Girls {Night} Gone Bad.

All Girl’s Nights Out should have adventure.



A couple of weeks ago, a friend was in from out of town, so that was the perfect excuse that us girls needed to get together.

We decided on a restaurant – a fairly fancy Greek one, because I’ve solidly convinced all of my friends of the superiority of my Greek Heritage. We may have bulbous noses and body hair the thickness of a burlap rug, but we sure know how to cook.

I made the reservations and arrived first – always first, thanks to many scarring childhood memories of being last everywhere ever and having to walk scandalously late into a crowded room of staring people.

(Sorry Mom.)

(But really – making me neurotically early isn’t the worst thing that you could have done to me.)


I pushed my way through a cloud of nervous-looking teenagers in formal wear, as I recalled that my hairdresser had told me it was Sadie Hawkins Dance weekend, and decided that I’d go ahead and get seated – after all, I wasn’t that early…and we did have reservations.

Our table was next to a Post-Dance Double Date – the kind where there was much awkward teasing and slapping and a pretense of the whispering of secrets.

So yeah. They seemed like tweens to me. Tweens in extraordinarily inappropriate dresses.

(oh yeah – I’m old now.)

And that’s when I began getting the texts.

Everyone was running late for one justifiable reason or another, so it looked like I’d be sitting alone for a bit.

After a few minutes, the waiter came over to introduce himself.

He looked accusingly at the three empty chairs.

“My friends will be here soon,” I justified.

And…apparently he was having a bad night. Because he huffed and walked away.

I amused myself by listening in to the silliness that was going on next door while scrolling endlessly through Twitter. Because Twitter is always there for me.

The other three ladies – Nikki, Julie, and Christen, arrived and we began perusing our menus.

And we perused. And perused. The perusal was so great that we could have probably gotten a job there ourselves – because our waiter was clearly not returning.

He passed by our table once – and made eye contact with me just as I was making a comment about him seeming to be lost in transit.


Finally, after 25 minutes, a waitress came over and said, “Hi! Carl was your waiter, but I’ll be taking over your table tonight. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

She brought the drinks and then walked away before we could put in our order – the one that we’d had planned out for several eternities.

Then a few minutes later, original waiter came back.

He’s back?

Yes, he’s back.

“Hi guys, I’m so sorry about all that. I got triple sat and it was really crazy. I will be your waiter now. Can I get your….Oh hold on.”

And he left.

He left?

Yes, he left. As we all sat with our mouths open, ready to let our orders spill out.

A few minutes later, he returned.

“I’m so sorry about that, ladies. Now. Can I get your orders?”

We ordered Saganaki for an appetizer, because you can’t go to a nice Greek Restaurant without eating cheese that’s been set on fire at your table. And we quickly put in our meal orders as well, not knowing when or if he’d ever return.

When a third waitress brought out our Saganaki, she seemed to have decided within her heart that it was Nikki’s birthday (when in reality it was Christen’s, but we weren’t telling) – because she purposefully stood above Nikki for the whole proceeding.

Pour on the ouzo…

Get out the lighter…

Light the ouzo…

Watch the flames…

Shake the ouzo around to ensure burning…

Tilt the dish downward so that the flaming ouzo splashes out on your guest…

Wait. Did that just happen??

Time froze.

Nikki was staring at her leg aghast, and the waitress kept shaking, tilted toward Nikki’s charred limb.

She eventually looked down and said, “Oops! Looks like I spilled some on the floor!!”

…as Nikki kept staring at her pantsleg, mouth open.

The arsonist walked away and we all stared sympathetically as Nikki processed what had just happened.

”I have ouzo on my leg. I have OUZO on my leg. She just splashed flaming alcohol on my leg. And totally denied it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I have ouzo on my leg.”

We dug into our cheese, hoping that Nikki’s leg would once again be functional by the time we needed to leave the restaurant.

A few minutes later, our ever-harried waiter was picking up the check from the table next door when he looked at our burnt Nikki and said a bit over-dramatically and slightly insincerely, “OH! I’m sorry!!”, then did a perfect Bend-And-Snap right in her face.

Image Source: Tumblr

And by “right in her face”, I don’t mean she was in front of him.

He picked something up off the ground and removed his derriere from Nikki’s personal space. We all looked at her, puzzled, as he walked away, which is when we noticed that she was rubbing the back of her neck.

“O-ha-ha-W!”, she said.

“What happened?”

“He picked up the receipt book too fast and a quarter flew out and nailed me in the back of a neck.”

“Like a flying saucer?”

“JUST like a flying saucer.”

We allowed Nikki to nurse her wounds as we finished our meal discussing the things one discusses while on Girl’s Night (sorry guys – confidential information.)

Another waitress came to clear the table and stacked herself a tower o’plates. And then turned – smashing the dinnerware right into Christen’s head.

“Oh! I’m so sorry about that! Did I just bash you in the head?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

She left us, with once again a member of our group nursing her wounds.

And in conclusion, my brainwashing on the superiority of Greek Culture took a significant hit that night.