It ain’t easy being the mother of a teenage daughter. Emma’s boyfriend came over last night. They were in the kitchen making popcorn when I overheard Emma say, “So, do you like my hooters?”
He laughed and said, “What’s not to like?”
I ran into the kitchen ready to do battle. I envisioned ripping the tablecloth off the table and covering up Emma’s bare breasts, then hitting her boyfriend over the head with a chair. I would then drag him by the ankles out to the street and call his parents to come pick him up.
I skidded to a stop in the kitchen. Emma was indeed showing him her hooters. They were the owl earrings she was wearing.
Emma took one look at my face and said, “Geesh Mom, what’d you think I was showing him?”
I had just enough sense left to shake my head and walk away.
Emma has had a long and storied history with hooters. When she was seven-years-old we went on a road trip to Biloxi, Mississippi. We passed a billboard advertising Hooters, the restaurant.
Emma stared at the sign and asked, “Mom, what’re hooters?”
“Well…” I hedged, “They’re teats.”
“You know,” I said, “the breasts of female mammals.”
“But that sign showed an owl. An owl is not a mammal.”
“Mmmhmmm. It’s supposed to be funny. Owls hoot, you see. And breasts are sometimes called hooters.”
She was quiet for a long while. Thinking maybe I should use this opportunity to build her vocabulary, I said, “Can you use the word hooters in a sentence for me?”
“Sure,” she said. “The baby cow sucked on its mother’s hooters.”
“Very good,” I said. “Now promise me you’ll never work at that restaurant.”
A Romantic blend of Sweet and Heat
A short story for the ages.