Ladies’ Night


Yeah. If only.

Author: Kara Mae Adamo.

Despite my stealthy efforts at slinking under her radar, Kira convinced me to come out to Ladies’ Night at Blue Martini. She pulled what we’ve come to term as the “Malia Card,” which is a pretty cheap move if you ask me. The Malia Card is a failsafe: a Trump Card, of sorts. It is the secret weapon that also acts as a poker tell because it shows that the argument is otherwise weak. She pulled the Malia Card because she knew that it would work and that she had nothing else. It was that or fold…and she wasn’t about to let me win so easily.

The reasoning to my aversion is a simple and quite justified one: Ladies’ Night should be renamed Creepy-Middle-Aged-Man-Night. We get in without a cover and drink half-off martinis…and they skulk about the perimeters. I’ve actually sat out on the patio during Ladies’ Night and witnessed not two but three forty-something-year-olds hop the mother f*ing wall to get in.

For reasons that baffle scholars and scientists alike, I am always the one in our group that attracts the old guy. I have no idea how it happens. It just does. I’ve had this problem since I was a young’un and now that I’m older, it’s only gotten worse.

My friend Adam says I’m the unwilling Pokemon Master of old guys…I unfortunately catch them all. 

One time, on a completely separate occasion, a forty-something-year-old offered to serenade me at a karaoke bar. My girlfriends thought it was sooo cute. Yeah. He dedicated the song to me and crooned to ‘Dead or Alive’ by Bon Jovi. Great song…but a creepy one to dedicate to a girl half your age. I left mid-chorus.

Another time, a middle-aged-guy slobbered all over my neck, effectively leaving a slug trail down my collar bone.

We were not kissing…and I have a thing about spit.

And yet, Kira felt the necessity to pull the Malia Card, selfishly putting my sanity and the lives of others in danger.

It was only with the idle promise that they would hide me under a chair at the first sign of danger that I agreed to come. As I pulled into the parking lot, my nerves were on-end. If I were a cat, I would have a bottle-brush tail.

So I met up with Kira and our posse. They’d already gotten a table and were a couple of rounds ahead of me by the time I sat down.

We had a good time. We took photos of each other, inspected them and giggled as we vetoed some and approved of others.

We toasted to the demise of those we hated and Malia shared funny stories about her son. Whitney and I chuckled incessantly in the traditional spiteful female way and Caroline even managed to twirl my not-so-graceful-ass onto the dance floor.

Everything was kosher.

It was in my vodka haze that I began to realize that we were one of the only clusters of women out on the patio. It was like our table was a watering hole and the 40-60 year olds were the giraffes, elephants, what-have-you. I began to humor myself with the visual of adding spots or trunks or manes to them, depending (of course) on the animal they most matched.

One of the animals (a gazelle, of sorts) managed to sneak his way into one of our photos and we went on a mini scavenger hunt to figure out who it was.

We sat back down, the perpetrator having been high-fived for his stealth and wit. True to form, a forty-something-year-old plops himself down next to me and starts talking about his sixteen year old daughter and about the ab contest he’s planning on entering with all of the “younger guys.”

At some point, I decide I’ve had enough and wander off into the Great Blue (ha) Yonder to head to the restroom. This usually means a collective field trip, but I’d already sat out on one or two of the excursions, so I went on my own.

This trip should have only taken like five minutes, but I was sidetracked on the way back. Somehow, I got pulled onto the dance floor by two different bald guys wearing startling amount of cologne and Tommy Bahama shirts.

Somehow, I made my escape.

It was brief, though. Kira had invited another girl out.

Here is my disclaimer before we move on: the name(s) of certain characters in this story have been altered to protect the stupid.

We’ll call her…Wendy. I doubt I’ll ever know a Wendy, so it’s probably a safe enough bet.

So Wendy and I turn straight around and head out toward the restroom. She holds my hand on the way there (like girls do) and seems sweet enough (I think I met her one other time but the encounter was short).

I feel my other hand being held. Huh, I think to myself, which girlfriend decided to come along…and I need to tell her to wear more moisturizer.

I turn to look. It is not a girlfriend. It is a grinning fortyish guy who has decided—in what I can only hope is a drunken stupor—that he wants to join our little friendship train through the club.


I twisted my hand out of his just before he went to kiss it.


Moving on.

Wendy and I made our return. I don’t know what happened in our absence, but Caroline, Whitney and Malia had left by the time we got back. Kira was left to text on her phone as the forty-something-year-olds closed in.

So Kira, angered by whatever the hell happened and further frustrated with the animals at the watering hole, tells me she is going to leave and go meet up with her boyfriend (a wise decision).

So now I’m left with Wendy.

I still have two martini’s to finish…one of which was purchased for me without my consent. So I figure, eh, Wendy just got here…she seems nice enough…we’ll chat.

The minutes drag on. I have no idea what we talked about. I was too busy noticing a shift. The fifty-year-old guys must have all realized, as one, that they forgot to TiVo Matlock. They left, making way for these young Arabic guys.

They are friendly and having fun and kinda tipsy. They engage us in conversation. I’m pretty much over the night, though…and I’ve had just enough vodka to make me borderline mean (I know…it’s a stretch.)

So I begin to zone out, wondering when it will be acceptable for me to leave, when suddenly Wendy starts tapping me with great haste.

Kara: What! What!

Wendy: Oh my god!

Kara: Jesus fucking…what?

Wendy: I think these guys are terrorists!

*a pause*

Kara: …you what?

Wendy: They’re terrorists! What do we do??

Kara: They’re not terrorists.

Wendy: Yes they are!! Look at them!

Kara: Dude. They’re from Dubai.

Wendy: But they said they were students! What does that mean?

Kara: I’m gonna take a guess and say that I think it means that they’re students.

Wendy: But they didn’t say what kind of students. They just said they were students.

Kara: You can’t just casually label somebody a terrorist because they’re from the Middle East.

Wendy: But what if they are?

Kara: They’re from Dubai.

Wendy: But…but they’re terrorists!

Kara: Dude. Where are you getting your intel?

It is at this point that I begin to question it myself—and that’s mostly because of the alcohol. I realized that, not only was the notion absurd, but even if it were true, I am not equipped with the proper know-how or even sober blood count to deal with that kind of situation.

And so I left…and now I have a vodka/stupid people headache.

Damned Malia Card.


About Kara Mae Adamo

I have 11-1/2 years in the restaurant industry and spent my first semester in college supporting myself as a professional mural artist in Orlando, FL. I used to be a food and wine critic for My City Eats in Orlando, FL. I was a professional blogger for SOS eMarketing and the Senior Editor/Contributing Writer for The Gates of Seminole magazine and Gates Media, Inc. I now work for an Interior Design Company. We specialize in turnkey decor for vacation homes in Central Florida. On a more personal note, I'm basically trying to paint, laugh, sketch, write, rhyme, skim-board, sew, act, sing and dance my way through life--it's haphazard, it's often irrational, but it's exhilarating...and really, what else is there?

2 responses »

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s