I have to go "work the door" at the rink this morning, which is kind of like "working the room" minus heat, cocktails, networking potential, intelligent snippets of conversation, and the possibility of getting laid, or hired.
Before I go, can I confess to letting out a bit of a snort when I heard a Canadian woman was handed a three-year sentence this week for fatally stabbing her husband. That's the same time an Australian woman received this month for killing her old boyfriend's dog.
At least those women will get food, likely some free skill training, and a warm bed. And sure, that bed may have some big butch named Carla lying in it, but after two, unpaid, three-hour shifts working the rink door today, I'll be looking for a room with a little padded wallpaper.
At least tonight's dinner is looked after. We're going to Hooters – proud sponsor of my son's hockey jerseys. The girls at Hooters won't be wearing as many layers as I will today, but boy can they work a room. Teetering with size 12.5 feet on the edge of puberty, Jack can't see beyond the menu or the 38" flat screens fixed on TSN, but I notice my lessons on making eye contact are falling a bit short.
Hooters bills itself as "delightfully tacky yet unrefined" but I give them thumbs up for good food in a fun, family atmosphere. While the name may suggest cleavage and jugs of beer, what you actually get is a perky, young student working her way through school. I like the Buffalo shrimp, Cobb salad, deep-fried dill pickles, and the fact that they stepped up to pitch in with hockey expenses.
I'd better go. It'll take me an hour to squeeze into my tank top and orange short shorts uniform. This Hooter Mom is workin' the door.
halifaxbroad@gmail.com
Hooters is located in at 120 Main Street in Dartmouth.
This morning's rush-hour fire at Hooters had absolutely nothing to do with the friction and subsequent sparks created by my thighs rubbing together while wearing my flesh-toned Hooters nylons. 
