyou have a seating preference they actually do give a shit. Contrary to what is apparently popularbelief, I do not ask this question for my own health or amusement. If you want a booth, I want you to have abooth. That’s how much I care.

On the other hand, if you don’t have a preference that’sfine as well. I have no problem choosingfor you. Odds are when this happens I’llautomatically take you to my section. OrI’ll be nice and seat my coworkers so we can keep an even rotation. However if you do – like I said – want abooth and I don’t have booths in my section I won’t force you to sit at a hightable.

What I really don’t like is when you tell me you don’t carewhen in fact you do. Generally thesesituations happen a little something like this:

Sauce: “Do you have apreference where you’d care to sit today: booth, high table, bar?”

Customer: “Oh wereally don’t care. Wherever works.”

So I do what the customer says and take them “wherever.” This involves arbitrarily choosing a tablejust because I effing feel like it.

Customer: “Um,no. Not this table.”

Sauce: “Alright, wellhow about this one over here then? Willthis work better for you?”

Customer: “No, Ithink that one. We’d really like abooth.”

Bitch, please. Did Inot give you a choice? Yes, Yes Idid. And believe it or not I actuallydid so on purpose. I wanted you to sitwhere you wanted to sit. Call me crazy,but that just seems polite. Now don’twaste my time taking me on an exploratory journey through the land of opentables. I am not Lewis. You are not Clark. This is not the freaking Louisiana Purchase. This is Hooters and I want you to sit yourass down, be happy about it, stuff your face and tip me for the privilege of itall.

Here’s the thing, your server actually has other stuff to dobesides go on wild goose chases for a table you said you didn’t careabout. If you know what you want by allmeans go ahead and tell me and save us all a little bit of time. As much as I’d like to be a mind reader, it’sa skill I thus far fail to possess. CanI put on that on my Christmas list?

Dear Santa,
I’d really like the following things for Christmas:
The ability to the read minds of needy customers
20% or more tippers
Nylons that don’t run
Rent that pays itself
A kitten

I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.

(Nearly) Six Weeks of Freedom

2011-12-14T10:23:00.000-07:00

My heaven and hell, Gallagher Business Building.
CREDIT.

Well I did it. After turning in one last paper yesterday afternoon I have officially finished my first semester of graduate school. Perhaps the best part is that - I think - I managed to get away with a report card full of As. I want to scream and laugh and cry and get as drunk as possible. But most of all I want to spend my mornings sleeping in and not having dreams about accounting or finance.

I am free until the 23rd of January and I fully intend to spend each and every one of those days loving my life. Next semester is like a thunderstorm looming in the distance, classes tumbling around like thunder. And there is an awful lot of thunder on the horizon.

In addition to enjoying my life a little bit more, I intend to spend an awful lot of time with all of you. Now that I'm done bullshitting through papers on my "personal theory of innovation," I have a lot more brainpower that is just begging to be used for less academic interests. You're welcome, one of those interests is you.

Now who wants to get me a drink? What, you say it's only 10:00 am? Well that's what mimosas and bloody mary's were invented for.

I Want to Be On TV

2011-12-09T08:19:00.001-07:00

Tonight I am going to a playoff game. This is awesome for several reasons. First, it is awesome because here in the FCS (or Football College Subdivision or Division 1-AA or whatever the heck else you want to call it) we actually believe in playoffs. I'm talking to you BCS. Stop being a money grubbing whore and instate a playoff system. Don't even get me started. Seriously.

Second, now that I'm done venting, this is awesome because it's a night game. To most this wouldn't be cool, but at our stadium we have no lights. Yes, a stadium that seats 26,000 and is arguably one of the nicest (if not the nicest) in its conference nationally has no lights. We're working it. Until then, to host a night game portable lights are brought in at a cost that would have easily paid my college tuition in full. And probably bought me a car. Or two.

Now this might seem ridiculous, but it makes sense when you consider the third and definitely most awesome thing about this game is that it's airing tonight, in primetime, on ESPN. And those Disney sports people are footing that light bill. Anyway, this is a big deal for the University of Montana. While we're a favorite since the playoffs started, this means that ESPN thinks we're pretty great too. This is ESPN people, they know their shit.

While our playoff games have made national television before, they are usually relegated to little sister channel, ESPN 2. This my friends is the big show. I, for one, am very excited.

Now, I need you to do the following things:

Watch ESPN this evening beginning at 8:00 p.m. Eastern. You will receive extra credit if you wear maroon. Double extra credit if you TiVo.
Realize how warm your house is when the commentators inevitably remark on the fact that it is fifteen degrees fahrenheit.
Become deeply enthralled in the excitement of a playoff. Yup, I'm talking to you again BCS.
Perhaps most important, look for the following sign. If it is being held by a chick, that's likely me. If it's being held by a giant man who towers over all the regular looking people, that's probably Dreamy. If you don't see anyone holding it we have both passed away from hypothermia or alcohol poisoning.

The sign is a reference to the fact that first off, we are hardly ever on ESPN and also that our playoff game last week was only aired on ESPN 3. If you are unfamiliar, this is an Internet service. An Internet service that isn't available in the majority of the state of Montana due to limited bandwidth through many providers. It was a big deal. In fact it was such a big deal that enough people whined and complained to ESPN (including our representatives and governor) that they ended up offering it on pay-per-view. And ending up making lots of money. Everybody wins!

Whatever, all you really need to be concerned with is the fact that it has glitter on it. That's more important than anything really.

So I hope you'll follow my steps for Friday night enjoyment. Think of me as I freeze my ass of in a peppermint schnapps induced euphoria.

GO GRIZ!!!

The Death of a Taco

2011-12-07T11:11:00.001-07:00

Just imagine all those soldiers left behind.

I’ve always snickered at people who left to-go boxes behindafter eating. How hard is to rememberthe leftovers from a meal you just ate? I’ve thrown away wings and burgers and countless fried pickles. And every time I’ve thought to myself howsilly that is. Yes, I have judged.

And then it happened, Dreamy and I enjoyed a lovely meal atone of our favorite restaurants in town. They legitimately have the best potato soup I’ve every stuffed my facewith. This is coming from a girl wholoves potato soups above all other soups; you know this shit is good. Anyway, I’d had my soup and settled on the grilledmahi tacos for my entrée. Of coursebeing that is America, I was soon staring down at a plate consumed by two hugetacos. I knew immediately I would onlybe able to tackle one.

That’s just what happened. Finishing one taco, I nicely asked for a box to take the other home withme. I loaded up my taco and Dreamy and Isat and talked for a bit. And the tacowaited. Finally we got up to leave andmade our way to the door. I was alreadyon my way when I’d realized the taco had been left behind. First, I was disappointed because it was agood effing taco. I had already plannedmy lunch around its deliciousness. Second, I was disappointed because I’d spent so many shifts judgingthose who left behind their food. Karmahad gotten me and she was a bitch.

From this day forward I vow to no longer judge yourforgetfulness. I vow to simply removeyour food from the table and mourn the loss. I vow to remember my poor, lonely taco. I’ll miss you, old friend.

The Internet Doen't LIke Productivity

2011-12-05T16:36:00.001-07:00

This is fairly accurate.

You're welcome for that insight.

And we can't leave out you boys.

And with that my day is officially complete.

If Martha Stewart Worked At Hooters

2011-12-04T21:10:00.001-07:00

If Martha Stewart worked at Hooters, she would have spent the day as I did and produced the most delightfully tacky, yet unrefined Christmas tree that Hooters has ever seen. Here's the thing about Martha effing Stewart, she's a master crafter. You could give the woman anything and she'd turn that crap into the most marvelous thing you've probably ever seen. Martha is the MacGyver of the craft world. And if MarthGyver worked at Hooters she would have done this today.

Drink it in.

Observe the most beautiful use of orange koozies, golf towels and other miscellaneous crap to ever grace a Christmas tree. I even put To-Go menus on that effing tree. It's beautiful and kitschy and ridiculously awesome. I'm proud as shit.

Santa is going to poop his pants.

Belated Thanks

2011-11-28T22:55:00.001-07:00

With the arrival and passing of Thanksgiving it’s hard notto think about all the things you’re thankful for. I remember growing up and my mom alwaysstarting our holiday meal with a conversation based on all the things we wantedto give thanks for. Back when I was sixI was thankful for Barbies, at eight I was all about my set of Little Housebooks, teenage years brought thanks for friends and boys. But what am I thankful for now? I might be a few days late, but here are afew of the things I’m thankful for:

Dreamy
I’m going to be honest here; I’ve dated my fair share of douche bags. There was the guy who got angry with me if Ihad group projects with male classmates and the guy who dumped me for being“too nice.” Yes, in the past my taste inmen was poor at best. I’m thankful tonow have a guy who loves to cook me dinner. He loves to talk about me and loves showing me off even more. It’s nice to date a nice guy.

Just looking at it makes me
want to take a nap.

My Couch
Way back when, I moved into a studio apartment. Actually it was a “junior one bedroom.” I had everything in my junior one bedroomexcept a couch. Mostly this was becauseI am a cheap person. After sitting onthe floor for approximately three months, I finally broke down and decided tobuy an affordable sofa – meaning the cheaper the better of course. This was a fine idea, until I walked intoeffing Furniture Row and saw the most beautiful couch in the world sittingabout ten feet from the door. It was bigand comfy and awesome. And it was$700. I bought it anyway and have lovedthe shit right out of it ever since.

Pumpkin
If something is flavored with pumpkin I will eat it. I have tried everything from ice cream toEggos. I even put pumpkin in my oatmealin the morning. I am obsessed with itsgoodness.

The Kindle
I love everything about the Kindle, except for the fact they came out witha cooler one. The Kindle is pretty muchthe perfect facilitator for my book addiction. In effect it is my dealer. Italso helps me look cooler in airports.

Fabulousness.

Socks
Recently, I have developed this weird affinity for buying socks. I’m not talking normal socks, but tall,snuggly socks that are usually cable-knit and remind me if nights spentdrinking adult hot chocolate in a mountain lodge. My favorites are a pair of over-the-kneesocks I accidentally bought at Target. Isay accidentally because the fact that they were so tall was a total surpriseeven though the package clearly indicated that fact. Evidently that Kindle hasn’t helped me muchwith my reading skills.

Regulars
I love my regulars. They brighten myday and make me hate shitty customers less. Regulars just make my day better. In fact this weekend, one of my favorite couples even brought me a giftthey bought for me while they were on vacation. Now that will really brighten a day. I love my regulars and they love me and for that I am thankful.

Daytona Sauce
If you’ve tried this, you probably understand. If you haven’t, get your ass to Hooters andget Daytona sauce on everything you order. Everything.

Doing Al proud.

Joan of Artic SnowBoots
My mom got me these boots and they make me want to frolic in the snow justto show off how good I look. Usually I’mthe girl in wildly impractical shoes in two feet of snow because I have to lookgood no matter the consequences. Somehowthese boots manage to both look good and keep me from falling on my ass. For that I am thankful. And of course also for the fact that theymake me look like a fashionable Al Borland.

My Family
Speaking of my mom, I’m always thankful for my family. First off, my parents own a bakery. Awesome. And I have a wildly fashionable sister who plays the ukulele like abadass. Basically we’re amazing. This is of course before you consider thefact that my dad has a sweet accent.

So what are you thankful for?

The Lady Who Gummed a Burger

2011-11-22T16:54:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time – meaning Sunday – an elderly couplesettled into a nice booth near the front of the restaurant. They ordered two iced teas and a short timelater ordered lunch. Lunch was fish andchips for the gentleman and a big, juicy burger for the lady. With fries. Now I’m going to make it clear that we only serve half-poundburgers. In addition, our behemothburgers don’t come with fries but rather come with your choice of bake beans,coleslaw or potato salad. Fries, at ourstore at least, will cost you an extra fifty cents because most people can’thandle all that food anyway. All of thatbackground information serves the purpose of proving just how impressed I waswith this rather frail looking woman manhandling a giant burger and taking noeffing prisoners.

It was only after their meal had ended and the couple hadmade their way back into the Montana cold that I really understood howimpressive, and disturbing, the burger eating had actually been. As I moved her nearly empty plate to beginbusing the table, I was greeted by the upper-half of her smile staring up atme. She had left her dentures right thereon the table.

So do you come here often? CREDIT.

My first reaction was utter disgust. Here were a woman’s teeth just hanging out onthe table under the edge of her plate. She hadn’t even placed them on a napkin like I did with my retainer whenI was fifteen. That would make sense. Instead, the elderly woman had taken out herslobbery teeth and just let them rest on a table in a busy restaurant. Germs apparently weren’t a consideration.

After getting over my initial reaction of disgust, I beganto contemplate how I should go about removing the dentures from the table andwhat to do with them anticipating the couple’s return for the rather importantitem. I finally decided to go in with apaper towel and a plate and go after her teeth like a man. Just so you know, even with a paper towel itis not an enjoyable task to pick up a pair of someone else’s dentures. They felt warm and slippery and altogetherunpleasant. I would place it on the samelevel as picking up dog shit with a plastic bag. I don’t care who you are or how many dogsyou’ve owned, no one likes feeling poop on the other side of a thin layer ofplastic. Dentures easily fall in thiscategory.

Once I’d finally worked up the courage to get the dentureson a plate and safely to the office, I had time to truly appreciate what anincredibly feat gumming a half-pound burger is. That takes some serious skill. This woman didn’t even go in with a knife and fork. She picked that bad boy up and managed todecimate it without a full set of teeth. And I didn’t even notice until I was left to pick her dentures up fromthe table. Kudos, old lady.

The next time someone complains about our burgers being toobig, I will suppress the urge to compare them to a toothless old woman whoknows how to get shit done. I will similarlysuppress the urge to laugh at them and tell them that they – and their teeth –are not as awesome as they think they are. Unfortunately, regaling my guests with a story involving picking upsomeone else’s dentures is not exactly appropriate mealtime conversation – no matterhow incredible that story is. This willjust have to be an inside joke between you and me.

And don’t worry; she came back for her teeth.

Occupy Hooters

2011-11-17T21:47:00.001-07:00

I'm not one for discussing politics. While I find them interesting, I find politics often have a way of turning pleasant conversation into something else entirely. In fact, my Hooters manual smartly tells me to avoid the subject all together along with matters of religion. And I am very much a rule-abiding Hooters Girl.

Regardless avoidance of political topics, when this shirt arrived in our merchandise shipment today I decided to buy it immediately. I liked it so much that I decided to spend $16.95 I made working at Hooters on a shirt from Hooters. As a rule I don't buy Hooters things. Instead I wait and win shit in contests - and I'm very good at winning. This is because I am cheap. And because I don't enjoy the idea of giving back my wages to my place of employment whenever possible. This shirt was good enough that I didn't care about any of that.

I think I much prefer occupying a place with heat, indoor plumbing, a full bar and plentiful fried food.

Can you say LOVE? I feel like I should wear this shirt, march down to the courthouse (because as a liberal college town we have our own occupy movement braving the Montana elements) and hand out wings or some shit. Because can't we all agree on the goodness of fried food tossed in various sauces? I like to think that we can.

I for one will be occupying Hooters all weekend. Perhaps I should pitch a tent and just live behind the bar.

Is Hooters Exploiting the Hooters Girl?

2011-11-16T16:55:00.001-07:00

About 17,000 years ago – because that’s exactly how long theInternet has existed according to ancient pictographs – someone asked me thefollowing question on my Formspring account:

An SAT word for sure.

Do you think Hooters exploits women? What do youthink of the word exploit? It seems to be used all the time whenever a woman isshowing skin.

At the time I decided not to answer it because it had allthe makings of a great post topic. Ofcourse good intentions don’t always turn into good actions. In some cases good intentions actually turninto you being lazy as shit and not doing anything at all. That, my friendies, is what happened to this poorquestion. So it sat there and felt alllonely as other questions were promptly replied to with all sorts of wonderful answers. And now 17,000 years later this littlequestion is finally get its chance to shine. Cinderella is going to the ball, bitches.

First off, lets go ahead and look up the definition ofexploit according to my totally intelligent MacBook:

exploit
verb |ikˈsploit| [ trans. ]
make full useof and derive benefit from (a resource) : 500 companies sprang up to exploitthis new technology.
use(a situation or person) in an unfair or selfish way : the company wasexploiting a legal loophole | accusations that he exploited a wealthy patient.
benefit unfairly from the work of(someone), typically by overworking or underpaying them : making money doesnot always mean exploiting others.

There you have it. Does Hooters make use of and derive benefit from me? Yup, they sure as shit do. But then again pretty much every restaurantand profit-seeking business does that. That’s called being an employee. You work, and they make money. Capitalism is fun!

Moving on from there however, I’m forced to consider ifHooters uses me in an unfair or selfish way; in this case I have to sayno. While some probably won’t agree, Icannot see Hooters employment of me (or thousands of other women) as a HootersGirl as selfish or unfair. Yes, theymake money because of certain traits I may have, but they also pay me for thosesame traits. In my opinion as long asI’m being paid for a job that I willingly accepted there is nothing even theleast bit unfair about it. And as thelast definition further points out, I have to be overworked or underpaid for itto be true exploitation. I work three tofour days a week and make enough to support myself while getting a graduatedegree. Seems pretty fair to me.

Besides, if Hooters exploits me to make money then whom am Iexploiting to make my own? It could beargued that in all reality I – as the Hooters Girl – am exploiting thecountless people who come in and sit at my tables. After all so many people, falsely, think HootersGirl are all simply skanky flirts who practically rape people for tips. If that were the case the real exploitationwould be directed at the customers, not the staff.

Lets be honest, does Hooters use sexuality to its advantage? The very clear answer is most certainly yes. But this is hardly a phenomenon limited toHooters. A casual stroll in your localmall will easily prove my point. In factif you don’t believe me, I dare you to stop in front of an Abercrombie where ahalf naked, poster-sized man or woman will great you in dramatic black andwhite before you even step inside the store.

Sex sells, it’s a simple fact that countless companies andindividuals have taken advantage of for a very, very long time. Does that mean that someone is exploited in doing so? Certainly not. Exploitation by its very definition involvessomeone doing an awful lot and getting no return. In most cases, including Hooters, all partiesare willing participants who know what they’re getting into and know what theyare expected to give and receive. Youeat, you pay, I work, I make money, Hooters gives me a wage and I in turn helpHooters make a profit. That’s justbusiness 101.

So what do you think? Is Hooters exploiting me?

Slug Bug is Serious Shit

2011-11-15T13:10:00.001-07:00

This is more than a game.

If you have the great misfortune of ever having to take acar ride with Dreamy and me I sincerely apologize in advance. My apology is due to the fact that Dreamy andI play the classic game Slug Bug. Actually, play isn’t really an accurate representation of intenserivalry that exists between Dreamy and I when it comes to tracking downVolkswagen Beetles. For us Slug Bug isnot simply a game, but a way of life.

In fact, we are so intense that we have alternativerules. Most notably, we have severalBeetles that may only be called when away from their usual locations. For example, a local aquarium shop has a Bugpainted like a clownfish (think Nemo). Nemo is off limits unless he is away from his usual parking spot infront of the store. If he is even a spaceremoved from the usual spot Nemo is fair game. This rule also applies to the red Beetle down the street, the silver onethat belongs to an employee at Walgreens, the Geek Squad Bug and any being sold at anydealership (cars not for sale are callable).

If I haven’t made it apparent already, Dreamy and I don’tjoke around when it comes to Slug Bug. Every time I get in the car and buckle my seatbelt I’m on edge the wholefreaking ride. No matter the destinationI am constantly on alert because the last thing I want to do is miss one. We keep a daily count and every Beetlematters. But of course as much as losingthe whole thing sucks, get punched can suck even more. In fact once Dreamy punched me so hard –forgetting his I’m-a-six-eight-giant-of-a-man strength – my instant reactionwas to scream multiple obscenities and punch him right the eff back. Yes, friends, he hit me so hard I broke the "no hit-backs" rule.

And that got me to thinking; Slug Bug is basically aperfectly acceptable form of domestic violence. What other game can you play with you friends, your kids, your boyfriendor your grandma that lets you punch them? When else is punching someone you care about considered appropriate? Now correct me if I’m wrong, but generallypunching your girlfriend as hard as possible would usually be called spousalabuse.

Let’s pretend for a minute that the police were actuallycalled to handle a domestic violence case and it ended up being a game of SlugBug. You know, I’m just going to stopright there, because they’d probably laugh in your face. Or at least look at you like you werenuts. Because punching in Slug Bug isaccepted, expected and just the right damn thing to do.

All of this has lead me to believe that a game of Slug Bugis perhaps the best way to relieve the everyday pressures of arelationship. Why not solve any and alldisagreements by hoping in the car, hunting some Beetles and punching the shitout of each other? I think with a littleSlug Bug we can make the world a better place.

RED ONE!

Arizona vs. Frost

2011-11-14T12:26:00.001-07:00

One reason why Montana, winter and I are friends.

It’s November and the snow has begun to fly in Montana. Winter is here and likely will be here forthe next four or five months. Or itcould be really awesome again this year and snow in May, drawing the whole damnthing out to six glorious months of ice, cold and overcast skies. Now for the record I’m only partiallycomplaining. I like winter. Winter lets me ski, wear cute sweaters, cuddle,buy boots and have an excuse to shave my legs less often. I just don’t need to do those things for thehalf the year.

A lot of people don’t share my love for the colder part ofthe year. With Montana being full oftransplants from warmer climates – specifically California – real winter can bea bit of a shock to the system for some. Suddenly they’re faced with lots of real, bone-chilling cold. They have to deal with snow. And then they realize they actually have tofunction in it. Because in Montana life doesn’tstop for two inches of snow. Or twofeet.

Once upon a time, we had a Hooters Girl who had recently relocatedfrom Arizona. Just barely eighteen, shehad followed her football-playing boyfriend who had accepted a scholarship at TheUniversity of Montana. While he spentthe day in classes and practice, she worked at Hooters.

And then one fall morning it was actually a littlecold. I say a little cold because therewas no snow and the sun was shinning, but there was frost. Trees, grass and windshields were all coveredin a delicate layer of crystalized white. After a little scrapping and a bit of a defrosting, I made me way towork ready to open the store.

Cleaning tables, the clock crept closer and closer toeleven. At 10:40 one of the two elevengirls made her way into the store to ready herself for her shift. Minutes ticked by and Arizona, our secondeleven o’clock, was nowhere to be found. 10:40 became 10:45, which in turn became 10:50. With eleven imminent, the phone rang.

“OhMYgod, there is something all over my car and I can’t getit off!”

Arizona was panicked on the other end of the line.

Arizona: “There is white stuff on my windows and stuff and Itried to like wipe it off with my wipers but it’s still there.”

Sauce: “Do you meanthe frost? You need to scrape that offor turn on your car and let it heat up.”

Arizona: “Well when Icalled my dad he said I could push the button with the wavy lines and that itwould go away. But I did that and it’sstill there!”

Sauce: “Well did youwait a little bit?”

Arizona: “No,shouldn’t it just go away?!”

For a moment I was at a total loss for words. I explained that no, it wouldn’t go awayinstantly. She would have to wait –because of course she had no windshield scraper.

A few minutes passed, the frost cleared and Arizona let usknow she was on her way. It was very,very apparent that winter and Arizona wouldn’t be getting along very well.

And of course I was right. After just a couple months of snow, Arizona packed her things, shippedthem back home and hopped a plane back to the sunshine. Some people just aren’t built for Montana itseems. Neither are rear wheel drive sportscars.

Double the Devastation and Finally Getting Over It

2011-11-09T17:34:00.003-07:00

I – once again – have failed you as a blogger. It seems to be one of my greatest talents asof late. And by talent I meanshortcomings. And by shortcomings I meanways in which I totally suck at my typical ability to be marginallyawesome. I suck. I’m sorry. That’s that.

The truth of the matter is that ever since the “Blog ChangeIncident of ‘11” things have been different. Part of me honestly was very, very turned off by the whole situation andthat lead me to not even want to blog. In a way I was almost in mourning. And as lame that sounds it’s totally the truth. Eventually though, things got better and Ionce again found the desire to blog. Ihad the desire to connect with all my readers again. I realized that with or without Hooters Istill had a voice and I enjoyed sharing that voice.

And then Hooters Magazine arrived at our store. Before I even flipped open the first page Iwas devastated all over again. I’d neverbeen told the theme of the issue. I’dnever received a deadline. I’d nevereven received a reply to the emails I sent enquiring about both. I knew I wasn’t included and while Iunderstood the reasons, I wasn’t prepared for the way it felt to actually seethe magazine in front of me. I wasn’tready to not see my column in the table of contents or my name in thecredits. Holding that magazine in myhands made it all very real.

Just like that, I was – once again – devastated. It wasn’t so much the situation that hurtmost, but the way it was handled. I feltunimportant and dispensable and not worthy of even the slightestconsideration. I felt like anothing. All I saw was an opportunitylost.

For a while that’s all I felt; I felt like my one greatopportunity had passed me by. Or moreaccurately, that my one great opportunity had been taken away from me. It was an overwhelming feeling. Yet as overwhelming as it was initially, Islowly began to get over it, step away from the situation and realize thatregardless of the outcome the opportunity had still existed. No matter what. I had still accomplished something prettyamazing and that said a lot about me as an individual. Perhaps the real opportunity was realizingthe power of my own abilities.

That’s the thing about opportunities, it turns out that notall of them work out perfectly. In fact,I’d go so far as to say that an awful lot of them don’t work out. But each and every one teaches you somethingabout yourself. You learn yourstrengths, weaknesses, likes and dislikes; you learn all the things that willbe truly valuable when the next opportunity comes around. Perhaps the great value isn’t in theopportunity itself, but in the journey it creates. In that way the real opportunity is internal.

In life people love to talk about their successes, but thissituation has shown me that there is also great importance in apparentfailures. Sometimes things just need tonot workout so something later will. AndI’m pretty darn excited to see what that later is.

Now I promise not to leave you out of the journey.

Meet D

2011-10-24T17:26:00.000-06:00

The original.

Of the many things I like about my job, one of the biggesthas always been my regulars. Regularsare common in the restaurant world. Ithink it probably has a lot to do with the fact that humans are creatures ofhabit; if we enjoy something we are quite apt to repeat it again andagain. One visit turns to two, two turnsto a few more and suddenly trips to your favorite eatery more than once a weekaren’t uncommon. There is comfort inrepetition.

Now I have many types of regulars: men, women,families. And while they’re alldifferent, they all share an easy connection with my coworkers and me. They’re the sort of people you’re happy tosee walk through the door. They’re the typeyou worry about if you don’t see them for a while. It’s just one of those natural progressions.

While I have a dozen or more such regulars, a few cross thatfine line that lies between customer and friend. Of my regulars, a select few are the typethat I would call in a bind and likewise do anything for. They know about my successes andfailures. They will be invited to anyfuture weddings. I care about each andevery one of my regular customers, but these really mean something to me on apersonal level. With them it goes beyondsimply enjoying their company. These aremy friends.

One such regular – we’ll call him D – actually doesn’t evenlive in Montana. D, though he oncecalled Missoula his home, currently resides in Kansas. His heart however lives here and everyvacation work allows brings him back to the state he loves. Corresponding his trips with differenthunting seasons, D makes it back at least once a year though often more. D just can’t stay away.

D’s last trip occurred this past spring. Work was busy and it appeared to be his onlyopportunity to travel for pleasure for the year. When he left he was markedly upset, unsurewhen he’d be able to return. He said itwould be a year most likely – at the very least. I took his word for it.

And then, a couple weeks ago, D said he was coming to visitout of the blue. He’d be here in just afew short days for a week of vacation. It was very unexpected, but anticipated.

D’s trip was mainly spent bear hunting, but I still saw himoften. I noticed right away thatsomething was wrong, but it’s never polite to bring up such things with afriend you haven’t seen in months. Djust didn’t seem as upbeat as the last time he’d come to visit. I was slightly worried, but brushed it off asme being hypersensitive (which I have a tendency to be now and again). Things just went like they always did despitethe feeling in my gut.

On his last day, D finally confided in me that he had beendiagnosed with cancer. His trip washastily made after receiving the news. Agift to himself, he said. I was at aloss for words. I was even at a loss forthoughts. No one tells you what to saywhen a customer confides in you that they have cancer; that part isn’t in anyof my Hooters Girl manuals.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I hugged him. Normally, I would never hug a customer at work no matter how familiar Iam with them, but at the moment I knew it was the only thing I couldoffer. It was a small thing, but as Ifelt D against me I knew how much he needed it. Here was a man afraid and I desperately tried to offer what comfort Icould. It all made me feel helpless.

I hope that back in Kansas D knows how much I really careabout him. I can’t help but worry andwonder how he’s doing. I’m sure he’sfine, but the worrier in me will continue to think anything but that. Go ahead and call me a girl.

When you start being a waitress, the last thing you think aboutare the real connections you’ll make with people. While you’re busy memorizing wing sauces andtable numbers making lasting friendships is the last thing on your mind. But they’re inevitable and even more thanthat they’re fulfilling. It makes me lovemy job even more.

So here’s to you D. Ihope Kansas is treating you well. I knowyou miss the mountains, but they’ll be waiting for you up here. As will that bear that you didn’t get thisyear. We’ll all be waiting.

Did you vote today?! Vote for Sauce in the Hooters Halloween Contest so she can afford to pay for the classes she just registered for today. Seriously.

VOTE HERE!

Why Yes, I Am Skinnier Now

2011-10-20T17:06:00.002-06:00

It's not like this for serious. CREDIT.

In becoming more fit again, I’ve realized that it’ssomething people are very uneasy addressing. What I mean is that though people notice the change and want to offersome compliment, they have no idea how to do so. I’ve noticed this the most at work where myrequired uniform is especially form fitting, making it pretty obvious that I’veslimmed down. It’s nearly impossible notto notice in form-fitting Lycra and spandex. And this makes people uneasy.

Usually this happens most with regular customers. I’ll be working at the bar, mixing drinkslike a true master of all things alcoholic and a customer will clear theirthroat in a way that quite obviously means “I have something to say withabsolutely no idea how to say it.” Afteracknowledging the dramatic throat clear, I’ll find myself in the middle of astammering, uncomfortable conversation that boils down to asking if I’ve lostweight.

“Um, I don’t really know how to say this, but haveyou…um…maybe lost a little weight?”

“You know, you look different. I guess I’m not sure, but maybe you’ve beenat the gym a bit lately?”

“I think, well maybe I don’t know, that perhaps you’ve tonedup some. I’m not really sure. I don’t come here that much.”

Actually, you’re here twice a week, but whose countinganyway? No matter the delivery, it’spretty obvious that people have no idea how to address the change in mybody. Of course I totallyunderstand. We live in a society thathas – rightfully – taught us it’s disrespectful to make inquires regarding awoman’s weight. Hell, it’s rude to makeinquires about anyone’s weight. Butsometimes, regardless of the situation, it’s nice to hear a compliment.

And that, my friends, is the difference. If it’s apparent that someone has had apositive body change odds are they’d probably love a positive response to thatchange. I’ve literally worked my ass offof my body after months of very hard work. I’ve sweated. I’ve sustainedmyself on boiled chicken. I’ve consumedmore protein in liquid form than some people probably eat in a year. And most of it has totally sucked. It was hard and it’s nice knowing that all ofit really did make a noticeable difference. Yes, I can look in the mirror everyday like a vain little twit and spewaffirmations, but nothing is better than someone else taking notice and sayingsomething nice.

If you notice a change in someone, go ahead and saysomething. If they’re anything like me,they’ll really appreciate the compliment. After all, a girl cannot live on protein and complex carbs alone; thosedon’t feed the soul.

So go ahead and sit at my bar and confidentially ask if I’ma personal trainer (yes, that actually happened). Point out that I may have lost weight. Because guess what? I have.

If I can generalize, remember the importance ofcomplimenting people. Yes, it canoccasionally feel awkward to do so, but it can really make a person’s day. It’s just nice to be noticed and – even moreso – appreciated. I’ve made it my newpersonal goal to compliment someone everyday because the world could use alittle love. Let’s spread love people!

Oh, and thanks for letting me know how much you like my “guns.”

And, because I like votes and I'm a shameless self-promoter, don't forget to vote daily in the Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook. Once again I made my costume from scratch this year. I'm hoping - with your help - to break into the top three and win some money to support my student ass. Please help me buy ~~Ramen~~ liquid egg whites.

VOTE HERE!

Then feel free to LIKE ME ON FACEBOOK! It's where the magic happens.

The New Girl's Boyfriend

2011-10-17T19:47:00.001-06:00

Over three years ago I began my job at Hooters. Now three years is an awful long time, buteven now one question stands out from my interview.

“Do you have a boyfriend or husband who would be jealous oruncomfortable with you working at Hooters?”

While that question would seem odd in most interviewsituations, it’s fairly understandable in an atmosphere like Hooters. At the time, I got to say no and luckily Ican still say no – though now just in regards to the second part – to thisday. This weekend however I got a frontrow seat to why that question, and an honest answer, is oh so important.

Saturday, we had a new girl on her second day oftraining. She seemed like a good hirewhich given recent trend was rather refreshing. She was inquisitive, helpful, friendly and actually studied for hertests. No on ever studies for theirtests no matter how many times I reassure them that they are actuallyhard. Believe it or not I’m not lying toyou when I say that it’s difficult. Andyes, I do take a slight amount of pleasure when you fail. I did warn your ass after all.

Anyway, this girl – even on only her second day – seemed tome like a great Hooters Girl in the making. Of course she just had to go and prove me wrong. Or more specifically her creepy, clearlyoverbearing boyfriend decided to prove me wrong. He just had to ruin the fun foreveryone. Douche.

New girl comes in, we set up the restaurant in record timeand things are going well. We’re ready waybefore opening at eleven because we’re totally awesome. By the time we unlock the doors we’re readyto go and apparently so are the football fans; as soon as the doors are openpeople come streaming in. Tables arequickly sat and drinks are run. It’s atypical NFL Sunday and new girl is handling it like a champ. I mentally add that to the list of thingsthat will make her good at her job.

This is less creepy than what actually happened.

Then she gets weird. She goes from bubbly to quite so quickly I think she’s gotten sick. Suddenly something is wrong and it’sglaringly obvious. Scanning therestaurant it’s apparent that the “something” is a single customer sipping asoda and intently staring at our newest trainee. It is a powerful, disconcerting stare andeven without being directed at me, makes me uncomfortable. He watches her every move from herinteractions with tables to the dumping a plate of leftovers into thegarbage. It’s all weird as eff.

“That’s her boyfriend or fiancé or whatever,” remarks thegirl who’s directly training her today. “He was here on her first shift too just hanging out and watching herwork. It’s so uncomfortable and awkward.”

And it was uncomfortable and awkward. Especially when he started shooting the “Ilove you” sign at her across the room shaking his hand until she took notice. That’s when enough was enough and my managerwent to talk with him. After a fewminutes of talking, the boyfriend got up and left. Finally.

Things returned to normal. Until he came back and found hisway to my bar. He took a spot in thecorner and continued his staring. Eventually, as I was putting in an order, he turned to me.

“Is it against the rules for you girls to flirt orsomething?”

I wasn’t really sure where he was going with the question,but I told him that while there was no rule against it, flirting wasn’t reallyacceptable but that often people take our good service and kindness forflirting. Suddenly I found myself on thereceiving end of him validating his reason for being there. For a while I just let him go.

“You know,” I said eventually, “you really don’t need tojustify anything to me. And while it’snot technically against any rules for you to be here, it seems to be makingyour girlfriend really uncomfortable. Imean don’t you think it makes it a little hard for her to do her job with youhanging around? I promise nothing isgoing to happen to her while she’s at work today, but honestly it may if youkeep doing this. Our owner reallydoesn’t like boyfriends hanging around and I don’t think you want to put thejob she just started in jeopardy. I’veseen people let go for far less.”

He thought about all that for second and again tried tojustify why he was there. I realizedthen it was a lost cause. This guy was acontrolling boyfriend in every sense of the word and nothing I was going to saywould change that.

The next day, the new girl never showed up for hershift. But I wasn’t surprised. I had a pretty good feeling that she wenthome, he got pissed and she was told she couldn’t work at Hooters anymore. It’s a shame, but hardly unexpected. Boyfriends always have issues with Hooters,but really in the end the issues are far deeper than a job involving short shorts.

Too bad we lost such a good one.

Please remember to keep voting for me in the Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook! You can vote once per day, per account until November 1st. My poor, MBA school ass would really appreciate you taking the time to vote. And telling your friends. Or your mom. Or you cat if he has a page. You get the idea.

VOTE HERE!

Hooters Halloween Costume Contest

2011-10-15T07:27:00.001-06:00

Once again, I'm part of the national Hooters Halloween Costume Contest on Facebook. On the line are some awesome cash prizes that would certainly help out a busy MBA student - specifically this busy MBA student.

I'd really appreciate you taking the time to vote ONCE A DAY from your Facebook account. Heck, maybe you have two Facebook friends, maybe you have 2,136 friends, maybe you're a computer genius who knows a great way to get me lots and tons of votes. I love all of those things!

VOTE HERE

All you have to do is like Hooters and then you can proclaim your love for Sauce each and every day!

And because I love you, this year I'll actually post a picture - all parts included - here on the blog. Maybe it will entice you to vote. Or whatever.

I made this. It's because I have no social life.

The Spray Tan

2011-10-13T20:57:00.001-06:00

Like this only naked. CREDIT.

In addition to experiencing my first fitness competitionthis past weekend, I also had the pleasure of receiving my first spraytan. Now this was no ordinary spraytan. This was a competition spray tanand it is another beast entirely. Andwhen I say beast I effing mean it. Thisspray tan had a mind of it’s own.

It’s common for competitions to bring in a professionalspray tanner to give tans to competitors. For the sake of this post, “give” actually means it cost me $100. That tanning bitch was raking in money allweekend long, one faux tan at a time.

Anyway, I made my appointment a few weeks in advance thatconsisted of two separate sprays the day of the show. Yes, I got two sprays two hours apart. They’re not joking around with this tanningshit. In fact, they’re so serious thatthey send you all sorts of rules to properly prepare your skin for ultimate tanreception. So I exfoliated, cut out bodywashes, avoided moisturizers with oils and otherwise prepared my canvas forultimate darkness. If I’m gonna pay $100for something I’m going to take that shit seriously.

I showed up for my first tan and was freezing my naked assoff before I knew it. While this wasawkward in itself, the whole thing was made as uncomfortable as possible bybeing done in a strange little hut in the open ballroom of a Hilton –surrounded by several more little huts. All of which have weird plastic windows right at face height. So there you are naked and waiting while youlook out this weird little window and try not to make eye contact with themuscle-bound dude across for you. Andall of this is before you’re given the pleasure of being blasted with icytanning solution from what is essentially a paint gun.

First tan down, and I was immediately warned to avoid waterat all costs. This would seem easyenough, but of course it’s raining and has been for two days. The whole world was against my tan from thevery beginning. Then I was told I shouldpee in a cup. Like a high schoolphysical. Or a drug test. I decided to ignore this rule as soon as Ihear it.

Within seconds of being outside, my legs were flecked withwater leaving glaringly white splotches on my newly tanned skin. Mother Nature had won round one. She won round two when I rebelled and peedwithout a cup. I popped a squat so asnot to touch the toilet and – even though I was careful – the result was anobvious drip down my right thigh. Ibought the stupid cups on my way to tan number two.

After a second round of tan two hours later, my mistakeswere fixed and my skin was a color that can only be described as 100%unnatural. Lets just say that I was tanenough to frighten people at WalMart and nothing surprises people at WalMart.

And while being a spectacle can be mildly uncomfortable, theinability to touch anything was definitely the worst part. Like King Midas anything a tanned fitnesscompetitor touches turns to gold. Onlythis gold is actually orange and not worth lots of money. After leaving smudges on everything fromtoilets to walls to car doors I eventually just stopped touching things and letDreamy take over. I stained my clothes,I stained my –purposely-shitty – sheets, I even stained the light blue polishon my toes. Nothing was safe.

And then the next morning, they tanned me again. I went from insanely dark to full onblack. It was at this point that I’mpretty sure I forgot what my actual skin tone was. I was just layers upon layers of tan. With one final spray before the night show, Ihad received four spray tans in just over 24 hours. And for the record it felt totallydisgusting.

When it was all over and I was finally able to shower thetan came streaming off of me, darkening the water instantly. Never before has a shower felt so good. Or resulted in an immediate need to clean thebathtub. Magically I was white again andall that tan was down the drain.

Thank goodness.

Sauce's First Fitness Competition

2011-10-11T11:42:00.000-06:00

Not me. Or my lady trophy.

And just like that I competed in my first fitnesscompetition. That’s about how fast thewhole experience was. I walked on stage,hit a couple poses, stood in a line and in less than a minute was judged. I was not judged a winner. Instead I was judged thoroughly disappointedsomewhere in the middle. My competitivestreak was most unhappy.

My division, tall bikini had thirteen competitors. Divided by height, the show had two bikini divisions:one for those under 5’4 and one for those over. Now if this seems rather unfair, it was. The lower division had only five competitors. A division has five finalists. Yes, everyone was a winner in the lowerdivision. In comparison, most peoplewere losers in my division. I got thepleasure of being first loser. And yetagain it sucks to be tall.

Anyway, judging is completed in the morning. This consists of you walking out, hittingposes at three marks and then all lining up at the back of the stage. They then have everyone turn around and asplit second later they called five girls to the front. This ended up being their top five. They were picked in all of about twominutes.

After calling the top five and viewing them front and back,they called up the rest of us and we also posed front and back. At this point, I was called forward alongwith another competitor. Generally thisis a very good sign and I figured I was being compared for inclusion in the topfive. This was not the case. Rather than comparing again – which is commonin big divisions – they put us back in line and moved us off stage. And that was it.

After judging, given that I had been moved, many peoplethought I was a shoe in for a top five finish. I felt confident as well, sure that I had at least landed myself afourth or fifth place. Really I didn’tcare as long as I got a trophy. I’m agirl. I like shiny things that say I’mawesome at stuff.

Since judging was over, Dreamy and I decided to have alittle lunch at which point I let myself go a bit. Yes, I had to put on a bikini again, but thehard part was over. I had earned aneffing tamale. And rice. And a daiquiri. And ice cream. Yes, I ate all of that before putting on abikini six hours later for the night show. I only felt marginally guilty.

The night show is basically just all flash. Since the judging is complete, they paradeeveryone around and hand out prizes. It’s easy. I went out and hit myposes again and then they called the top five. One name. Two names. Three names. Four names. Five names. WHAT THE EFF?! None of the names belonged to me. I left the stage dejected as they beginannouncing the places of the girls left on stage. Why hadn’t I been called?

Initially I got mad. I got upset. I let it get medown. Yes, I’d gotten sixth and donewell overall, but being an intensely competitive person I wanted more. I wanted that shiny, lady statue. I wanted people to know how well I’ddone. I wanted recognition.

I was about halfway through the best burger and coconutmilkshake of my life when I realized I really didn’t effing care. No, I didn’t do as well as I’d hoped, but Istill had accomplished something pretty amazing. I’d been incredibly dedicated formonths. I’d worked hard and while theresults hadn’t led to a silly trophy, they had led to a strong, confidentbody. And as awesome as it would havebeen to get totally wasted while carrying around a trophy in the shape of abuff lady, the physical and mental results are far more rewarding.

Besides, judging is subjective. As Dreamy reminded me, “Any given Sunday,babe.” And inappropriate football moviesaside, he was totally right.

Then, a few days later I checked my email. Now generally I don’t get many emails atAccording to Sauce. So when I logged inand saw two, I was pretty excited. Butwhat really got me was the fact that apparently my journey and hard work had inspiredsomeone. Both of the emails said that Ihad motivated them to get off the couch, go to the gym and make a change intheir life. Reading those two messagesleft me feeling so incredibly inspired. While it’s nice to do something for you, it’s something else entirelywhen that personal change can positively affect another. That was never my plan, but I’m so glad it’sbecome an outcome.

So will I do another fitness contest? Honestly, I’m not sure. While I enjoyed the process, the diet left mewith a short fuse and nearly entirely changed how I treated those closest tome. Nothing – no matter how much youlike it – is worth treating those you love poorly. Let’s not sugarcoat; I was a raging bitch. I’ve heard that though changes in mood can becommon they are avoidable with changes to the diet, but if it’s not than I’llbe going into retirement.

What won’t be changing is my dedication to maintaining ahealthy lifestyle. I’ll still be mindfulof my dietary choices. I’ll still go tothe gym. I’ll still treat my body theway it deserves to be treated, because it feels good to do that. And maybe – if I’m lucky – I’ll inspireanother person or two. It’s not a ladytrophy, but it will certainly do.

P.S: I treated myFACEBOOK fans to a peak at what I looked like at the contest. Feel free to become a fan and take a look!

One Day

2011-10-06T21:16:00.001-06:00

A glimpse at my Halloween costume. And my
abs. I'm proud of both.

I am effing hungry. Ileave for my first fitness competition tomorrow and all I can think about iseating a carb sandwich that is fried in bacon fat. I realize that makes no freaking sense. That’s how bad I want really, honest, shittyfood. Ironically, I have been eating aton, but all the chicken, asparagus and more chicken just isn’t cutting itanymore. I need bread.

Really I think it’s mostly a nervous thing. Suddenly that thing I’ve been working towardfor months is here. It seems like only asort time I ago I was twelve weeks out. Well twelve became eleven and eleven became ten and now I’m here. One day.

On Saturday, I’ll be taking the stage to compete in thesmallest bikini I have possibly ever seen – funny that’s also the mostexpensive I’ve ever purchased. I’ll betanned and made-up and pose with perfection. But what you won’t see as I stand on stage and flirt with judges are theover twenty pounds I’ve lost (and that’s keeping in mind that I’ve gained asignificant amount of muscle). You won’tsee the two a days I’ve put in at the gym. You won’t see how strict I was with my eating. You won’t see all the work it took. You’ll just see the result in bejeweled babyblue and clear high heels.

Sitting here on the couch I’m honestly amazed with howstrong I feel. I know that I havewillpower and drive. Without either ofthose traits I’d never have found myself here. Even if I don’t place, at least I know that I can get myself to thisplace. And that is saying something nomatter where I end up.

I’m nervous. I’mhungry. I’m excited. I’m ready. All I need is a ridiculous spray tan and some butt glue.

And a medium rare burger and fries on Saturday night. And popcorn. And beer. Eff it, take me to abuffet.

Caroline

2011-10-04T23:04:00.003-06:00

“And how old are you now?!”

And that’s how, between sets of pull-ups, I met Caroline atthe YMCA. At first, I was annoyed. When I go to the gym I am not one of thosesocial girls. I am one of those far lesscommon “leave me alone so I can sweat like a pig, but have a really hot ass toshow for it” kind of girls. I don’t liketo be interrupted in the middle of my workouts.

“I’m twenty-six”

“Married?”

“No, not married.”

“Kids?”

“Nope, no kids yet.”

“Well you keep being fit and keep being beautiful for youand you’ll be eighty-five like me with all the doctors saying you’ll live to be105.”

Caroline could probably curl 45s. CREDIT.

And that’s a pretty good introduction to one of the mostwonderful, yet totally insane little old ladies I have ever had the pleasure ofmeeting. One of the reason I love theYMCA – and have kept my membership despite having access to the gorgeousstudent recreation center on campus – is because it is full of old people andnot dumb bitches. And Caroline is quitepossibly the best of them.

Before I knew it, Caroline began regaling me with the highpoints of her long life. There were twohusbands. There were four kids. There was three years spent teaching inGermany. Caroline was one big over-shareafter another. This was officiallyconfirmed when she told me all four of her children had been conceived whileshe was wearing a diaphragm much to the chagrin of husband number one. Too much? Probably, but when you’re eighty-effing-five going on 105 you can saywhatever you freaking please. Birthcontrol failures included.

After something about her second husband being initiallymarried to a woman who was “more beautiful than Elizabeth Taylor and just as promiscuous,”Caroline began talking about inner beauty.

“You know I’ve met at least forty people with scars andburns and ugly outsides; people that have been pushed around because theylooked a certain way. But I didn’t evermind that and I looked right in them and met the most beautiful people in theworld. You’re one of those few peoplewho are lucky to have the beauty on both sides. It’s a gift that you should spread to the world. The world needs all the love and beauty itcan get.”

Then Caroline reached up, squished her hands onto my cheeks,smiled wide and said she couldn’t wait to see me more. And as I got back to my pull-ups, I realizedI couldn’t wait to see Caroline again either. Caroline had told me her whole history and made my day in all of aboutthree minutes.

I hope I can live me life half as fabulously as Caroline isliving hers. I hope that one day whenI’m eighty-five I can drop a bomb of knowledge on some unassuming twenty-somethingon a random Tuesday morning at the YMCA. I want to spend my life being Caroline awesome.

I will however not be trusting my woman parts to a diaphragmanytime soon.

Losing It

2011-10-01T13:13:00.001-06:00

Go ahead and think it, I’m a horrible blogger. I’ve left things terribly neglected and forthat I apologize. The truth is – becauseI believe in the benefit of full-disclosure – I have completely lost mydrive. Actually, that would be a vastunderstatement. I haven’t so much lostmy drive as I’ve totally lost myself. And that is a frightening realization.

To be honest, I find myself lacking the passion I havealways found to be one of my greatest strengths. Perhaps it’s the homework. Perhaps it’s the lack of a social life. Perhaps it’s the changing of the blog. It’s probably a combination of a lot ofdifferent things. Whatever the reasonsfor the place I’m in, the only clear thing is I need a way out.

A few days ago I hit rock bottom. I can’t say I’ve hit rock bottom before, butI’m pretty sure that hysterically balling over the phone to your mom on thefloor of your closet certainly qualifies. Yes, I am ashamed to admit that is where I actually found myself. I said an awful lot of things as the tearscame without restraint into the dark. Isaid I wanted to drop out of school. Isaid I felt alone. I said I hated mylife. I said things that scare me. And while I eventually calmed down and foundmy way to a chair, I still felt that same dread. My drive was gone and I didn’t know where tofind it.

But the next morning I still got up and found my way to thegym. Even though I really didn’t want tobe there. I didn’t want to be anywherebesides the comfort of my bed. I wantedto sink into its sheets and simply disappear. Despite all that, I got up and ventured to the YMCA before the sun waseven up. I was just a couple weeks outfrom a fitness competition after all.

And as I was there doing my cardio and weight training Irealized the drive it took to kick my own ass for months on end. I felt the strength of my body. I felt the power of my will. In a split second I realized just how drivenI could be. Things became clear and Iunderstood the amazing kind of person I am. It was corny as shit, but it all felt so right.

So I went home and joined LinkedIn. Maybe that sounds weird, but I threw myselfinto the project and as I created my profile and looked at my resume I realizedhow much I’ve done with the opportunities that have been presented to me. I realized that I am an asset to myself asmuch as I am one to everyone else. Myconfidence in myself – though diminished – still existed somewhere inside me.

Yes, I still feel lonely. I still feel a little lost. Istill feel unsure about an awful lot of things, but I realize that life can andwill work itself out. It’s just the howI’m not quite sure of yet. But maybe Idon’t need to be in a rush to figure all that out.

Right now I just need to work on returning to the positivityI have always prided myself on. I alsoneed to work on returning this blog to something I’m really proud of. Who knows, maybe someone will read it,appreciate what I’m doing and offer me the dream job that I feel so verycompelled to have. But then who reallyknows anything?

Maybe that’s the beauty of it all.

Stop Trying to Make Owling Happen

2011-09-19T09:43:00.002-06:00

Over on Facebook, my buddy Mitchell Melton brought up the topic of owling.

Wait, Owling is a real thing? Is that when you motorboat a Hooters waitress?" A friend of mine posted this, and was completely serious.

If I have you confused already allow me to show you what the hell I'm talking about. This is owling courtesy of the one and only Hilary Duff, star of the once popular tween sitcom, Lizzie McGuire:

Nice form, Ms. Duff. CREDIT.

Yup, that's owling. Basically it's involves crouching and taking a photo which you quickly post to the Internet so your 1,024 Facebook "friends" think you're super wicked cool. This is meant to make you look like an owl or - in my opinion - a person trying to take a dump in the woods for the first time. Impressive, I hardly think so. Unless you owl like this guy, in which case you are somewhat impressive:

I am giving extra points for the cosplay hair. CREDIT.

Delving deeper into the history of owling, it is pretty apparent that it is a response to "planking." Here I am using response to actually mean "totally copying." If you are entirely uniformed, planking is basically laying stomach down, flat as a board, photographing it and also posting it Facebook for all those friends who care so much about your exploits. It was really cool for awhile.

A fad is pretty much dead by the time it ends up on the TODAY show. CREDIT.

So when we get down to, owling is really just trying to be the next planking. And if there is one thing I know it's that trying to be the next big thing makes it nearly impossible to actually be the next thing. Trying is so effing lame.

Mean Girls pretty much sums up exactly how I feel about owling:

So please stop trying to make owling happen, it's not going to happen. Besides, the leisure dive is way cooler. And by cooler I actually mean "get over it and take a nice photo that mom can put above the damn fireplace."

Being Nice is Cool Too

2011-09-14T19:21:00.001-06:00

Well don't you just look fun! CREDIT.

I have officially decided that some people go to restaurantsjust to complain. They wake up in themorning, realize their life sucks more than they anticipated it would and throwon some pants so they can go out and ruin someone else’s day so theirs sucksjust that much less. I imagine themsitting in the car on the way formulating new ways to be totally awful humanbeings. It’s like a game that I, as aserver, am forced to be the center of with no prior consent.

I get it; life really sucks sometimes. Trust me, there are days that being a totalbitch would really make me feel better. But we all know that isn’t nice. So I pull up my tights and guess what? I get the eff over it. I don’tfind my way to a restaurant where people are just trying to do their job andput them through forty-five minutes of torture. I don’t complain that the beer is too cold. I don’t get pissed because only light ranchis served. I don’t say my burger wasawful after devouring the whole thing in two minutes flat.

While I realize that sometimes it seems like shared miseryis the answer, I can assure you it’s not. I can almost guarantee you won’t walk through those doors, back into thebig, bad world and feel better. Youmight feel fuller, but you certainly won’t feel better.

What might make you actually feel a little better would becoming in, sitting down and trying to let yourself actually enjoy a meal. Food tastes much better without a side ofpissed-off. Rather than using thatforty-five minutes bringing someone else into your misery you could put itaside and enjoy those wings. You neverknow, maybe afterwards you’ll feel better. Or at the very least, you spent a little bit of time not thinking aboutwhatever is bothering you.

You can have it back later if you want. CREDIT.

A very wise corporate trainer once told me to “leave my shitat the door.” And that’s what I do, ifI’m in a bad mood I don’t bring it into work with me. It’s my job to be happy even when I’m veryfar from it. Even when my grandma died Ihad to go to work and pretend like it hadn’t happened. That certainly wasn’t easy, but you knowafterward I did feel better. I’d gottenout of my own head and taken time to not dwell on things.

So while that advice has certainly helped me at a placewhere being peppy is expected no matter what, it’s also helped me in life. Sometimes all you can do is take your shitand leave it for a bit. You get somethings done, you do what you need to do and then later if you want to pick upthat shit and take it home with you, you are more than welcome to. But maybe you’ll just decide to let that shitlie. Or take less of it than you broughtin the first place.

All I really know is, even if you don’t take my advice,please don’t bring your attitude into my place of employment and dump it in mylap. You don’t want it and I REALLYdon’t want it. Sit back, eat your foodand let me do my job. Which is to makeyou have a better day in addition to keeping you fed. I promise I’ll try not to let you down if youpromise not to be an asshat. That seemsfair.

My Fake Name Commits Credit Card Fraud

2011-09-12T09:21:00.002-06:00

I've made it known before that my name is, well, different. It's not that it's a particularly difficult name, it's just that it's incredibly uncommon in this country. Naturally, because Americans are averse to anything remotely different, this causes people to freak the eff out when I introduce myself or they need to write it down or something. It's almost as if when hearing a name that isn't Sarah or Amanda or Jennifer people suddenly forget how letters work. Sound it out, bitches, you'll do fine.

Apology accepted, slore!

Because of the difficulties with my name, I sometimes use a fake one in certain situations. Mostly these situations involve ordering sandwiches or excessive amounts of caffeine from people in green aprons. It's just way easier to give the dude behind the counter something I don't have to spell out while he stares at me like my head just opened up and showed him the true meaning of life or the real contents of Lindsay Lohan's vagina. Unless I'm feeling like an evil bitch. Then I just give them my real name and take pleasure as I watch them squirm as they attempt to type into their computer.

~~Anyhooters~~ Anyway, the other day I was ordering some very exciting plain chicken (another fiasco entirely) at a local stir-fry joint and was of course asked for a name. Feeling particularly nice that day, I left my fake name - Cara. Cara was my neighbor growing up. She was Jewish and that meant I always got a Hanukah gift; seven-year-old Sauce loved that she got double holidays in December. So I gave the name Cara and handed over my credit card to pay. I was so ready for yet another meal of freaking chicken.

Suddenly the world stops turning and I realize something that for some reason hadn't crossed my mind before, while I often use the name Cara, not once has anyone questioned why the name on my card says something else entirely. Not one time. Now I realize I was spending less than ten dollars, but that's not the point. The point is that credit card fraud is easy as shit because people are inattentive or - more probably - don't give a damn. My fake name is entirely offended.

In my experience at the "Restaurant Which Shall Not Be Named," I ALWAYS ask for ID with a card. I don't care if you spend two bucks or two-hundred, it's still illegal if you're using a card that doesn't belong to you. It's part of my job to check these things. Yes, it's a pain in the ass sometimes, but you'd be surprised how many people appreciate that bit of extra thought. It makes you look like a good server to ask simple questions like that, people. Hell, it makes you look like a good person. And good people get tipped more. Hopefully.

So next time you run into a Cara, ask for some ID because she could actually be some crazy, bloggin, Dutch chick out to catch you sucking at life. You've been warned.

Sauce has a new, improved and 100% awesome fan page on Facebook! I'm hoping this time around we'll not only have super cool pepper racing (see photo at left), but lots of involvement, contests and miscellaneous good times.

You are cordially invited to help me regrow my presence on Facebook. I apologize in advance for the lack of cake. Check it out, tell your firends and of course LIKE "According to Sauce."

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2011-09-09T07:10:00.000-06:00

As most of you probably noticed, yesterday I changed the design of my blog. Changed for reasons beyond me, I can't say that I didn't do so a little (or a lot) grudgingly. The previous layout was something I spent many hours on. I took the time to design every element of my background and tinker with the HTML so it looked just so. Let's just be honest, the blog itself has never been a money maker. It's not like my design was going to make me millions of dollars. That was never the point. I'm simply a perfectionist and it was a true labor of love. If I'm going to have a blog you better damn well believe it's going to look good.

Then things changed so very suddenly and I found myself needing to make changes and make them quickly. There was no passion or drive behind the change, only necessity. And honestly that made me not give two shits or even one actually. First I went to one of Blogger's simple templates and later I searched and found a pre-made template somewhere out on the Internet. I then spent all of an hour playing with things to make a few personal changes and that was it. I was lazy. Here we are because I couldn't really bring myself to care.

Maybe eventually I'll get around to creating a style for this blog that I love again, but for now I just don't have the energy. I'm hoping the template I did finally decide on at the very least doesn't frighten my readers away. Hopefully the content will keep you around regardless of how blah the shit framing it is.

Now if one of you out there is a fabulous designer of fabulous fabulousities and wants to take me on as a charity case I'm most totally cool with that. Keep in mind that I enjoy the color light blue and white (yes, I know that's not technically a color) and swirls and shit. Thank you in advance.

At the very least, this whole situation will give me a very awesome project for my first weekend MBA class entitled "Tools to Understanding the Digital Economy". I hear you have to do a project on social media in business and how it's affected your life or how you've used it. Man did this shit have perfect timing or what? And since I'm on the theme of showing videos showing how awesome my school is, please meet the professor of my class, Dr. David Firth. My project is going to rock his English face off.

My Alma Mater Rocks My Face Off

2011-09-08T20:58:00.000-06:00

Welcome to where I spend the vast majority of my time, the University of Montana. I'm probably a horribly biased person, but I think it's pretty damn awesome. You should totally visit. Or start a college fund for your kids so you can start saving for horribly overpriced out of state tuition. Don't worry though, they'll save you tons of money by subsiding on Ramen and PBR (unofficial-offical beer of hipster, Montana cool kids).

I'm sure they are currently reediting this video to include the fact that they gave an undergrad degree to one totally cool blogger. I'm hoping my turn comes right after Jeannette Rankin. Or the professor with the fireball. Everyone loves freaking fire.

And Rolling Stone is totally a leading publication on higher education. Totally.

An Explanation and A New Beginning

2011-09-07T09:07:00.001-06:00

Yesterday was one of those long days that just start outthat way. Having put off my dreadedaccounting homework far longer than was prudent, I didn’t get to bed until 1:00a.m. on Monday night; far too late for a girl who had a 5:00 a.m. alarm readyto call her to the gym. Somehow I stillmanaged to drag myself from the comfort of my sheets and put in my firstworkout of the day before class. I wasunderstandably tired, but surprisingly upbeat, as I sat through my firstlecture. It probably had an awful lot todo with the short nap I had planned after class. Naps can be incredibly motivating whendrudging through accounting on less than four hours of sleep.

I hopped on my vintage cruiser and made my way home througha crisp morning. I leisurely pedaledacross the footbridge noting how clear the water appeared as it tumbled overthe glistening stones below. An expertfly fisherman further downstream caught my eye as his line delicately yetpurposefully flicked the water. I’d liketo try that, I thought as I turned from the bank and hopped off my bike athome. I was in a good mood as I hikedthe steep stairs of a 1920s row house to my apartment.

For some reason, I decided to postpone my nap and opened mycomputer to check my email. I signed inand found myself looking at an email from a contact at Hooters. Occasionally such emails will pop up todiscuss upcoming articles and deadlines I have to meet. I assumed this would be no different, butrather than seeing the typical dates and magazine themes I was greeted by asimple, direct message:

Hey there, Sauce. Could you giveme a call? Thanks.

And that was all it said. Almost immediately my blinding optimism took over. I imagined interviews and job offers. I imagined travelling to Atlanta. I imagined many things that didn’t begin toprepare me for what I was about to hear. Niceties and small talk were exchanged and with little to now warning“what are you up to” morphed into “we need you to take your site down.”

Nonchalantly those very words were uttered and my heart immediatelysank. I wanted to cry and scream and beangry, but instead I moved to the pantry – so as not to alarm Dreamy – andacted as professionally as possible as I was told that Hooters didn’t feel theconnection to my blog and its somewhat official and affiliated appearance hadbeen deemed inappropriate by new management. It was all explained as stood amongst the quick oats and cans of greenbeans, but all that really stuck with me was “we need you to take your sitedown.”

As soon as the call ended I casually walked to my bed, sunkinto its bright yellow comforter and cried. Quietly at first, my sobs increased as the shock gave way toreality. I couldn’t have held it in if Iwanted to.

“The blog is over,” I finally managed to utter after muchinstance from Dreamy. I let it sink inas the words left me. After two and halfyears of work it was gone in one corporate decision from thousands of milesaway.

And that is when I managed to compose myself and write theentry posted below. After hitting“publish” I began backing things up and attempting to figure out what to donext. For a moment I considered quittingall together and just ending my blogging journey. I thought about just moving on to totally newthings. But way back when I began thisblog, the point wasn’t Hooters. I beganblogging because I love to write. Ibegan blogging because my creativity needed an outlet – an outlet that wasnecessary regardless of Hooters.

I had made up my mind to keep the blog in some form as thepositive comments began pouring in both here, in my email and on Facebook. While I knew I had some loyal readers, I wasin no way prepared for the response that followed my announcement. To say that I was flattered would be a vastunderstatement. The comments made mefeel relevant and appreciated, but mostly they made me smile on a day that feltvoid of happiness. I will be eternallygrateful for the kind words I received in a moment when I so needed them.

It is my belief that those very words that meant – and stillmean – so much to me had some effect on the next email I received from Hootersa few hours later. The tone changed andinstead of removing the site, I was asked to remove logos and brandedimages. They loved the blog and it couldstay, it just couldn’t look affiliated. They said I had simply misunderstood what they wanted. I am still unsure how one can misconstrue “weneed you to take the blog down.” It’s seemspretty clear to me they were backtracking and I have a good feeling that yourcomments might have had something to do with that.

So here I am, with a horribly naked blog just begging for aredesign ready to continue writing. While Hooters has given me permission to continue on my currenttrajectory for now, I’m not sure that doing so would feel right. Yes, Hooters is a huge part of my life andmakes for pretty amazing blog content, but it isn’t worth jeopardizing thevaluable connections I’ve developed. Hooters is only one part of the very diverse life I lead. And while it may come up eventually, I thinkfor the most part I’ll avoid including it in my posts for now. It’s time to use this situation to move on toother things.

Welcome to “According to Sauce” were all things are open todiscussion. I will write what I want towrite and say what I want to say. Whereexactly I’ll take this project isn’t totally clear; a blank canvas is full ofopportunity.

All I do know is that I appreciate the support of myreaders. It’s reassuring to know thatsomewhere out there on the big bad Internet there are a few people who really dogive a damn. Feel free to keep readingand stay in touch. I am open and excitedto hear your comments and suggestions. Lets see where we end up.

And on a side note, please keep in mind that I still very much adore Hooters and that at this point they are very open to me continuing to express myself as an individual whether I'm discussing Hooters or not. The last thing I want is for people to avoid or think negatively of Hooters because of this situation; that would defeat the purpose of everything I have stood for since my employment began. After all, my purpose as a blogger has always been to show Hooters for what it is behind the orange shorts and implants - I still maintain those desires whether it's the center of my writing or not. Please keep in mind that the decision to expand my blogging topics is my own and not one Hooters forced me to make.

It's Been a Good Run

2011-09-06T10:59:00.000-06:00

I've been asked to take down the blog. I am devastated and am forcing myself to figure out where I'm going from here. I thought about simply taking it down immediately - being as it probably would have significant effect on where I hope to eventually find myself - but realized how unfair that would be to all the people who have so loyally followed my many posts these two and a half years. I hope you understand how much all that loyalty has meant to me; I wouldn't have made it this long without all of you reading and commenting and just being there.

Perhaps I'll continue writing here and simply take down all the Hooters content, but as for now I'm not really sure. I'm just not sure that I have much to say that would be worth reading otherwise. I'm just not really sure of anything at the moment. I am however sure of how much this blog has meant to me. I've never cried while typing a post. There have been smiles and anger and frustration, but never tears. Until now.

Now what?

You've Got Mail

2011-09-05T10:11:00.000-06:00

There is saying that Montana is the biggest small town in the world. Basically, everyone you meet you already know, are somehow related to, or they know someone you know. If you do something wildly inappropriate hundreds of miles away the odds that your mom will know about it before your hangover is warn off are pretty damn good. News here travels fast.

Montana is just the sort of place where everything can sort of feel small town. Even things like mail. For example, you can send a letter and accidentally omit things from the address and the odds that it will get to where it's going are nearly 100%. Forgot the zip code? No sweat.

And then this letter arrived at Hooters and - in case I'd forgotten - I was quickly reminded that things are a just a little different in Montana.

This circulated mail was actually delivered without any relevant postal information and it still got to it's destination a day after it was dropped in the mail. Not only was the zip code left off, but there is no address and the city is casually abbreviated. Hell, the delivery "address" isn't an address at all. It's a freaking sentence. Hooters in Msla, Mont. And that shit got to where it was going with no apparent hardship.

Yes, I realize Hooters in Missoula probably isn't that hard to find, but it's still somewhat impressive. I'm glad my taxes are going toward a postal service that is fantastically in debt because they certainly know how to deliver a totally improperly addressed letter. Come rain or shine or illiteracy.

P.S: You stamp is sideways.

P.P.S: They make the Internet for looking up addresses.

Have you entered Sauce's first ever giveaway? Hop on over to FACEBOOK to enter!

First Ever Giveaway!

2011-09-04T10:37:00.000-06:00

Did you know that right now we're halfway through our first ever Hooters According to Sauce giveaway?! What? You say you had no clue that there were prizes on the line? Well there are. Sorry to keep so many of you in the dark. I just decided to give some readers a bit of a head start because life just really isn't fair. Put on your big kid pants and deal with it.

This is a Facebook contest. All it takes is a little LIKE and a bit of thought and boom, you're entered. If you we are already a Facebook fan, you may or may not have seen this contest on Thursday. You're welcome, thanks for liking me and thinking I'm totally legit. Now I'll open the contest to everyone.

On the line is a sweet, handwritten, personalized postcard from Hooters of Missoula. Who knows, I might throw in more awesome gifts yet to be determined, but that will all depend on how many people enter. Better start entering by doing the following:

1. LIKE Hooters According to Sauce on Facebook.
2. Reply to my status or post on the wall your favorite blog post and why.
3. Wait.

Yup, that's all you have to do. Once you've submitted a favorite post, you're entered to win. The winer will be randomly selected from all entries.

Ready? Go!

You have until Friday.

Money Can Cause Stress

2011-08-30T17:26:00.001-06:00

I feel ya, George

I am stressed. And not totally because of the reason you’d probably think. Yes, I am once again a student and it is a bit disarming settling back into that lifestyle. While it’s certainly different – I’ve not been in classes for over three years after all – I actually really enjoy school. It’s work, but it’s work that I happen to love. I even don’t so much mind homework (unless it’s my old friend, accounting).

What’s really got me all worked up is the fact that I have gone from as close to overtime as possible to just three measly days a week at work. And that’s not counting the multiple weekends I have three-day lectures. So I only get to work Friday – Sunday. Unless I’m, for example, learning about the Digital Economy. Then I don’t work at all that week. That fact, my friends, has not been settling very well.

Here’s the thing about me; I’m a saver. I love putting money in the bank. I love checking my balance. I love having no debt. And now suddenly I don’t have as much coming in. That stresses the shit right of this girl.

For the record, I did save up all sorts of money just for this reason. I knew my first semester would be a heavy one and I planned accordingly. I put money away knowing I’d be working far less. Yet that planning didn’t prepare me for the feeling that would come over me watching my balance go down rather than up. The saver in me doesn’t like to see that even when I made allowances for it.

So if I go off the deep-end and start panhandling or selling organs in the next few months you’ll know why; it’s because I’m completely insane when it comes to my cash flow. Here’s hoping I can survive the next fifteen weeks with all my body parts and all my consumer electronics. On that note, where is the nearest pawnshop?

Official Graduate Student

2011-08-29T10:02:00.001-06:00

Crayons were not on my supply list this year. Sad.

Today is my first official day of grad school. As I sit here enjoying my usual post-workout egg whites and oat bran, I am nervous, excited and anxious all at once. I’ve already done homework. I’ve met my classmates. I am a student once again and after three years of working as a waitress it’s a strange feeling.

My MBA experience began with two days of orientation last Thursday and Friday. Classes and expectations were outlined, teambuilding exercises were held and I was bored off my half-asleep ass; you know how orientations are. We began with the usual introductions – all fifty of us. Of course being that this is business school, it was apparent people were trying to be impressive with their ventures and business experience. It made me nervous. As I am so often, I was left to decide if it was appropriate to bring up Hooters. Would I offend anyone? Would I lead a professor to stereotype me? Would it prudent to just not bring it up at all?

As the woman next to me finished her introduction, I slowly stood and gathered my breath. I started talking. Out came my name and where I got it, along with my hometown and undergraduate history as a college athlete. I spoke with ease and before I made a final decision on whether or not I wanted to bring up Hooters, I already had.

“And after being an unfortunate casualty of budget cuts my desk job ended and I – like so many new graduates – found myself working as a waitress. Lets just say that the place involves owls.”

I got quite a few chuckles and then nods of what I hoped was appreciation as I went on to bring up my blog, it’s surprising success and the experiences that led me to my opportunities Hooters Magazine and Hooters of America. I spoke about my time in Miami and the social media work I was given that so intrigued me. I finished by saying that I hoped to continue working for Hooters and move into a corporate position when the timing was right.

I sat down feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. I had gotten the Hooters thing out of the way early. But had I appeared ambitious or pigeonholed myself? I mean it’s obvious that people were judging me, it’s human nature after all, I just didn’t know in what way.

When we had a break a short time later, I was approached by several people and asked about my blog. Not only were they interested they were seemingly somewhat impressed. Yes, I was a Hooters Girl, but it was the ambition that people apparently noticed. Even a professor asked about my writing in a positive tone. I couldn’t help but feel relieved. It turns out that maybe Hooters wasn’t so big of a deal after all.

So while I’m nervous on this first day, I’m looking forward to what this first semester will bring. My course load is heavy, I am still working and I’m going to be busier than ever. Luckily, I have an ambitious streak that will hopefully serve me well. I’m not just a Hooters Girl. I’m a Hooters Girl/blogger/MBA student/freelance writer/social media guru/girlfriend/fitness competitor/glorious individual. And I’m so proud of all of that.

When Hot isn't Hot

2011-08-24T11:25:00.001-06:00

I don’t like giving people suggestions when it comes to ordering. It’s not that I don’t have my menu favorites – Hooters Cobb, chicken tossed in hot sauce or Training Burgers with American cheese and LOTS of jalapeños – it’s that what I like doesn’t necessarily correlate to what you’d like. This is why when asked what I’d suggest I generally give some bullshit answer that makes sure to include several items that serve as a pretty good cross-section of the menu; you get your suggestions, but still have to rely on personal preference to choose between several offerings. The last thing I want to do is suggest something I love only to have you not enjoy your meal because it doesn’t suit your tastes. That’s just not good for either of us.

Enjoy your wings, asshat!

The one exception to my aversion to offering menu suggestions occurs when people order wings. I will ALWAYS offer my suggestions in this area because in all honestly Hooters basic buffalo sauces aren’t nearly as hot as they are billed. As I like to put it, our hot is more of a medium, our medium is basically mild and mild is pretty much nonexistent. And that is not an exaggeration. For some reason Hooters has “dumbed-down” sauces. It’s just the way it is.

Knowing that our sauces are milder than their names, I always suggest people order one sauce up from the one they think they want when choosing from our basics. I relay the fact that our buffalo sauces are butter based and that the spice very gradually increases as you go up the scale while the butter decreases. And though I’ve had many people be skeptical, most people follow my advice and step their ordering up. In nearly three years of suggesting this, not one person has said I was wrong. In fact, most people have thanked me for the advice.

Then there are the people who don’t listen. They order the stupid mild – which is a lot more butter than spice – and then complain that their wings weren’t sauced. At this point I’ll do my best to once again explain that the sauces are butter based which means that they melt when paired with the hot, fried wings. And since mild is so butter heavy it seemingly all but disappears to a lot of people. I will then offer to grab them a side of the hotter sauce – which I had offered them in the first place.

And some people will be happy with this. And of course some won’t. Some people will spend the rest of their Hooters’ experience hating the absolute shit out of me because they are chowing down on some wings that aren’t what they expected. They will totally forget what I suggested and instead think I’m horrible at my job. All over some stupid wings.

Meanwhile, I will think you’re a complete and total asshole who had every chance to have some really awesome wings. I will think that you should have listened to the girl who has spent 30+ at Hooters every week for the past three effing years. I don’t just make shit up, people. I am a Hooters expert. It’s not my fault you didn’t listen to me. It’s also not may fault that you’re a stubborn prick.

So next time your waitress offers you a suggestion, remember that she probably knows what’s she’s talking about. Odds are she is not out to get you and simply wants you to actually enjoy your meal. It might be hard to believe, but I want you to like what you’re eating. After all if you hate it you’ll tip me like shit – even though it will be no fault of my own. Don’t even get me started on that shit.

The Big Boob Lie

2011-08-23T18:13:00.003-06:00

When you workout a lot and eat right, one of the results is generally losing body fat. Now most people would agree that losing body fat is a good thing in most circumstances. And I would totally agree. And while it's really nice to have hard work pay off, all that gym time does have one rather unfortunate side effect; your boobs go to.

This isn't rocket science, breasts are composed of fatty tissue and if you're going to lose fat in the rest of your body it's a pretty sure thing that the fat in your chest is going to follow suit. It's sad but true. You're working out and watching what you eat and one day you look down and see abs - and no boobs above them. It's a trade-off. I gave up my full Cs for small Bs. But did I mention my hot stomach?

Now for many people this doesn't really matter. You breasts are smaller, but it's really not that big of a deal. Of course most people don't work at Hooters. And lets not pretend that boobs don't matter at Hooters. Tits effing matter at Hooters.

Luckily, every Hooters Girl knows a plethora of tricks for creating the illusion of cleavage. And no I'm not talking about augmentation. That's the obvious one. Beyond surgery, there a number of tricks that Hooters Girls - and probably women in generally - employ to make their breasts appear larger. After three years of working at Hooters and closely guarding these secrets, I am coming clean and telling you all the truth. Welcome to your first lesson in breast augmentation - no toilet paper or silicone required.

Normal Boobs

Itty-Bitty-Titty Committee

Observe the girls in a normal, everyday T-shirt bra. This is what I look like in my real life. Yes, my boobs look small because they are indeed small. In the real world I am totally unashamed of this fact. Having small breasts allows me to wear all sorts of fun shirts and even go braless if my outfit requires it. Plus they don't hit me in the face or cause back pain when I run. I'd say that in most cases that's a win. Hooters doesn't fall into the "win" column.

Push-up Bra Boobs

Only a little real.

Welcome to the whole reason that Victoria's Secret exists. Every woman in the world owns AT LEAST one push-up bra. Hippies are of course excluded from that statistic. Most push-up bras will increase breast size from one to two cup sizes by the aid of various forms of padding. Padding can consist of anything from gels to water. Hell we'd probably wear a bra made of rocks if it gave us perfect decollate. We're women it's what we do. The picture to the right is me in a "Bombshell" type bra. The Bombshell is Victoria's Secret's amazing creation that adds two cup-sizes. It's the biggest lie ever. Now I say Bombshell type because I am cheap and got the same bra at Target for a third of the price. Go Target! This is my usual Hooters attire.

Chicken Cutlet Boobs

Good eatin'!

No, I am not condoning stuffing your bra with poultry. That would just make a mess and attract crows. Chicken cutlets are silicone padding specifically made to insert into bras. The name is derived from the fact that the shape and feel holds a striking resemblance to chicken breasts. This effect is only increased when they make they are skin-colored. Sorry, this girl doesn't own cutlets. Mostly this is because they cost around $50 for a ice pair. Plus they tend to make you sweat and end up smelling like ass. And smelling like ass is always sexy.

Double Bra Boobs

Awkward bulges are not attractive.

This is exactly what it sounds like. Some Hooters Girls will go so far as to wear two bras to increase their cleavage. Not only is this usually extremely uncomfortable, but also tends to look really unnatural. I say this because it gives the breast a very bottom heavy appearance owing to the fact that you have added about 18 pounds of padding to your breasts - not to mention all that underwire and straps and hooks. All that stuff is just waiting to cause all sorts of awkward lines that don't belong anywhere near a nice set of boobies. I condone the double bra under no circumstances. You're welcome for the picture. My boobs are ashamed.

Bronzer Boobs

Real life airbrushing!

I am a huge fan of using bronzer to contour all sorts of body parts. Yes, you can use bronzer on your boobs to great effect. Basically you get a nice dark bronzer - eyeshadow will work in a pinch - and brush that shit all inside your cleavage. Next, you get all excited and shadow the top, round bits of your breasts. Suddenly you start to get that totally unnatural, but totally fabulous top roundness that is generally only achievable with either surgery or absolutely perfect genetics. You can think of it as reality PhotoShop. It's a simple trick, but easily one of the better ones.

And the magician has revealed a few of the secrets. I'm fully prepared for a Hooters Girl issued hit on my life. Sorry, girls, the secret was going to get out someday.

The Seating of Bar Tables

2011-08-22T21:45:00.001-06:00

I see some incorrect Hooters pouring technique. CREDIT.

When working bar, during most shifts I have three high-top tables in addition to my twenty bar stools. I love having those tables because it means that I can pull families and other “non-bar” diners in addition to my regular crowd. Basically it’s an opportunity for me to increase my seating which in turn increases my ability to make money; and as much as I adore my job I still love making me some money.

Of course being that I’m working the bar, it can often be difficult for me to actually seat these tables. While this has a lot to do with the fact that I am making drinks and what not, it also has a lot to do with the bar’s proximity to the door. It’s just really hard to compete with a girl on the floor because they don’t have to walk out from behind the bar and across the restaurant to get to the door. The girls on the floor have a definite advantage when it comes to pulling tables.

Luckily, some of the girls are kind enough to include the bartenders when tables are being sat. Every once and awhile – rather than just seating themselves – girls will seat groups at my bar tables. Often I love this. Sometimes I don’t.

Why wouldn’t I love my tables being sat? Let me break it down. There are three types of girls in this regard: those who never seat my tables, those who seat my tables and – my least favorite – girls who seat my tables only when they stereotype the shit out of people and assume they will be shitty tippers. I won’t sugarcoat, some girls will only seat me with groups that they don’t want because they look white trash. Or groups that are populated by teenagers. Or groups that fall in certain ethnic groups. All because they don’t want them because they assume they will make ten percent or less. When in doubt, pawn them off on the bartender.

Now you can sit there and tell me it’s purely coincidence, but I’ve witnessed this phenomenon often enough from certain girls to know it’s true. Personally, I think it’s sad. Yes, there are people that don’t tip, but while certain stereotypes might seem true it’s my opinion that there are people of all types that suck at tipping. It’s because people suck. Not certain types of people. Just people. If serving has taught me anything it’s certainly that.

Knowing that tipping is a personal thing and – generally – not defined by inclusion in certain groups, I make it a point to give everyone the same great service. Yes, there are times I can be pretty certain that I’ll get a crappy tip, but I could still never bring myself to decrease my level of service. I just don’t have that ability. To me, doing my well job means always doing it well – no matter what.

And guess what? That mentality has served me very well. In fact, a vast majority of those tables girls seat based on their stupid assumptions have tipped me a much-appreciated 15-20% or more. Take for example a table sat last week: two younger guys and a girl who definitely didn’t look like big tippers. In fact, another girl told me that our coworker sat me because “they looked cheap.” They ended up being cheap enough to leave me a $20 tip on a $35 tab. I’d say that’s more than 20% wouldn’t you?

So please continue to stereotype and seat the bar tables. I’ll just continue doing my job and quietly proving you wrong. Maybe you’ll learn an important life lesson. But probably not. Either way I’ll go on making your money. My rent thanks you!

Recreational Drug Use

2011-08-18T19:25:00.000-06:00

A few months back Skrillex came to town. This probably means nothing to a lot of you. Let me explain, Skrillex is a band of the dubstep variety. Now if this continues to mean nothing to you I’ll just say it’s the type of music that pretty much requires glow sticks, neon and designer club drugs with the price of a ticket; it’s for the cool kids. Allow me to enlighten you!

Yup, that’s Skrillex. If you didn’t have the urge to ingest something illegal, you probably had the urge to pierce your ears with something sharp. Dubstep is somewhat of an acquired taste.

Anyhooters, the night of the Skrillex concert, Hooters was infiltrated by brightly adorned groups of concertgoers. After all, nothing is a better precursor to a hazed concert experience than fried foods and orange shorts. It screams America.

A particularly large group of teenage dubsteppers ended up in Ariel’s section. The girls wore face paint, flashy neon tutus and enough glitter to make a fairy ill – it all screamed wannabes. They looked more like “lets go clubin’ Barbie” than serious sceners. Ah to be a teenager again hopelessly trying to fit in to any group you can.

Ariel, being a Portlander and appreciator of all things outside the mainstream, handled the table with ease. She knows her dubstep and showed those kids a thing or two or twelve. They were in awe of her awesome musical knowledge. Ariel is good like that.

As the meal ended, the girls at the table deemed it necessary to photograph their pre-concert meal. First were pictures with Ariel. Then pictures of couples. And finally Ariel offered to take a picture of the whole, boisterous table. Ariel situated herself at the head of the table and began directing the group into the perfect pose – no faces obscured, hair looking its best. She snapped the perfect picture and went to hand the camera back.

But something went wrong. You know how it is when you’re using an unfamiliar piece of camera equipment. You hit a wrong button and suddenly you end up in some strange menu or turn the flash off or just generally eff things up somehow. Well Ariel hit something. Only she didn’t end up changing settings, she ended up scrolling through the camera’s contents only to land on a picture of one of the young girls in front of her snorting what appeared to be a white substance commonly known as cocaine. Or as Ariel put it, “dude I just saw a photo of one of those girls doing the fattiest fatty line of coke.”

At this point Ariel froze, locking eyes with the sixteen year-old, tutu clad, drug experimenter in question. It was one of those awkward “I know, that you know, that I know” moments. She almost threw the camera back as she continued to look at the degeneration of our nation’s youth.

“Well go ahead and add that to the top of the list of ‘awkward Hooters moments,” quipped Ariel. “I mean I have nothing against that stuff if you’re into it, but she was twelve and her mom probably wouldn’t be too flattered that her allowance is being spent on sweet nose candy.”

I miss you, Ariel.

Hold the Veggies

2011-08-15T08:39:00.001-06:00

Sometimes as soon as I answer the phone at work it’s obvious that the person at the other end of the line wants to complain. Take yesterday for example, the phone rang, I answered and was abruptly greeted.

“Can I speak to the restaurant manager, PLEASE?”

He said please in that way that doesn’t mean please at all. It was one of those pleases that really says, “I’m being a total dick here and have no effing clue what it means to be polite.” It was a complaint please and I knew it immediately.

“B, there is a phone call for you and you better put on your manager game face because it sounds like the guy is calling to complain.”

And that’s all it took. I watched Manager B march to the office like a determined soldier heading to the front lines. Manager B might be one of the nicest guys ever, but when business needs to be done he handles shit. I once watched the guy get punched in the face by an inebriated UFC fan and then lean in and ask for a real hit. If anyone can handle a complaint it’s Manager B.

It turns out I was right. We had a complainer on our hands. His complaint went something like this:

The day before, the caller had ordered three plain Double D burgers to-go. Now for those of you who are not Hooters menu aficionados, the Double D is a two-patty monster that weighs in at one pound of delicious beef. In a word the Double D screams AMERICA!

Aren't those vegetables offensive?

So he got his plain Double D burgers as he ordered them. Only the kitchen had the audacity to put lettuce, onion and tomato ON THE SIDE of the burgers. Heaven for effing bid. While his burgers were plain, they came with veggies on the side. Apparently this was the cause of the end of the world. And apparently this meant he needed his money back.

Now, I didn’t take the order, but it seems to me that he probably asked for plain burgers and that’s exactly what he got. Odds are he wasn’t specific enough to relay his complete and utter disdain for all things healthful because had he made that known no vegetables would even look at his greasy beef. But of course we are meant to be mind readers. Everyone knows that’s a crucial part of any server’s training.

And that is before we look at the fact that this man is utterly ridiculous. You’re going to freak out over a few vegetables that aren’t even ON your damn burger? Forgive us for even implying a bit of health to accompany your bagillion calorie gut bombs. We are so fucking offensive.

Allow me to teach you a trick. Grab that burger with two – probably not washed – hands. Now pick that baby up and remove it from the box. Holy shit, that is a plain burger! Is that some magic or what? I know, I even impress myself sometimes.

No, you cannot have your money back.

Note: Before you “he might be allergic” people jump on the ol’ comments bandwagon, don’t you think he would have made that known when ordering if that was the case? Also, it would totally unrealistic to say that three people (assuming he was sharing) are all allergic to several varieties of vegetables. This man was just picky and cheap. And afraid of vegetables.

To Your (My) Health

2011-08-10T11:59:00.001-06:00

I’ve always considered myself a pretty active person. I did run track after all. But after graduating – and not constantly having someone telling me how to work out and when – I certainly eased into a not so consistent workout plan. Rather the two or even three-a-days I had grown accustomed to, I instead fell into a schedule of half-assed cardio seasons. I mean I still worked out (because I do love it) but it was nothing compared to what my body was used to.

Two months, two months, two months. CREDIT.

Then you pair that with food. Because I was always getting my ass kicked with lifting, running, form workouts and plyos I just didn’t really think that much about what I was eating. While I ate fairly healthily, I enjoyed my fair share of sugary sweets and greasy fried foods. I love food and I didn’t hold back if I didn’t want to.

And then finally you get a job at Hooters. There is almost nothing better as a lover of wings than being hired as a Hooters Girl. Wings are everywhere. Of course being a Hooters Girl means wearing the uniform. And the uniform isn’t quite as fond of wings. At first I just didn’t care.

So I gained weight. It was inevitable. But I won’t sit here and pretend I gained tons of unwanted pounds. Obviously I was still able to pull of the uniform of a Hooters Girl. I just felt heavy. I felt off. I felt lazy. In short I didn’t feel like me anymore. And while I looked fine to everyone else, that just wasn’t good enough for me.

Finally, I decided to really do something about it. I stopped saying “I’ll start on Monday” and just effing started. And let me tell you, at first it totally sucked. It wasn’t so much the more consistent and focused working out, but rather the showing up to Hooters and avoiding everything delicious and eating salad after salad after salad. That was torture.

But I stuck with it as much as I wanted to order a greasy Strip Cheese sandwich drenched in extra hot sauce. I started bring my own food to work to avoid temptation. I added a morning bootcamp to my cardio routine and introduced more lifting. I started feeling like me. I wasn’t as tired – even when waking up at six to hit the gym. I felt happier. I just felt good.

Please note the size of that bitty bikini in relation to my heels.

And then I went totally insane and decided to sign up for a bikini fitness competition. I even went out and purchased a miniscule, shiny bikini and five-inch clear heels (the normal uniform of a fitness competitor); I made the decision and I committed myself. That decision has taken my already healthy eating lifestyle to regimented, four-hour meals of specific amounts of protein and starchy carbs. I am one of those crazy people with both a bathroom scale and a kitchen scale; I even use them both daily. I drink protein shakes. I no longer drown my sorrows nor celebrate my happiness in the bottoms of margaritas. I go the gym twice a day even when I think I don’t have the time. I am bastion of fitness. Don’t worry I scare myself too.

But here I sit today, just under two months out from my competition, toned, healthy and nearly twenty pounds lighter than I was in January. Did I think I even had twenty pounds to lose? Hell no. But I did and it feels amazing. My abs say hello.

I’ll be so ready for that shiny, little bikini.

What's in a Name?

2011-08-08T22:38:00.001-06:00

Thanks for backing me up, Ting Tings. CREDIT.

One of the reasons I go by Sauce is because my actual name isn’t exactly common. In fact, when I introduce myself to tables it often becomes pretty apparent that my name sort of scares the shit out of people because it catches them so off guard. Seriously, it does. Quickly following my name with “Sauce” is somewhat of a necessity. Otherwise people’s heads might spin off or something and that would make me a murderer. I’m not into that.

Recently I introduced myself as normal to a guest at the bar and rather than the usual response of “your name is what?” or “how did you make that shit up?” I was met by, “well you’re pronouncing that VERY wrong.”

Wait, what? You say I’m pronouncing my own effing name wrong? Yes, that is certainly what the middle-aged man across the bar from me was asserting. And he was asserting it quite strongly.

“I know a girl with that name and it might be spelled that way, but that is most certainly NOT how you say it.”

He then went on to “correctly” pronounce my name full of all sorts of letters that have absolutely no place amidst or connection to the actual letters in my name. This guy was pulling shit from all over the alphabet and jamming it all in my name however he saw he fit. For the record, I’ve heard my name pronounced lots of ways, but this was certainly not even close to one of them.

So I attempted to correct him. He would have absolutely none of it.

Let me get this straight. You’re trying to tell me that for twenty-six years I’ve been saying my name totally incorrectly? You’re also telling me that my father – who is still a citizen of the country of origin of my name – has also been pronouncing my name incorrectly. This leads you to basically be telling me that a whole freaking country has been pronouncing my name incorrectly for hundreds of years and not giving two craps about it. Clearly something is not adding up here.

For the record, he never believed that I was pronouncing my name correctly. It was clearly a lost cause.

If you’re reading this, dude. It just might be possible that your friend’s parents were the ones who choice an odd spelling of a different name. I’m not saying they are wrong, I’m just saying I’m definitely not wrong. I know my shit. And believe it or not I know my name too. It’s a gift.

Ode to Ariel

2011-08-07T23:04:00.001-06:00

Ariel in cake! Loving created by our
amazing manager.

This has been a sad weekend in the life of Sauce. After three wonderful years of friendship, Ariel will be moving back home to Portland tomorrow. That’s the thing about living in a college town – nothing is ever permanent. Friends come and go. They graduate. They transfer. They dropout. And while it’s happened to me before, I’ve never felt as close to anyone as Ariel.

It’s just that from the beginning Ariel seemed to get me in a way that no one really had before. She understood and shared my slightly girly, totally goofy, marginally awkward and absolutely strange personality. She got that I loved watching musicals as much as I loved going out. She just fit my life and I seemed to fit hers.

As we’ve spent the last few days together just hanging out and enjoying her time before moving home, I started to think about how we made the move from coworkers to friends. Try as I may, the specifics eluded me. The thing about our friendship is that it’s of the type that you can’t remember ever being without it. It just feels like it’s always been. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember. Or more probably we’ve just had so many fun, random, amazing times that they all blend together. Either way I don’t really mind.

While I know that distance won’t really matter, I can already feel the change at Hooters. Weekends were ruled by the Ariel/Sauce duo. We had random photo shoots and stood on the bar. We sang show tunes. We played slug bug with a fervent passion that no else shared. No matter what we had a good time and it was nearly always infectious. People came in just to sit at the bar and laugh. It made me love my job more than I already did.

Now things are different. Who else knows all the words to “Iowa” from The Music Man? Who else will wander aimlessly around Target with me spending our just made tips on Starbucks and random shit we don’t need? Who else will make snow angles with me in -5 degree blizzards? Who else will speak to me in German? Who else will run around in ridiculous orange shorts, be totally crazy and not give a damn about what anyone else thinks?

I’ll miss you, Ariel. To say Hooters will be entirely different without you is a colossal understatement. Here’s to: virgin Bloody Mary’s, chicken cutlets, hula hoops, soccer balls, Deutsch, Shania Twain, squirrel pounds, coffee runs, yodeling, coloring, D-fine, texting, toast, hangovers, cameras, slashed tires, bus tubs, birthday songs, junior bacon cheeseburgers, nail polish, beach houses, World Cup, Ronnie Dunn, double bras, bad decisions and a million other little things that make absolutely no sense to anyone but us.

Thanks for making my life so totally, absolutely perfect. Catch you on the flipside.

People of Hooters

2011-08-07T23:00:00.001-06:00

So this happened at work today. A group of bikers on their way to Sturgis stopped in and amongst them was a rather large woman in athletic shorts and a bikini top accompanied by a man who showed off at least three and a half inches of ass-crack. It was just begging to be placed on the Internet after some covert cellphone photography. You're welcome for the nightmares.

Feel free to imagine the view from the front.

It might be time to install a "No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service" sign.

Ear Splitting Sharpies

2011-08-02T08:58:00.001-06:00

If you’re been to a Hooters in the last – oh – forever, you’re probably familiar with the practice of your Hooters Girl writing her name on a napkin as she’s introducing herself to your table. Not only is this congruent with the informal, personal feel of Hooters, but it also is a sign to us as servers that the table has been taken care of; it’s a perfectly simple solution.

Yesterday, I was introducing myself as normal and uncapped my Sharpie to jot down my name. It was business as usual. No sooner had I put marker to napkin was I suddenly being told to stop. Yes, a customer was asking me to stop writing my name down. Actually, to be more accurate I was being yelled at.

Well that explains it. CREDIT.

“OH MY GOD, DO NOT DO THAT,” he bellowed as he swiftly covered his ears. This was not a normal reaction. It stopped me cold. There I was staring at a middle-aged man forcibly covered his ears. Surprised doesn’t begin to cover it.

And that’s about the way we stood for a good thirty seconds, because he also had his eyes closed. There he was doing the “hear no evil, see no evil” as I awkwardly stood there unsure what the eff to do about it. I was beyond confused.

“Are you done doing that yet?”

I had been done for nearly a minute with half my name scrawled across the napkin as he cautiously opened his eyes. As he realized I’d stopped long before, I did the only thing I could think of and asked what he’d care to drink as if I hadn’t gotten screamed at for writing my name. While I took the order I casually grabbed the napkin and crumpled it in my hands hoping that hiding the evidence might lessen my embarrassment. I was just going to pretend it never happened.

As I poured his beer, my manager came over to ask what happened to cause such uproar. It was pretty obvious by her blank reaction that the whole thing really was as ridiculous as it sounded. We both agreed I was probably one of the few people in the world who have been screamed at for writing on a napkin. I call that talent.

Beer and food were dropped off and consumed, and while the rest of the meal went fine, I was marginally relieved to cash the gentleman out. It was as I was doing so that he took the time to casually apologize and rattle of some excuse about the sound reminding him of sand. Yes, sand.

Naturally this led me to test the combination of Sharpie and napkin and my findings produced little to no noise that you could hear across a table – and most certainly no sound that had anything to do with sand. Don’t worry; I was as confused as you probably are.

Hey, at least he apologized!

Karma is a Pretty Awesome Tipper

2011-08-01T20:55:00.001-06:00

I am a blogger of the most naughty type. The type of blogger that leaves her poor readers with no new posts and no explanation for her absence. I could now go in to countless excuses including but not limited to having a summer class and still working full time, spending what little free time I might have training like mad for a fitness competition and being utterly lazy. While all of that would be true, only the last one would really matter. But lets just not get into that and jump right in to August. I’ll save the excuses for my trainer when I invariably fudge up my diet with one margarita or ten. Preferably ten of course.

Please and thank you!

Once upon a time, I adopted a table as I clocked-on for the night shift. I say adopt because a day-shifter cashed them out and just up and left without filling anyone in on if the table was totally finished or not. Being a good little Hooters Girl, I decided to check on the gentleman and their four glaringly empty pints. This is Montana, friends, no one says no to more beer. They ordered a round.

So I quenched their thirst and they cashed out. But they weren’t done. Even after cashing them out I easily sold them a round two and then a round three. Each time they cashed out – believing they were done – and several would argue over who would pay the current bill. All that stubborn instance resulted in bills of various denominations being spread about the table. It was like a rap video only minus the video hos and thinly veiled drug references.

After the third round, it was finally decided that the time had come to move on. While a few of the random bills were placed in open wallets, many stayed on the table. It was instantly apparent to me that some of them had simply forgotten about the money they’d attempted to pay with.

As they stood by the door before heading out, I scooped up the well over $30 and made my way over to the group.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, but I think some of you might have left a little more than you intended.”

“You know,” said one of the guys looking at the cash fanned out in my hands, “It looks like you’re right, but I think because you’re so honest we’ll just let you keep it. It’s nice to see that people like you really exist in the world these days.”

The others nodded in agreement as I stood with the bills in my outstretched hands. Then they all said thank you and made their way out even as I insisted it wasn’t my money to have. It was certainly not an everyday sort of occurrence.

Attention to all you nonbelievers, karma does exist. And she is totally bitchin’.

I Apparently Like to Steal Things

2011-07-18T23:01:00.001-06:00

Someone from Nevada thinks I’m a hardened criminal. The type of criminal that isn’t above stealing things and ruining lives. In fact, they think I’m so much of a criminal that they actually called my work to ask about my comings and goings. Watch out, I’m on the effing loose and I’m doing naughty things.

For the first Saturday in ages – besides my time in Miami – I actually didn’t have to work. This was due to the fact that I was attending one of those awesome types of bachelorette parties that lasts all day and all night. Yes, I was drunk for a lot of it and yes I also asked for Sunday off so I could have a ridiculous hangover and not feel even the least bit guilty. I call that planning ahead.

So I had a weekend of totally awesome fun that was much needed and entirely appreciated. After allowing myself plenty of sleeping-in time, I headed to Hooters to check my schedule and relish in having to not wear nylons. What happened next was a real treat.

Manager: “So I got the strangest call this morning.”

Because I totally look like that, John Smith. CREDIT.

This opening was followed by my manager telling me that a customer, I had apparently served on Friday, called that morning regarding some strange activity on his credit card. Apparently, he had all sorts of weird charges on his card and he thought that I had stolen his card number and caused each and every one of them. The best part is that most of them occurred far from Montana. In fact the majority were overseas. Yes, this man actually asked my manager if I was currently out of the country.

Because it makes fucking sense that I would work on a Friday, steal your personal information and leave the country the next day to totally destroy your credit score.

But of course it’s the only way it could be possible because the only place in the entire state of Montana that this card was used was at Hooters Missoula. And I was the Hooters Girl. Honestly, do you expect this Hooters Girl to believe that the ONLY place you used a credit card in the fourth largest state in this great United States of America was my Hooters? Sure thing, pal.

Naturally, he wouldn’t believe my manager that I am an honest person and said he’d be handling this matter legally since she wouldn’t do anything. Newsflash, dude, I spent my Saturday afternoon sipping sangria in my bikini while maintaining my killer tan. And for the record that happened in Missoula – Not Bora Bora or wherever.

For the sake of having a brain though, lets take a step back and think about this. Even if you did only use your card at my Hooters, it doesn’t mean that your information was stolen there. Perhaps it happened somewhere like – I don’t know – the damn Internet. Maybe once upon a time you bought some inappropriate thing from a less than credible site. Is it possible that something like that could have compromised your information? I’d say it’s a heck of a lot more probably than a Hooters Girl in Missoula, Montana stealing it and taking a whirlwind world tour before she has to be in class Monday morning. But maybe that’s just me.

I look forward to hearing from the authorities and telling them an alibi that is full of alcohol, party games and penis-shaped straws. Or – most likely – I look forward to not hearing from anyone because your detective work is totally unreliable and utterly laughable. Either way, bring it on!

All-You-Can-Eat, Cowboys and Aliens

2011-07-14T09:18:00.002-06:00

Tuesday nights are pretty much the one weeknight that is lovingly hated at Hooters. I say lovingly because there is the possibility of making decent money for a weeknight, but I say hated because it’s all-you-can-eat wings. Every Tuesday beginning at 6:00 p.m. you can shove as many wings down your throat as you can handle for the low price of $12.99. Basically, if you’re going to order more than ten – all-you-can-eat are served ten a time – you’re getting a deal. Everyone of course orders them.

Given that it’s a really great deal, rivaled only by 50¢ wings on Thursdays, Tuesdays can be busy. While that’s nice, what’s not so nice is that people run your ass off more than usual and it’s nowhere near reflected in the bill or your tip. Basically you could order 100 wings – it’s been done – and run my ass off the whole entire time and still pay $12.99. Rather than spending over $60 in wings, you spend nothing and get to tip me on nothing (since you’re basing your 20% on the bill amount and not the food value). But while your price may change, I’m still doing the work of $60 in wings. So most of the time I’m getting royally screwed.

That’s the problem with all-you-can-eat, I run around like mad reordering plate upon plate of wings and no one seems to notice. $12.99 sinks into customers’ minds and wings settle into the stomach and there just doesn’t seem to be room for the recognition that I’m working really hard to make sure that your next plate of Daytona wings arrives just as your finishing your last. And let me tell you, that timing is a feet in itself. I’d just love someone to notice once in awhile.

This Tuesday was pretty typical. It was fairly busy and 90% of my customers were slamming wings like nobody’s business. My sales were high and my tips were decent. Around 9:30 things began to slow down and by 10:00 we had a fairly slow restaurant. It seemed a comfortable way to end the night with a few stragglers getting in a meal before we closed at 11:00.

About 10:45 two guys came in and ordered a few sandwiches and two double Jack and Cokes. I figured they would end my night. I was of course wrong.

“We have like fifteen people coming. They have a corporate card.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than I saw them charge the door at 10:55. Rushing to hold it open, I shared a knowing look with the cooks. The kitchen had already closed. Of course this was no matter to the group. They wanted to drink. I could have said no, but I’m not good at that. I let them in and ordered their first round.

Now when you have fifteen people ordering double Grey Goose and double Kettle One and double any alcohol they can think of that shit is going to add up quick; after only one round the bill was over $100. I decided to stick around at least for a bit – the autograt would be at least $15.

So I served the drinks and being the only Hooters Girl left I hangout and share the usual pleasantries.

Sauce: “So where are you from?”

Black-Rimmed Glasses Hipster Dude: “Oh, we’re all from L.A.”

Young, hipsters from L.A. with a corporate card in Missoula, Montana? I was intrigued.

Sauce: “So what brings you guys up here?”

Black-Rimmed Glasses Hipster Dude: “Well are you familiar with a movie coming out called Cowboys and Aliens?”

Sauce: “Of course!”

Black-Rimmed Glasses Hipster Dude: “We’re having a big press junket at a resort outside of town. We’re sort of the facilitators and handlers. We basically put it together and make sure it happens like it’s supposed to with all the stars.”

Oh my Han Solo. These people were involved with the one and only Harrison Ford. And Daniel Craig. And Olivia Wilde. And other people in that movie I don’t give a shit about. These were people that knew people. I had a feeling letting them stay was a good decision.

After a few more drinks and another couple hours, the entourage was slowing down. Everyone else besides the manager and I had left hours ago. Essentially the group had an impromptu private party at Hooters. They seemed to love every minute.

I closed the $280 tab and as an Am Ex was turned over to pay the balance it was remarked upon how affordable it was to drink in Montana. I didn’t tell them that locally people think our prices are high. I also didn’t add the autograt. The slip was signed quickly and without thought; just like that were on their way – with an open-ended promise to maybe see me on Thursday. They’d left me $90 without so much as giving it a second thought. They nearly doubled my tips for the night.

Sometimes going the extra mile and doing more than what’s expected really can pay off. After all I could have easily told them they we were closed and sent them on their way. But I didn’t. I did my job and met some really cool people. And got paid really well for it. Worth the three extra hours at work? Hells to the yes.

Evolution of Bathroom Graffiti

2011-07-13T12:07:00.000-06:00

Among the many things in life that I think are incredibly stupid, scrawling words on the walls of bathroom stalls has to be near the top. It just seems like an incredible waste of time. I mean, I realize that given the situation you might find yourself in the bathroom for a somewhat lengthy amount of time, but it would never occur to me to use all that excess to write random shit all over someone else's property. Lets get real here, way back in the day my mom told me that writing on walls was inappropriate and after what I imagine was several incidents involving brightly colored crayons, egg shell white walls, timeouts, and no dessert I got the idea. Apparently some people missed out on that lesson.

Long ago at Hooters someone decided to leave their mark on one of our bathroom stalls. Now to paint a mental picture, our stalls have tiled walls and rather heavy wooden doors. These aren't metal walled cans, these are some nice bathrooms. This however didn't stop one person from grabbing a pen and stating the obvious.

Really? You're going to spend all that effort leaning forward while you drop a deuce to write Hooters? Congratulations, you have the supreme mental skill to point out where you are. Now originally this gem was not so carefully written in pen; thanks to whoever had the time to make sure we could read it by highlighting it in beautiful blue Sharpie. We really needed that.

Then a few months later, this showed up. Notice that the blue highlighter got to both.

Congratulations on your ability to not rhyme - I assume that's what you were going for. I also appreciate your potty humor - pun obviously intended - in it's glorious lack of any real comedy. I bet your friends only pretend to laugh at your jokes.

And then, more recently, someone decided to just go ahead and point out how lame these people are.

Of course by adding "FUCK OFF," you're really no better than the original defacers. You're making a point about how dumb something is by doing it that something dumb. That's some messed up, circular logic my friend. Why don't you keep that pen in your pocket next time.

So next time you stop into Hooters Missoula be sure to check out the growing dialogue in the women's second stall. I've got my fingers crossed for a graphic novel or an epic poem.

Receipt Art: July 10, 2011

2011-07-11T16:02:00.000-06:00

Even owls need fabulous vacays that involve extra large, extra cold, extra alcoholic drinks now and again.

That is one seriously relaxed owl there. Please note his incredible casual posture and "I'm cool as an effing cucumber" demeanor. I'm pretty much in love with the way he is reclining back on his little wing. What a badass.

If you're a true receipt art aficionado, you may have noted the return of the crab there on the bottom. Yup, he's shown up on a receipt before. Forgive me for recycling now and again.

Inspiration and Pageant Girls

2011-07-08T19:05:00.002-06:00

If you’ve been paying attention, Miami happened. If you’ve been paying really good attention you might recall that Miami happening made me nervous. It wasn’t the “job” of it that scared me, but rather the idea of living up to 100 of the most beautiful women in the world. Trust me, that is some scary, intimidating shit. Luckily I quickly realized that – besides my rather small, totally real chest – I actually fit in pretty well body-wise. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I fit into that group of thin girls that actually look active. Trust me, there is a difference between “I’m nineteen and I’m just skinny” and “I work out daily and eat rabbit food and protein.” Mostly this difference is seen on the backside. And let me tell you, my butt is tight.

That part felt good. I’d been working really hard and had achieved a body I was proud of; feeling like I fit in was reaffirming. But the body was only the beginning. I also feared cattiness. Put 100 gorgeous women together all vying for the same prestigious crown and drama seems inevitable. I was ready for bitches.

And then I didn’t meet any. Surprisingly, every girl I met seemed legitimately nice (there was of course one exception). It was refreshing to meet woman that were not only beautiful, but genuine as well. There are enough pretty bitches in the world. It was nice to see 99 women who had the pretty part down but left the bitch at home.

The gorgeous Crystal Cunningham.

Then I got to meet girls like Crystal Cunningham. I met Crystal from Nashville on my first morning at the pageant. Sitting in the makeup room unsure who I should talk to first and even more unsure how to approach the women getting primped around me, Crystal was the first person I got up the nerve to talk to.

“So how are you feeling about the contest?” I asked after introducing myself and explaining what I was doing.

“Honestly for me it’s the biggest blessing in the world.”

I was taken back by this answer. I had expected something typical. Something about nerves or confidence or excitement. Crystal felt blessed.

And then Crystal’s story came pouring out. The daughter of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed preacher and a first generation Korean, Crystal had been in an terrible car accident in 2007. Crystal, a dedicated dancer, had been traveling a road she thought she knew well. She thought nothing of looking away for a moment to grab something. And that’s about all she clearly remembers. Her car left the road and she ended up slamming into a tree.

There was a time immediately following the accident when Crystal was nearly pronounced dead. While that’s staggering, Crystal also faced the probability of losing her foot – and her ability to dance as well as walk. As she was telling me this, I noted the long scar on her ankle. I had thought it a dancer’s surgery, but this was so much more. Doctors were ready to amputate; yet here was Crystal before me. Three short years later Crystal was not only walking, she was a Miss Hooters International contestant and a dancer for the Nashville Predators. Here was a woman that defined beating the odds.

The last thing I expected when I landed in Miami was to be inspired. But Crystal did that. It wasn’t just her story, but her appreciation for life that touched me. Crystal came from rock bottom and amazingly seemed to appreciate every moment of it. To say it was uplifting would be a vast understatement.

By the end of the week, Crystal had made her way to the Top Ten of the Miss Hooters International Pageant. I cheered loudly as she came forward from the crowd because I knew how much she probably appreciated that moment purely for the fact that she got to experience it. She deserved to be there as much for her perseverance as for her remarkable beauty.

And that’s yet another thing I love about Hooters. Hooters Girls are hardly ever what they seem – a fact that Crystal proves impeccably. What is that? 7,893,456 reasons why I love Hooters?

Tipping and To Go

2011-07-06T16:47:00.001-06:00

A Hooters Girl will not come with your to go order.

For all you people who like to order food to go from your favorite dine in restaurants, doing so is not an excuse to avoid tipping. Yes, believe it or not you should tip the waitress/bartender/hostess who gets you all that yummy food no matter where you choose to eat it. Now before you get all “well you’re a server of course you want to take my effing money at every possible opportunity” let me tell you why you should be tipping on all that to go food.

For starters, what makes you think no work is involved with a to go order? Like always I take the order and deliver the order to you. I also make sure to include anything and everything you might need to enjoy all that boxed-up, fried goodness. I get wet naps and sodas and cutlery and menus and condiments and even a handy reminder on how best to heat all that food up again in case traffic slows you down and it goes all cold. Then I bag it all up and make sure it’s ready to go for you. I collect your money and bring you change. I even wish you a great day as you head out the door. All of that so I can look down and see that you didn’t tip me a dime.

Now I will state that I certainly am not expecting you to tip as much as if you were dinning in. Would I like you to tip 20% on your pick-up order? Hells to the yes I would, but that’s hardly realistic. What I would like is a nice 10% tip that reflects the fact that I am still giving you a valuable service. Because lets face it, me giving you trays of fried food to stuff in your face in the comfort of your own home is a damn valuable service if you ask me.

And besides, I still have to tip out on your food whether it’s to go or not. For those of you unfamiliar with the process of “tipping out,” this is basically the restaurant’s way of compensating other employees who are also vital to your dinning experience. These include cooks, bartenders, hostesses, dishwashers and the like. And whether you realize it or not, all these people are generally somewhat involved in your to go order. And they get their percentage whether you tip or not. That’s right, you don’t tip and I pay tip out from my own pocket. Essentially, I get the honor of paying for part of your experience. Not cool by me.

Then finally there are the people who do what table 81 did last Friday. They come in and order their meal to go, but get drinks and refills and just generally take up my table while they wait for their food. Besides the fact that they take their food home, everything else is exactly like they are eating in the restaurant like anybody else. And then they don’t tip. Now that is pretty much an ideal way to look like a cheap bastard. Congratulations on achieving a new level of awful and ending up on the Internet.

So please tip your server SOMETHING when you order to go food. I promise it will make his or her day. And make you look quite considerate. Now lets hold hands and sing campfire songs!

I Love My Regulars

2011-07-05T12:29:00.001-06:00

My Regulars are way cooler than these guys. CREDIT.
Side note: why is that man pouring his own beer?
Naughty Hooters Girl!

One of the many things I love about my job are the many regulars I get to deal with on a daily basis. There is almost nothing better than seeing one of those familiar faces walk through the door and plop down in their favorite stool at your bar. You know what they drink, their favorite wing sauce, that their dog is at the vet and that their sister is expecting. And they in turn know about you. With that all that familiarity it doesn’t take long before regulars are considered friends and not people who just happen to frequent the restaurant more often than most.

Now I don’t think this is a Hooters specific phenomenon, what I do think is that the conversational and relaxed atmosphere promoted at Hooters lends itself to creating a regular crowd. It of course doesn’t mean the regulars have to be totally awesome. Sucky regulars exist too. That’s just luck of the draw. And trust me, at my Hooters we’re very lucky.

We have the fun couple from out of town that adores mango margaritas. The trivia fanatics haven’t missed trivia night in well over nine months. There’s the preteen daughter who follows us as a “Hooters Girl in training” as her mom happily talks your ear off. There are the Pepsi distributors who kindly bring us cases of Rockstar lemonades – the favorite beverage of the Hooters Girls. We have candy bringers, beer drinkers, families and bikers who all come us see us regularly.

Then there are people like Talladega. Though we may not have started off on the right foot, Talladega is probably my favorite regular. He’s the guy that I hope and pray walks through the door when I’m having a shitty day. One glance his way while helping a particular annoying customer will result in a reassuring smile that says, “I know that dude is being a total asshat.” And that I love and appreciate.

Before Miami, I was faced with daunting task of moving. It’s no secret that – even if it’s just across town – moving is a huge pain in the ass. It’s even more of a pain in the ass when you own a’97 Subaru Legacy. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining about my car, it’s just not built for heavy moving. Believe it or not you can’t fit a bed or a couch in a Subaru. Who knew?

Naturally, at work I was relaying my moving woes one day at the bar when without hesitation Talladega offered not only his truck but also his services as a mover. Before I knew it he was singlehandedly hoisting my couch above his head so Dreamy could pull it over the railing into the new apartment. All of that with a bad back that he’d recently aggravated. I yelled at him to be careful the whole time. I doubt he was really listening.

The help was much appreciated and unexpected. Yes, Talladega and I are friends, but how often do you think restaurant patrons help their servers move? I have a feeling it’s not too common. And that was what impressed me. And continued to impress me when but a week later Ariel fell into an awful situation.

One morning, ready to head to work, Ariel found that her Jeep wouldn’t move. Well it moved, but not very well. Something wasn’t right and upon inspection she found that three of her tires had been slashed overnight. Let me digress for a moment to interject that men can be effing crazy. And creepy. And stalkerish. Anyhooters, it was apparent Ariel wouldn’t be getting to work anytime soon on that Sunday morning.

Working her bar shift as she tried to remedy her most unfortunate situation, I relayed Ariel’s story to Talladega and he immediately began making calls. Talladega is a car man that knows people. He was going to figure it out – awkward tire size and all.

Once again, I was warmed by Talladega’s generosity and noted it to another bar Bud Light drinking regular a bit later. This was followed by, “Well I have a spare set of Jeep tires from that model year. She can have them and the rims too.”

“Well I’ll help you put them on,” added Talladega.

I went from warmed to utterly flabbergasted. A regular had just offered Ariel a free set of tires with free installation courtesy of himself and Talladega. Now that doesn’t happen everyday.

Half an hour later Ariel’s Jeep was sitting on a brand new set of non-slashed tires. I thought she might cry as she hugged them both and thanked them profusely. They had saved her time, energy and hundreds of dollars and expected nothing in return (they got cards, cupcakes and beer anyway).

This is why I love my regulars. Not because I make lots of money off them or because they’re good connections, but because they are generally good people. They are the type of people who brighten your day not because they want something, but because it’s what they do. They are the type of people that make you feel that there’s hope for the world. It’s just nice to feel that sometimes.

Here’s to all my Hooters regulars. One day I hope to repay you. For now, thank you.

Happy Fourth of July to All You Regular People

2011-07-04T11:46:00.000-06:00

Come fill your face with fried shit and celebrate being independent!

It's the Fourth of July and while for most people that means hot dogs and boats and fireworks and alcohol and other non-work related things, for those of us in the food service industry it most likely means business as usual. Yes, Hooters is open today and I will be bartending 4:30 to close this evening.

For the record the Fourth of July has historically been the slowest day at Hooters. I'm talking losing money because you're paying your employees more than you're taking in slow. But of course we're still open bleeding money like it's no big deal.

All that being said, I really don't mind that I'm working the Fourth. After the total fiasco that was the Fourth of July last year I'm actually looking forward to the mundane safety of the bar. Wasted people don't generally follow you around and threaten to beat you up for no good reason while you work bar. You also don't have to sleep in your car in a parking lot being prowled by a brown bear. I'll take working the bar any day.

Please note how I just spent the last paragraph talking myself out of how much I'd be enjoying the gorgeous weather from the bow of a boat right now. Consider that dedication, Hooters.

Happy Fourth of July!

Miami in Pictures

2011-07-03T20:18:00.001-06:00

Because I'm reminiscing, a few pictures from my adventure in Miami.

The absolutely ugly view from my balcony. Of course by ugly I mean gorgeous.

The other view from my balcony. It's obvious I must be big time because I was given double the views. Regular people only get one.

Ladies on a boat. They are in bikinis in case you didn't notice.

This is where people swim. And drink overpriced booze. On that note, I miss Miami Vice - the drink, not the show.

Downtown Miami at night. I thought the clouds were beautimus.

Please note the large hotel behind the butt on the left.

This is a kitty contemplating life on the boardwalk.

Being a huge costume loser, this was my favorite part of the contest. Please note Lindsey Way, Miss Hooters International 2011, is on the right.

More bikinis. It was a general theme of the week.

Winning is fun.

P.S. If you have a confetti cannon I'm going to need to borrow it for life.

Back To Hooting

2011-07-03T19:11:00.000-06:00

After nine fabulous days in Miami I have returned to my life as a Hooters Girl. I've had five shifts since I returned late Monday night. Add my work schedule to a summer class and a new apartment that still needs organizing and the beaches of Miami seem much more than a week behind me. That seems like another life.

And really it is, I've been to the other side of Hooters and I want in. While I love my orange shorts - while hating the nylons - I enjoyed the business end of things as I experienced it in Miami. Obviously being in Miami didn't hurt, but it felt good to play such an integral role in pageant week. It's not that being a Hooters Girl isn't important, it's that spreading what a Hooters Girl is so widely feels really important. After all, exposing the true nature of Hooters Girls was the whole point of this blog in the first place; being at the pageant allowed me to do that on a much larger scale. And that I loved.

I love my job and I love sharing it on this blog. I'm glad that Hooters gave me the opportunity to share with an even larger audience. And maybe one day I can do that full-time. But for now I'll happily don my shorts and continue to share my experiences here.

Maybe one day you can all say, "I read her when..."

The Death of My Favorite Boots

2011-06-24T12:31:00.001-06:00

This is mine and it means I'm important.

Tonight is the Hooters vendor show as well as the Hooters Pageant Preview. From my understanding it's really a big drunkfest that disguises itself as work. These are exactly the sort of work functions I totally endorse. All jokes aside, the vendor show is a chance for anyone who sells shit to Hooters franchises and people who want to sell shit to Hooters franchises to hawk their wares. I get to spend this time hanging at the Hooters Magazine booth were it's my job to look pretty and talk about being a writing Hooters Girl. I will also spend part of the vendor show wandering around getting free things. I like free things, even if they pertain to chicken. You get extra points at the alcohol booths.

The Pageant Preview takes place after the vendor show and is everyone's first on stage look at the contestants. The cool part is that the contestants aren't just in bikinis or cocktail dresses, they're all in costumes that reflect their hometown Hooters. As a person that LOVES costumes I am really excited about this. I can't wait to see all the costumes (and of course Tweet every one of them).

Of course since I do love costumes - and have an affinity for making them - our contestant asked for my help with her outfit. I was glad to help and went to work making a rather cute fly fishing costume. Even on the short notice she gave me, I think I came up with something pretty awesome. I'm just good like that.

As part of her costume, I loaned her my very favorite Jessica Simpson boots that I adore above my entire boot wardrobe. Having planned on wearing waders which were ruined by her poor decision to spray paint them orange, I gladly let her borrow my boots. They had a sort of wader appearance with a nice two-tone brown suede. It was a great second option.

Then she dropped the bomb. During her flight her hairspray had exploded. My boots were the only major casualty. My $160 Jessica Simpson's are utterly ruined and I am totally devastated. Of course she offered to replace them, but what sort of person would I be if I made her give me the money for something that was so clearly an accident? I told her not to worry about it, but it still totally sucks.

Rest in peace, dear boots. You lived a happy, albeit short life.

Swag

2011-06-23T14:38:00.001-06:00

When you're one of the 100 lucky ladies who are selected to compete in the Miss Hooters International Pageant you get to live a pretty fabulous life for a week. You get made up all pretty and have photo shoots. You attend parties. Your sign autographs. Basically you get to be a minor celebrity for a week. And of course you get to do all of it in sunny Miami. It's a really hard life.

In addition to all of that, you also get a swag back full of Hooters goodness. I wish more than anything that I could have one of those swag bags. It's full of awesome Hooters clothes that I would give anything to get my hands on. You get a cute little wardrobe as well as two new bikinis and a brand spanking new uniform - INCLUDING shoes. If you are reading this and you are a Hooters girl you know how totally amazing that is. And it's all gloriously free.

But what I might love even more than the swag bag is the fact that it comes with a key. Yes, there is a correct way to use the things you're given during the week of the pageant and they want to make sure you get it right. So naturally they not only line out what you'll be wearing and when, they give you pictures so you don't mess it up. Even if you're mostly illiterate. I think it's totally glorious.

Observe.

There it is, the contestants' daily wardrobe perfectly outlined with both pictures and descriptions. If you mess it up with that thing you probably need to reevaluate your life. The whole thing just screams Hooters and I totally adore it. Today's white skirt day, ladies, don't effing it up.

Twitter Tweeter and Other Fabulosity

2011-06-23T10:32:00.001-06:00

So exactly what have I been doing while in Miami? Mostly I’ve been filling my phone with countless pictures of scantly clad, buxom Hooter Girls. Yes, that’s really what I’ve been doing. To be more specific and less creepalious, being named official Twitter, Facebook and general social media darling, it’s been my job to keep everything updated up to the minute. Mostly this has meant Tweeting – since we are far more deliberate with Facebook updates – everything as it happens. Basically Hooters went from Tweeting once a day at most to nearly a dozen times daily since I’ve taken over. I’ve gone from Twitter virgin to Twitter whore. But the nice kind of whore that everyone totally likes.

To be really general, I write long things and short things. While getting a tan. In addition to my work duties, achieving a sun-kissed glow has been a goal of mine. I’m from Montana. What’s the point of going to Miami if I don’t get a fabulous tan and make everyone at home jealous? So goal one, make Hooters fall utterly in love with me so I get a big girl job I love. Goal two, become a bronzed beach goddess. We can already mark goal two right on off that list.

Tonight all of the work starts to pay off, because the parties are starting. And lets be honest, everyone loves a good party. I suppose this will be a good time to solidify goal one of Hooters falling in love with me. I’ve shown them I can work; now I just have to charm them with my amazing social skills and impeccable fashion sense. Don’t worry I’m breaking out the all-important fake eyelashes for the evening. Eyelashes mean business at Hooters. That’s how seriously I’m taking this shit.

Feel free to imagine me hobnobbing by the pool this evening as I show off my class and fabulous legs. I’m in Miami, bitch (or trick if you prefer the edited version).

Towel Creep

2011-06-22T08:26:00.002-06:00

Creepers are everywhere. Especially at Hooters Pageants. Take yesterday for example, deciding to lay out for a bit and bake in the sun, a contestant and me were enjoying a pleasant conversation about the joys of natural boobs. Basically we were discussing all the ways we could make ours appear bigger. Being around countless augmented women, this is a hot topic for us few natural pageant attendees. Hooters and boob talk – it just makes sense.

We were just beginning to discuss the downfalls of the double bra when my companion decided it was time to flip. Turning over, she had just enough time to note the pot-bellied man behind us snapping a few choice cellphone shots. It was fairly obvious that he had been enjoying the view. I imagine his phone was just brimming with ass pictures of the two of us. His spank bank was probably full.

About as soon as we noticed, the man got up and walked away. This meant we didn’t have to move, which had been our plan, to avoid the creep. We flipped over and continued sunbathing as we moved on to using bronzer to highlight cleavage.

Then he came back.

“I havea make a nortice zat you havea sweatz. It ver hot zo I bring toweeel vor you gerlz.” Please note that he was foreign.

There he was letting us know that he had notice us sweating in the 90-degree heat and decided to bring us towels. Of course we already had towels. That took the whole thing to the next level of creepy. We attempted thanks while pointing to the towels we already had, but he simply continued to stand there and hold the towels at arm’s length expectantly. Finally we just took them. And decided a walk to the beach sounded really nice.

Creeeeeeeep.

P.S. Figure your shit out, Photo Uploader. I'm trying to break up this text shit here!

Welcome to Miami (Bienvenido a Miami)

2011-06-20T11:26:00.002-06:00

Please Listen to Will Smith's "Miami" while reading this post to experience it to it's full potential.

Almost time to give that crown back.

Arriving at the Miss Hooters International Swimsuit Pageant was a lot like my first day as a Hooters Girl – it scared me absolutely shitless. As my plane was taxiing to the gate, I actually had one of those “what the heck am I doing here” moments. I’d looked forward to this for so long and suddenly all I felt was nervous terror. How would I get to the hotel? Will people think I’m nice? What if they thought I’d be prettier? Is there a bathroom near the gate? Did I forget my hairbrush? Will they like me?

First off, yes, there was a bathroom near the gate and did bring my hairbrush. Then came the harder questions. The first question was answered fairly easily. After collecting my luggage – which came out on the wrong belt might I add – I noticed a group of hot chicks sitting around a middle-aged woman with a clipboard that read “Hooters Pageant Contestants” across the back. That wasn’t me. But I had no one else to ask.

“And your name is?” Did she think I was a contestant? “Yup, there you are on my list!”

I was on the list! Not only did I have a ride to the hotel, I was actually on the contestant list. Not that I was an actual contestant, but my name was on the same list as all those hotties. I felt prettier almost immediately. At least my name got to be hot.

And I got to sit and wait with all these hot girls. That makes me hot too right? I hoped I was fooling the people walking by in the baggage claim area. It was immediately apparent that I must have been fooling someone.

“So where are you from and are you ready for this?” said the blonde next to me.

This blonde thought I was a contestant! Score one for small boobed girls everywhere! But this wasn’t any blonde; this blonde was Morgan Meyer, current Hooters Girl of the Year. This was THE blonde and she thought I was a contestant. I almost didn’t want to correct her. But I did, because lying is for little boys and wolves and shit.

THE blonde.

As I was telling her the truth of my stay in Miami, Morgan admitted to knowing who I was and saying she loved my writing. So I was hot and totally awesome at pretending to be a journalist. That’s just about when I decided this whole thing wouldn’t end up too bad. I was in.

So far I’ve had an amazing time here in Miami. It’s been fabulously sunny (which coming from not-so-sunny Montana has been totally amazing) and I’ve been enjoying the gorgeous location. Basically I’ve turned into Hooters social media contact – in addition to a few other responsibilities – attending photo shoots and events and relaying everything on Facebook and Twitter. Seriously, every update on those pages this week will probably be from me. This means you should probably check them out.

But beyond working and really loving it, what I’m most surprised by is how nice everyone has been so far. Much like when I began my Hooters journey, I was nervous about the cattiness. I was worried there would be a gaggle of bitches. While I’m sure there is a bitch or two in the bunch, all the girls I’ve met so far are amazing. They’re gorgeous and nice. But then I guess that’s always been the true beauty of the Hooters Girl.

Have I mentioned I love my job? I freaking LOVE my job.

400

2011-06-18T09:58:00.001-06:00

I had intended to write this post weeks ago, but with moving and my impending departure for Miami I instead find myself typing this entry in the Minneapolis airport much later than I’d hoped. I’ve been busy and stressed and suddenly faced with a nearly five-hour layover I have the time to simply sit down, write and create some sense of connection with my thoughts. Now I can breath and look back on a successful move that included dramatically hoisting an oversized sofa over an ancient balcony and look forward to a week of work and play on the beaches of Miami. I have downtime for the first time in weeks and my mind still races with what was and what will be. But now I’ll just concentrate on the post I’ve owed you all and write what has been floating in my brain all that time. Welcome to 400.

Today marks my 400^th blog post. Originally titled “Girl and Guitar,” what started as a personal project has grown and evolved into so much more than a simple hobby. In the over two years of its existence, it has changed names and experienced redesigns, but the concept has stayed the same – simple, humorous honesty.

When I began writing all those posts ago, my goal wasn’t to gain readership or some type of anonymous online notoriety. Having recently graduated college, I was planning on furthering my education. The only problem was I didn’t quite know what that meant and what path that furthering might take. So I began writing. The idea was to keep myself mentally engaged while I weighed my options and figured out where I was going.

But I had never been very good at journaling. In fact my childhood and adolescence is intermittently chronicled in dozens of mostly empty notebooks and diaries. While I was always pretty good at beginning, I wasn’t very good at turning those beginnings into anything remotely resembling a middle or an ending. And that’s what led me to blogging. For some reason the idea that my personal musings would exist in a setting as public as the Internet seemed like it might force me to follow through and actually stick with writing. Apparently I was right.

I created my blog and I began writing with no real direction or purpose. I had no idea what I really wanted to say, so I started writing simply what came to mind. Eventually, working full time as a Hooters Girls started to understandably infiltrate my blog posts. A few posts about my job turned into a few more and before I knew it “Girl and Guitar” was more “Girl and Hooters.” And to my surprise people started reading. I had unintentionally become the blogging Hooters Girl.

Looking back at all these posts, I am amazed at the reach this blog has achieved. I hadn’t anticipated having any audience yet here I am with over 1,000 followers and hundreds of page views – or more – daily. While I’ve certainly had aids to my success – such as being Blogger’s “Blog of Note” – in the end it owes itself to dedication, drive and discipline. Traits I initially thought didn’t exist within my writing.

When I really think about everything this blog has brought to my life I am utterly amazed. I took a simple personal project and effectively created something that helped my get into graduate school, freelance write, connect with interesting people the world over and perhaps most importantly develop myself as an individual. I effectively created myself an opportunity that has changed my life in so many dramatic ways. It’s a labor of love that has paid off like I could never have imagined when I wrote that first post. In fact if told me this blog would bring me to this very spot typing in the Minneapolis Airport now I never would have believed you. Ever.

Where all of this leads me is to the importance of going above and beyond and making your own opportunities. The world doesn’t wait for people. The world instead waits for people to pick up and do things for themselves. The world is about personal challenges. Sometimes these things are simple and sometimes they’re big changes, but all of them have to start within the individual. I am a firm believer that life is what you make it. It just takes time and effort. And trust me, I’m here to boldly say all that time and effort are certainly worth it.

So thank you for sticking with me and reading my journey. I am excited to see where else my writing takes me and I hope you’ll come along for the ride. I wouldn’t be half the writer I am today if I didn’t have so many people commenting, emailing and generally supporting what I’m doing. I can honestly say I don’t think I would have lasted this long without you and for that I am thankful.

I leave you on this 400^th post with what is hopefully some small (or no so small) inspiration to go out there and do something for yourself and just see what happens. You might be very surprised at the places you could end up. The world is full of chance; hopefully you’ll take yours.

Compliments Accepted

2011-06-07T18:27:00.000-06:00

Obviously I enjoy a good tip to compliment my service. I won't sugarcoat, I like money. And in the world of food service more money usual means I'm doing a better job. But honestly, as wonderful as 20% or more is, it's nice to sometimes actually get a legitimate compliment. You know something that actually confirms that I'm doing my job and doing my job well besides the customary tip. It just makes you feel confident and good and happy.

That's why I like finding notes like this at my table. It might not happen often, but when it does I totally adore it. Not only did you appreciate my service, you appreciated it so much that you took the time to let me know. And that in turn makes me appreciate you appreciating me. That's an awful lot of appreciating going on.

I am amazed on the courtesy, the upbeat and downright friendly servers. Whoever is responsible for hiring is to be commended not to mention the great servers.

That was so flattering that I can totally forgive the awkward grammar. A note like that on the back of a receipt can really mean a lot in the middle of a busy Friday night shift. I love my job and I like to think I do it well, it's just reassuring to have confirmation. I mean it's easy for me to think I'm doing a good job. What's not always so easy is to have someone actually tell me that I do a good job. That takes some thought and effort. And it means a lot.

So next time your server goes above and beyond and/or knocks your socks off, think about taking the time to let him or her know that you appreciated it. As servers we deal with A LOT of douches - your kinds words certainly won't go unnoticed amidst all that douchebaggery. You might even make someone's day. And making days is totally awesome.

Sunday Rocked Me Like a Hurricane

2011-06-07T10:34:00.000-06:00

My Sunday was not happy or
go huggy. CREDIT.

I'd only had three tables in two hours on Sunday and the floor still hadn't been cut. Needless to say the whole thing was making me entirely frustrated. I wanted to stay all day and of course I wanted to make money - I was doing the former, but the latter was proving impossible. There is almost nothing worse than when we are slow and the manager doesn't make cuts. Usually this is because he or she is doing something that leaves them mildly ignoring the floor. In this case, our manager was completing the schedule leaving us totally overstaffed out front.

While I wanted to stay, as well as a new hire on her second day alone on the floor, the other three girls wanted desperately to go home to do whatever one does on one of the few warm, sunny days we've had. Having made less than twenty dollars I was all for each and every one of them leaving. After all it was slow as shit. I could easily handle the floor with a brand new, never served before Hooters Girl as my only backup. So I marched into the office, laid down the situation and requested the floor be cut. And it was. Life was good.

Well life was good until about ten minutes after the other three girls had gone home when everyone suddenly decided to come into Hooters in an awkward 1:30 rush. Suddenly I went from having three tables in two hours to having ten all at the same time. Of course to make things even more interesting six of the ten had five or more (the largest having ten) people in their party. Shit got real in a hurry.

There I was juggling tables like a freaking pro. I was running drinks, slinging orders, refilling drinks, greeting guests, running food, refilling more drinks and doing so in excellent time. I was on a roll. Meanwhile our poor new girl had four tables and I'm pretty sure her little head was about to explode. I helped her as much as I could - answer questions, helping her ring in food - but with so many of my own tables I pretty much had to throw her into the deep end and hope she could tread water without almost drowning.

I didn't even have the time to feel bad for her. I'd made the decision to cut and here I was getting my "I want to be busy" wish. The world seemed to be attempting to teach me a lesson, but it didn't take into account that I can multitask like a mofo. Plus all my guests were those rare, totally awesome people who actually understand when you're busy. Out of all those tables I didn't have one bitch. That, my friends, is a serving miracle.

"Sorry I had to make you guys wait a minute. We weren't really expecting this so it's just me and a server who's only on her second shift. I really appreciate you being patient with us today!"

"Oh that's total fine. We understand!"

Wait. You understand? Who are you and why are you making my busy ass life so awesome? Have I mentioned I'm head-over-heels in love with you? Yup. I love you.

Sunday I ran my ass of. But my "I'm poor as shit because I'm moving this month" back account reaped the benefits. I'd like to thank my customers for being actual human beings and exhibiting that rare trait we call compassion. You all have good karma coming your way. And if you read this blog faithfully you know I don't wish that on people very often. Lucky you.