Photo Source: stockimagine
A grand total of three people were in O’Malley’s on the Wednesday before Christmas: the bartender and two ladies, both wearing Santa hats, at the bar. A solitary string of Christmas lights, half of which were burnt out, hung over the bar, and Def Leppard and Whitesnake blasted from the juke.
Upon our entrance, the Santa hat on the left propped herself up a little on the bar and screamed, “LAAAAAAAAADIES NIIIGHT!!!!” in a voice that would shatter her glass if it wasn’t plastic. Clearly these two had been there for a while. We grabbed a table a seemingly good distance away and buried ourselves in the menu.
But Santa hat left was feeling friendly. She turned half-way around on her bar chair, leaned over the back and yelled over, “Happy LAAADIES NIGHT!!! Whas’your names?!?”
My regular pub was unexpectedly closed, so we headed across the street to O’Malley’s as a Plan B. I was with three friends from high school, and our plans for a quiet evening of catch-up were rapidly being thwarted. I gave a fake name, and the rest of the table followed suit and returned to our menus.
But it was all over.
Santa hat left continued, “Thish ish …(chuckle)… Donna an’ I’m…(cackle) Vixen!”
Santa hat right piped up at this, “No you’re not! Member?!? Member what you was gonna say?!?”
Santa hat left, her memory suddenly restored, returned to her original plan. “NO! NO!!! I’m….(uncontrollable giggling)…MRS. CLAWS!!! REEAAWWWW!!!” she said, slicing the air with her “paw” and teetering a bit further over the back of her chair.
It was all over.
I buried my nose in my menu, wondering not if, but how long it would be, before they were at our table.
It wasn’t long. As soon as I looked up, Donna and Mrs. Vixen Claws were settled in, plastic tumblers and plastic pitcher of macro-swill in tow. Were it not for the extra weight and wrinkles, these two could have been in our Class of 1991 yearbook. Maybe they were. Our table suddenly carried a halo of cheap beer, CVS perfume and desperation.
We tried to ignore them, but it was all over. All we could do was try to get out of the vice grips Donna and Mrs. Vixen Claws had on our forearms and turn our eardrums away from their howling cackles.
It was almost too late when I noticed that Mrs. Vixen Claws was holding up a plastic sprig of mistletoe. As soon as I saw it she was leaning in, and she got me on the side of the lip with a hot, soaking wet kiss and a death-grip bear hug. I somehow managed to do a cut move out of it, like a receiver ducking a tackle, and backpedaled away from the table. With that distraction were all able to get up and walk out, coats in arms but otherwise unscathed.
Never got to see the Ladies Night specials on the menu, but judging by the condition of Donna and Mrs. Vixen Claws, I’m betting there was a good deal on domestic pitchers…