Speaking of boobs

I know, we weren't speaking of boobs, but I thought I'd share my recent experience with you. I went to Hooters Restaurant.

Here's what happened: Dale and I were in Oceanside, attending the jazz festival at Mira Costa College. We had kind of a filling lunch at Daphne's, then didn't feel like dinner until after the 8:00 p.m. concert (which was GRRReat, by the by) so by the time the evening was done, we were hungry and it was late.

I suppose we could have used my lovely GPS app, Wanda the Wonder Navigator, to find a nice restaurant with late hours, but our hotel was right next door to Hooters. We needed food, and I didn't care where we got it, within reason.

Hooters fell within my "reason" boundaries.

Why is this place so big?

The first thing I noticed when we walked in was that most of the clientele were men. No duh. The second thing I noticed was the absolute dearth of any attempt to decorate the place. It was a big, echoing chamber of a room with booths on the side and tables scattered about the middle. The high ceiling and hard floors lent themselves to the high noise level.

(In their defense, I don't see why they should have invested in decor when no one is looking at the room.)

The waitresses were not terribly busty, for a place called Hooters. They were mostly just young and leggy, and their very-exposed skin was completely cellulite-free. What I really noticed about them was they were so peppy, watching them wore me out. I was never young enough to be a Hooters girl.

Our waitress, a very very tall blonde, came to our table. She told us her name was Bre (it was all I could do to repress, "Of course it is"), which she wrote on a paper towel and placed at the edge of our booth. Then she pulled up a chair and sat down with us.

The noise and music were so loud, she kept leaning in and shouting, then leaning in and listening. At some point, I considered writing on Bre's paper towel, but didn't want to invade her territory. We did manage to give her our order, by screaming and using pantomime.

A brief review of the menu: 1. There is nothing healthy on it; 2. Dale liked the wings; and 3. Even though my cheeseburger was about the same thickness as a McDonald's Quarter Pounder, Bre asked how I wanted it cooked. They could have waved the patty at the grill and it would have been well done.

As luck would have it, it was Karaoke Night at Hooters. Woo. Hoo. It was a small crowd, so mostly there were three singers who kept rotating through. We were treated to a guy named Orlando who wasn't the worst but should keep his day job, and a group of drunks who sang loud, off-key, and made up the words.

But the saddest was a cute little blonde in jeans and a plaid shirt, who sang several country selections as if she just knew there'd be a record exec in the audience tonight. She even wandered around the room, working the crowd. It kind of broke my heart.

All in all, it was a strange experience, and one I'm not anxious to repeat any time soon. HOWEVER, it's gonna make a killer scene in my next novel.

That's why I love being a writer.