The Outback Chronicles: The Hostess Stand

I had shoulder surgery on January 29, 2010. While the residuum was mentally euphoric, it was physically taxing. I quickly became:

1) A drug addict.
2) Constipated.
and 3) A worthless human being to society.

I somehow miraculously found it within me to keep up with my schoolwork, which gave me the upper hand when dealing with the number of absences in my classes later in the semester. But I needed money. And pronto. After applying at a slew of degrading and brainless jobs, I came across an old place of employment for one of my roommates: Outback Steakhouse.

I'm a fan of the restaurant industry. Not because of the shameless, dirty managers who get off on hiring 16-year-old blonds with an IQ of 5, and not because of the sexy, undeniably flattering outfits, but because I can manipulate innocent people into giving me free money.

How much cash I walk home with is dependent upon the intelligence level of my tables, how much twang I can incorporate in my dialogue, how much ass I can kiss and how many jokes I can crack without genuinely offending people. I'm just shy of lowering my moral standard to a point where I'd let people know that I'm a single mother who needs to make enough money for her infants as to avoid having to resort to stripping. We're all aware of the "Angel of Cloud 9"...

I'd make serious bank with the pity card.

Anyway, the Outback Chronicles are not to justify why I prefer serving food than folding clothes in order to have some kind of pre-career income. No, the Outback Chronicles are to inform the world of the slovenly servers, ridiculous banter, useless busboys and inexorable drama that occurs daily. Today, I would like to take the time to dispel the wonder that is: The Hostess Stand.

You see, because I had shoulder surgery, I was unable to do anything physical. Not to say lifting trays of hot food is a heart-racing workout, but I was incapable of doing anything pertaining to my shoulder. So, Outback management let me hostess until my shoulder was back to useful. Then I would be promoted to server.

As a hostess, you are expected to have both the IQ and the responsibility level of a 7-year-old. You keep your area clean, appear polite, and understand how to read and count. What they don't tell you in the job description, is that you're inadvertantly the Dr. Phil of the restaurant. Servers and busboys alike approach the hostess stand with this wistful look on their face that makes you wonder if someone put an "I CARE" sign on your forehead while you were dozing off.

Personal problems, shit-talking, life struggles, unwanted opinions, physical ailments... the list goes on. Once someone outside the hostesss realm leans against the stand, peers over to look at the floor chart and lets out that sigh of weariness... you know something of said characteristics is coming. At which point you can either look busy, or accidentally make eye contact. You decide your fate.

But really, you don't. Because if any employee has a spare 15 seconds, any and all of that ear-bleeding vernacular is fair game to besprinkle upon open ears. I've decided the best thing to do is nod. Any advice given will only prolong the hostess-stand confession, and give the impression that you're siding/supporting whatever and whoever approaches.

Sometimes I wish I were deaf. Maybe that will be my next table-serving scam. Everyone likes a deaf girl.

The Angel of Cloud 9.

So, I have a story.

It was the Fall semester of my sophomore year at Abilene Christian University, and I was feeling ballsy. Moreover, I was employed at Spaghetti Warehouse. Time of my life. Anyway, after work one night this boy I worked with, Quinn, asked if I would like to ever hang out. Apprehensive to commit, knowing that I never actually wanted to hang out, I said sure. As we were exchanging digits, he mentioned something going on after I got off work. Something exciting, no doubt. This is Abilene, Texas.

I was counting my $21 dollars profit after a lively night at Spag House, when I received the text message that started it all. Quinn informed me that he and a couple of his friends were hanging out that night and I was cordially invited. Omg!

As I mentioned, I was a sophomore. As I failed to mention, Quinn was a Freshman. Shut up.

At ACU in the year 2008, if you were a Freshman - you had a weekend curfew, unless you "checked out" to someone's house. Now, the little brats don't have a curfew. But that's besides the point. Quinn and his freshman buddies picked me up in his friend, Mark's truck. Mark, Quinn and the guy whom I refer to as the "group douche" planned to buy beer at the gas station on Judge Ely notorious for selling to underage drinkers. This was before my drinking time, so I was indifferent to the plan. But you can bet your ass if cops questioned me, I was already thinking up an elaborate story to tell them. Something about how these boys I didn't even know just picked me up as I was taking a nightly stroll down Judge Ely and forced beer in my hand and blankets on my body and threw me in the backseat of their truck.

I'm sure you're anticipating me revealing that we wound up at a raging party, full of college cliches and MIPs... but we wound up trespassing on a lake shore that spilled into a lake that was unswimmable. It was freezing, so the Freshman cuties brought the beer and blankets to keep warm. I would venture to say they brought me along to keep warm as well. I'll take it as a compliment.

Either Quinn is a ridiculous lightweight or he had been drinking long before they picked me up because within 15  minutes of us arriving to the poison lake his pants were around his ankles and he was peeing everywhere. Group douche was too busy inviting other Freshman girls looking for scandal that the pee shower didn't really phase him. Moreover, Mark and I had a decent chat about various things that could have easily been covered on Facebook chat in the warmth of my dorm room, but it was pleasant enough.

It got too cold for me to play pranks on pee pee head, so I asked casually when everybody would be heading back. Freshman boys + booze = lame jokes at anything the token non-slut says. After they were through making fun of me for being cold and tired, and after Quinn emptied his tiny tank one last time, we left.

We dropped Quinn off at his Texas Chainsaw Massacre home in the back woods of Abilene. Shortly thereafter, I accidentally fell asleep  on the way back because Mark got lost. Group douche would have driven but he was drunk, [poor Mark was merely a Freshman and "I'm a female". These boys were complete not only with lame ass jokes but misogynistic ones.

Every girl's dream. No wonder we got lost.

The truck stopped and I sat up anticipating to see the warm, welcoming outer penitentiary-esque shell of A.B Morris Hall... only to discover the warm, welcoming outer venereal disease-soaked shell of Cloud 9. The shittier Abilene strip club. And by "shittier" I mean both low-class and that there was shit plastered all over the walls. I even think I saw someone finger their name, number and endearing message out of one of the smearings. Anyway, my moral compass and I refused to walk into that place. GD and Mark pleaded with me, trying to convince me to go in with them by dishing out all the benefits of going like: BYOB and an entry fee of $10. Jackasses.

I caved. Only because I didn't want to be left out in the cold, in an almost stranger's truck, in the parking lot of a strip club, at 2 in the morning. We walked in, and I'm sure you can imagine what my virgin teenage eyes saw: scantily clad, overweight, too old and too young women gyrating and pulsating on a metal pole stricken with STDs centered on a  7x7 wooden stage, adorned with strategically placed mirrors.

After I paid my dues, and declined a job offer, I sat with my knees to my chin on a couch probably soaked in jizz and Natty Light, and stared at the ground. If ever I looked up to take a breath there were endless amounts of vagina attacking my line of sight. Mark and Douche looked awkward, paranoid and pleased. Awkward, because they are prepubescents chillaxin' in a janky strip club with a girl they just met, paranoid because I'm fairly certain an undercover cop was giving them the stink eye from across the room and pleased because they are prepubescents chillaxin' in a janky strip club with a girl they just met.

It was the longest hour of my life.

But, I think God was trying to tell me something. He sent me an Angel. She was a blond, seemingly petite 20 year old who dropped out of Cisco Junior College to strip full time. Angel was wearing a letter jacket, bra and thong with giant ass shoes. I gained valuable knowledge whilst talking with Angel. If I want to hide my money from the IRS, robbers, my parents, or my roommates all I have to do is buy some stripper shoes. They're hollow and completely useful. They have a movable slat that comes in the sole of the shoe that lets you put money inside of it. That way you don't have to keep it in your pants. Or lack thereof.

After declining yet another job offer, learning about the usability of 6 inch platforms and when strippers can touch a customer, where they can do it and how much it would cost, we left.

I got back to Morris and immediately took a shower. Afterwards, I put on my high heels, my bikini and popped in "Pretty Woman".

Mom, Dancing, and My Date With Hortence.

I love my mother.

She always subtly finds ways to give me life lessons, after I've learned my lesson. Not really in an "I told you so" kind of way, but more in a "maybe next time you won't feel so stupid if you do this [insert better way of acting than I did]".  They're endearing. Lately, and by "lately" I mean "since I got to college", she's been concerned for my love life. She usually finds a way to subtly, as usual, encourage me to go on dates, be dating, be loving, or even be lusting after someone of the male persuasion. See, Lorie Collins was a hippie back the day. Colorado cabins, the earth between her toes, love everyone, eat cans of Cambell's soup every day, never shower kind of hippie.

My recent encounter with her she took it upon herself to say, "Sadie, sometimes you just need to go dancing". Katie was with me and she took it literally. Then proceeded to laugh. Reason being, if I ever go "out" you can bet that I won't be the one on the dance floor. Rather, I'm playing pool. Or mingling. Or making frequent trips to the bathroom to pass the time until the song is over and my friends reconvene. So for my mother to advise that I "go dancing" is humorous to anyone who knows me.

But I took it metaphorically. So, it's my senior year. What do I have to lose? I decided to start dipping my toes in the wide world of "dancing". For those of you not catching my flow, I've taken it upon myself to go on any dates that are being thrown my way. Unless I feel immoral by going or like I'll be date raped by the end of the night. Forget it.

I'll just touch on one particular date that I felt like should be on MTV. Long story semi-short: this boy, we'll call him Hortence, found me on Facebook a bit ago. Hortence and I, one late evening, began chatting about some status update that he had that I was amused by. By the end of the conversation, Hortence suggested that we hang out and he gave me his digits. Remembering my mother, I accepted and reciprocated.  Unfortunately for Hortence, midterms were the week he asked to hang out and we had games in Oklahoma. So the date would have to wait. Upon my return, I told him I'd meet up with him to play some pool after my night class. 10pm rolls around on that Tuesday and I find myself waiting in the parking lot for Hortence, I'm early (which is a first), but patient. I don't want to ask him if he's there yet, nor do I want to be "that girl" that waits at a bar for someone, so I just people watch. A few couples walk in, some creepy solos who are apparently drunk walk in, and then it happens... "He" walks in.

The physical examination goes as follows: black dress shoes, gray skinny jeans that are oddly loose around the ass-al region, black dress belt, powder blue striped button-down (no undershirt), and obviously straightened hair. No way was this the same guy that I saw on Facebook. I verified his cuteness with Katie and Erin and we agreed that he was worth the random blind date. But this was absolutely  not the same person. "You've got to be joking...", I thought as I walked in the pool hall.

I opened the door and the look on his face was almost as if he was envisioning me as some angel walking through two doors that have flown open with a graceful force - tousling my hair as incandescence was beaming around my silhouette and doves were flying around behind me. Ridiculous. The first thing he says to me: "I don't know, they just handed me these... heh", referring to the rack of pool balls and two beers he just purchased. Immediately I noticed his nervous coughing tick thing.

Awkward conversation ensued and more nervous coughing ensued as we strolled over to the pool sticks. He grabbed a stick and began rolling it on the table as if he were finding the perfect stick for a big tournament he were about to enter. I just grabbed one and walked back to the table we chose.

Then it happened.

He pulls out a black satin glove as to better his pool playing game. I can't say that I hid what I was thinking very well. He disappeared to the bathroom and instructed me to break the rack. I opened my phone and texted Katie:

Me: "Hell no."
Katie: "Not cute or not cool?"
Me: "Both."
Katie: "ahahaha"

He came back and we played about 5 games of pool. He won. But who has a glove and sucks at pool? Then you're just a jackass. At least he beat me. His famous one-liner of the evening came from a conversation that we were having (nervous coughing didn't cease) about how he wound up in Abilene. He's from Pittsburgh.

Hortence: "My best friend is stationed at Dyess Air Force Base and told me I should come down and be on my own... so I did."
Me: "Did he fail to mention to you that this town was a dump?"
Hortence: "Hahaha, no he didn't tell me that. He didn't tell me that there were such pretty girls here, either. *wink*"

WINK. Oh my gosh. He winked.

After that he kept mentioning that he wanted to play the "slidey game". Which was his way of saying "shuffleboard". I told him I had homework and that I should go. It was 11:30pm and I'll never get that hour and a half back. I'm not even going to talk about the hug goodbye. Hands down the most awkward thing I've ever had to embrace. I was probably running to my car afterward, I can't remember. I do remember that I heard him cough a couple more times before he hopped into his 1989 red Nissan baby pick-up truck., though.

Moral of the story: dancing isn't for everyone. I'm sorry Mom, I tried. Kind of.

The Downfall to My Self Esteem.

Currently watching: It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia.


So You Think You Can Dance, American Idol, America's Next Top Model, The Victoria's Secret Lingerie Show, The Olympics... What do all of these things have in common?

They all manifest people with a SUPREME amount of talent thus taking a detrimental toll on my self-confidence. But, like a Lifetime movie about rape or murder that I accidentally catch from the beginning,  I just can't stop watching them. And consequently, I'm always eating Chicken Express or vast amounts of chocolate chip cookies while the show is on. Which definitely doesn't help anything.

The people featured in these shows/competitions all average to about 18 years old. If not 18, I'd guess around 20. Either way, both of those ages are younger than my current one. And what am I doing? Sitting on my couch. In Abilene, Texas. Gawking as these people twist and leap effortlessly through the air, singing the national anthem in 4 different octaves all the while displaying their ripped-cut abs that they've had since the ripe age of 4.  It just makes me wonder what my life would be like if my parents and coaches had chosen to live vicariously through me. Practicing 40 hours a week on about 170 calories, falling behind in school, spending thousands of dollars, having my only friend be my dog... all for the love of my hobby...

I just wonder.

Whatever, I'm still jealous. These people are effing talented and keeping me delightfully entertained.