Last Thursday I had the most harrowing experience in Phoenix. We had a 5-7 p.m. meeting, after which several of my immediate superiors invited me to join them for dinner. Being new, that's the sort of invitation one really can't turn down. So, we left the office building where we'd been meeting and walked over to a nearby shopping and dining district, where they promptly headed for a Hooters.
It was awful.
The place was loud and boisterous, the televisions were blaring sports, the waitresses—who weren't even pretty—were running around in way-too-tight skimpy t-shirts and Daisy Dukes so tiny their pubic hair was longer than their shorts, and the place was filthy. I don't even want to describe the smell and condition of the men's room. Everyone at my table ordered chicken wings and beer. I had a salad and iced tea. And what's worse, when the chicken wings arrived at the table, the waitress kept forgetting to bring my salad. I wonder if she even put the order in at the same time. It was a good fifteen minutes later before my salad came.
Why do these waitresses think that they need to shake their chests when they bring food or drink to a table? I refused to look at the waitress when she came by to interrupt our conversations, which only made her shake at me all the harder.
When I got back to my hotel, I had to take a long shower, cause I felt so dirty, so used, so violated.
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