[Chick] We're That Good | Jackson Free Press | Jackson, MS

[Chick] We're That Good

My boyfriend said the most disturbing thing on our way to Hooter's. He said, "You and MF can't make a mockery of my Corvette." Are you kidding me? Now tell me that doesn't sound like a challenge. My best friend MF and I can make a mockery of anything, including but not limited to Corvettes, Hooters, each other, ourselves and everyone around us. We're that good.

You see, we looked up not too long ago and realized we had not had a good night out in several months, and in these post-Katrina times, I'd been having a hard time with life. I'd had a hard time with work, home and the Boy Scouts of America. I'd had a hard time with the road renovations requiring my favorite trees being removed along Flowood Drive. I'd had a hard time with the fact that Elvis went and died before my dad had a chance to set up a play date with Lisa Marie and me. I'm sure we would have been great friends.

I'd been somewhat irrational and absolutely without humor, so MF and I planned a night out. Except, don't you know it, our significant others were too tired to take us out dancing. So we planned a nice dinner party instead. The boyfriend was quite hesitant with even the idea of getting off the couch until he realized appetizers equal Hooter's chicken strips. Yes, I finally gave in to his pipe dream of going to Hooter's again, like in the pre-chick days.

Plus, MF and I had planned a very, very long time ago to get Hooter's shirts, put on some big wigs and do a photo shoot on the boyfriend's Corvette. Tell me that's not the funnest thing you've ever heard. That's about when I got the mockery line. I maintain that if we can patronize an establishment that makes a mockery of both women's breasts and men's shameless fixation thereof, MF and I can make a mockery of any damn thing we want.

So I dial up good ol' Hooter's. I am a liberated woman and all. Plus, the boyfriend had told me that I absolutely would not be intimidated by these women. I tell him, "Yes, sweetie, I know." They are wearing support hose, and support bras for that matter. However, I'm very grateful for him to so graciously look out for my ego. In turn, I promise to enter with an open mind and not focus on the stereotypes. My first encounter with Hooter's goes something like this:

Hooter Chick: (a bunch of stuff I can't understand so I assume she says something like, "Thank you for calling Hooter's, how can I help you?")
Me: I'd like to place a to-go order.
HC: Will you pick that up?
Me: Yes. I will pick that up.
HC: OK. Go ahead.
Me: I'd like three orders of hot chicken strips.
HC: You want those hot or mild?
Me: Hot.
HC: OK. (she starts to hang up)
Me: Wait! Do you sell Hooter's wife-beaters there?
HC: Huh?
Me: Do you sell wife-beaters?
Her: Huh?
(Wash, rinse, repeat several times until boyfriend chimes in, "Say tank top! Say tank top!")
Me: Do you sell tank tops?
HC: I'm not sure.
(Insert lengthy pause)
HC: Oh! Do you want me to go look?
Me: Would you? That would be great!
HC: Oh, you can look when you pick up the order!

Then she hangs up. I tell the boyfriend I'll give him a Hooter's boob if that order has been entered. We get to Hooter's, and I don't immediately see any boobs. What I do immediately see is an enormous television playing a football game with lots of men staring at it, while a few catatonic-looking women gaze out the window. It feels like a garage. We go to the bar, and our order has not been placed.

I win.

The bartender is very sweet and offers me a drink while I wait. Instead we go over to the "store" where we are met by the "huh" girl from the phone. I ask for two tank tops. She looks and looks and finds one. She goes to the back and returns with a baby shirt instead. (Baby shirts at Hooter's? Don't get me started.) We settle on two men's tank tops. They are much too big, but MF and I are very resourceful women, and I assure the boyfriend we can make them serve the purpose. This entire process takes a good 20 minutes because "huh" chick kept getting distracted. I'm not really sure what distracted her, but I'd have to wave her back to Hooter's every so often.

The boyfriend pays her with a $100 bill. "Huh" chick returns with change for $100, so the boyfriend then pays her with correct change and a tip. She. honestly. could. not. count. change. I tell the boyfriend: "I tried. I really, really tried to be open-minded." He says, "Yes, sweetie. I know. She's stupid."

When we get to MF's we have a good laugh about it, slap on our Hooter's wife-beaters and tie them the trashiest way we know how. Then we serve a nice tenderloin with prosciutto-wrapped asparagus and creamed spinach with a very fine wine, with Hooter's chicken strips. MF slaps me on the butt and tells me I'm the hottest thing in cotton. I tell her that her legs could make a Rockette cry.

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