Damn you, Hooters. October 4, 2007

I don’t know if I’ve told you because, you know, I’m not very vocal about these things (snicker, snort) but I’ve been working a lot lately.
 
To be specific, I’ve worked 40 hours in the past three days.
 
Can I give a little shout out to Starbucks? Because Starbucks has held my hand the entire time, guiding me through on a wing and an espresso. Starbucks, I think I’ve officially forgiven you for that time I figured out that an iced lemon loaf slice has something like 1,500 calories (also, crack). You and I? We made it through. The end is in sight and I couldn’t have done it without you. Props, Starbucks. Props, indeed.
 
The only thing (other than, you know, a shitload of coffee) getting me through yesterday’s 12 hour workday, which came on the heels of a 16 hour workday, was the knowledge that I’d be going to Hooters. Yeah, yeah, wings, boobs, friends, whatever. In my mind, Hooters = grilled cheese sandwiches. And grilled cheese sandwiches = reason for living. (Seriously, hi, have you tried their grilled cheese sandwich? And have you ever thought of maybe dipping it in the hot sauce they keep on the tables? You can thank me later. Cash is preferred but baked goods will do.)
 
So a few of my old co-workers and I showed up at Hooters with huge smiles and huge appetites and huge “we’re hotter than any of the girls in here anyway, whatEVAH” attitudes.
 
Tangent: Have I told you my theory about New York City Hooters? I can’t recall, so I will just repeat it. Essentially, if you’re a beautiful, well-endowed (by nature or doctor, I don’t judge) woman in Manhattan looking to make a living off of your looks alone, you are a stripper at an elite club. Or an actress/model. Or at the very least, a waitress at a high class establishment. The beautiful cream rises to the top here, just like any other city, except the top far exceeds Hooters, leaving the Hooters waitresses in Manhattan to be relatively average looking(’relative’ being the operative word here.) However, in Smalltown, USA, Hooters may be the only place for beautiful women to make decent money off their good looks so the waitresses there are probably more beautiful than the ones in Hooters NYC. Omigod, does that theory even make sense? Don’t throw stones at me. It makes sense in my head, but my head is a very jumbled mess at the moment.
 
So what was I saying? Oh, right. Grilled cheese. So we rolled up to Hooters all “yay!” and then we walked in the door and WHADDYA KNOW. It was Calendar Girl Night. And there were exactly no women (other than said calendar girls) in sight. Also, it didn’t appear that they were serving very much food because WHO NEEDS FOOD WHEN THERE ARE CALENDAR GIRLS? Also, it was crowded. And we felt like shit about ourselves because the freaking calendar girls? They are freaking hot.
 
And what do women do when they feel like shit about themselves? Why, they eat pizza. And drink lots of wine. And maybe get a chocolate souffle with nutella and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
 
So even though there was no grilled cheese (*shakes fist at Hooters), it was the perfect way to cap off a hellish three days.
 
And then I got to crawl into bed with M and choose from a vast array of DVR deliciousness (Gossip Girl? Fashionista Diaries? ANTM? Top Chef? Biggest Loser?) I went with the Top Chef finale and I won’t spoil it here for anyone who hasn’t seen it but I was actually very pleased with the outcome.
 
Even if the episode didn’t feature my crush, Anthony Bourdain. Shut up, there’s something about him. Something I LURV.
 
Ok, I need some more coffee. And I probably need to stop writing (You: Um, yeah.)Also, I need Friday. Friday needs to get here immediately.

Update, courtesy of Julybug: Gawker was apparently at Hooter’s last night.