My Secret Life as a Hooters Girl

The Hooters girls of Mall of America had their annual swimsuit competition this past Monday. For these  last few years I've gotten invites from friends who are involved with the show, and every year I find better things to do with my time than watch a group of ladies - some hot, others starving - strut their stuff down a generic runway. I don't have ill feelings towards Hooters. I love their chicken wings, honestly, the hot sauce is bomb - not too hot, but spicier than the medium and packed with a punch of flavor. I used to tell my guests that it was more like medium than hot, that while most "hot" sauces lose their flavor the spicier they are, Hooters' hot sauce has the perfect combination of flavor and kick. It's the best ever. So when I say that I love Hooters' chicken wings, I mean it. And when I say that I used to describe Hooters' hot sauce to my guests in this manner, I really did. I used to be a Hooters girl.  (And I hated the pantyhose.)

My first job after leaving the Corps was as a waitress donning those little orange shorts. I felt that I had had enough of a testosterone driven environment for awhile and I wanted nothing more than to be a girl again, to actually look and feel like a girl, so I went full force. Go big or go home, right? I figured getting a job where girls rule the world would be a great way to celebrate my return to civilization. And at first it was.  I really enjoyed it, for awhile. But after a few months of getting to know the girls, feeling like I was back in high school, and seeing that the new ones who came in were more or less just like the others, I had an overwhelming urge to retreat. Despite my growing dislike for the unavoidable cattyness that surrounded me, I fought the force that was pushing me out the door, telling myself that just because I didn't care for the gossip, the backstabbing, the selfishness, the attitude - I couldn't just quit. Being a Marine made me better than that so I tried to dust off my boots and do the best job I could.  And it's funny how doing the best I could resulted in a shift of the shit talk towards me.  The better I became at doing my job and the more events I was scheduled to be a part of, it seemed like every other girl at the restaurant was talking about me behind my back. Finally, enough was enough and I had to march forward.

I'd say some of the highlights of my time at Hooters were when troops came in for a visit. I remember one afternoon when a group of Marines came in wearing their dress blues. Happy to see family, I sat down at their table and told them that I had recently been discharged, that it was good to see some of my kind.  I was so excited. We talked for a few minutes and they told me that they had been part of a funeral detail earlier that morning - something none of the other girls would have gotten emotional over, not like I did. Then the waitress whose section the gents were sitting in approached us with a look on her face that said, Bitch, what the hell are you doing talking to my table? A lot of the girls I worked with were like that.  There were times when one girl's table would get more attention from another server and the guests tipped out the girl who made their dining experience more enjoyable, not so much the one who took their order.  You know the saying "one bad apple spoils the bunch"? Well, at Hooters it wasn't just one bad apple. It was damn near a whole tree.  And it's too bad for the ladies whose cores were far from rotten.  I can count on one hand the number of girls I worked with who I would take a bullet for and on that same hand are the managers who were good to me and did a considerably great job managing the mass of bimbos.

I asked our GM one day about Hooters' participation in supporting troops overseas because if the company was involved, I wanted to be an active part of it. I told him to put my name on a list if an opportunity came up to go back to Iraq - I was really missing the guys I used to bullshit with, the guys who had my back , the team I was a part of, and the job that made me feel like I was doing something meaningful with my life. There was no team at Hooters. Just some damn good chicken wings and a mess of individuals who were unaware of the extents of the world.

I never had the opportuniy to show my support for our guys and gals in Iraq and Afghanistan as a Hooters girl, but some girls have, participating in Operation: Let Freedom Wing. After seeing some photos of a group of girls' recent trip over there I'm actually grateful that I never went with the hooties and booties squad. Not only would it have been emotionally difficult for me to come back to the States, I probably would have been annoyed out of my jarhead. I'd much rather be identified as a Marine than as a Hooters girl. My earlier service of chicken wings and fake content isn't something I often reveal to people. But maybe I should start. Maybe it would open up a place where I fit snugly in this civilian world.

It's something the average American gets: Hooters, cute girls, and airheads have been a "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" combination since the early eighties.  If an attractive girl lacks the brains that are necessary to go to college, send her to Hooters.  Even though no one wants to be a dumb cute girl, society accepts them so being one is okay.  The only serious problem I've ever really had with being percieved as a cute dumb girl, is that I also have green blood, I'm proud of my service to our country and of those who continue to serve, and no one can take the Marine out of me. It's hard when people accept part of me but not all of me, especially when the bigger part of who I am is that which is too easily disposed of by others. I'll be damned if I'm accepted as a Hooters veteran before I'm recognized even slightly as a Marine veteran. Well, I'll be damned if that's how it's always going to be.  I'm not on a mission to inform every person I cross paths with about my service, but when the time I spent in the Marine Corps surfaces in conversation I don't need it to be discarded, either.  For now, though, it might benefit me to let some of my other colors shine, no matter how faint and insignificant they may be because they are indeed a part of me as well, albeit a very very small part.  So, here they are.  Alongside my green, blue, scarlet and gold, here's my orange and white.

Hi. I'm Christina and I'm not an alcoholic, but I am a Marine. Okay, okay...I was also a Hooters girl.  (Don't worry guys, I made sure to represent the Corps.)

Ha. Check out my pipes! lol

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