Catfight @ The Cactus Club

I tend to get extremely competitive when sharing either of two things: 1) chocolate or 2) scorpion bowls. So, when my group suggested ordering nachos with the Blue Mayan bowl, I secretly celebrated, hoping they’d be distracted enough by the food not to notice that I was downing the equivalent of 10 margaritas in one very long sip through a straw…and much to my enjoyment, they were. Retrospect won’t stop whining about this.

Anyway, the girls and I were sufficiently smashed (me especially) when a group of boys pulled up chairs to join our table. I introduce myself to the boy next to me:

“Hi, I’m Brittany.”
“Hi. How do I explain this…well, my last girlfriend went to Harvard.”
“Ooh, good for her! But how is that relevant?”
“You have blond hair.”
“True.”
“Blond-haired girls aren’t smart. That’s why I like her. She seems smart.” (gestures towards Suez, the only brunette at the table, who happens to be a natural blonde.)
“Is English your first language?”
“No.”
“OOH! You must be mixed up. You just told me that I’m not smart because I have blond hair, and that she is because she has brown hair.”
“Exactly!”
“Wow.”
“So…I just don’t think we should talk. We wouldn’t see eye-to-eye.”

I head to the bathroom to recover from the overwhelming ignorance I’d just witnessed. Suez comes along, and I angrily explain the story.

“I can’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to think that, let alone say it to my face. He straight-up REFUSED to talk to me because I’m blond!”
“Brittany! Just because you decide someone is stupid doesn’t mean you’re better than them!” Suez snapped.
“Shouldn’t you be directing this comment at the boy?!”
“No, Brit! You need to chill out and stop judging everyone!”

I storm over to my friend Allie, who has been flirting with Patriot’s player Steve Neal.

“I’m leaving,” I say.
“But you’re wearing my shoes.”
“Here, take them,” I say as I kick them off.
“But you’re wearing my shirt too.”
I manage to slide it off under my coat in what I imagined to be a discrete manner.
“And my bra.”
“Allie, are you serious?!”
“It’s my only strapless!”

I fling it at her, whipping her in the face. We now have the attention of every male in the bar. I’m just praying Steve Neal doesn’t get involved. I devise a plan of attack just in case he does, though: bite him and scratch him simultaneously (my only hope of getting out alive).

“Oh God…I’m sorry Al, I didn’t mean for that to hit you.” I look over at Suez, who appears to be eating up every word Bastard McBlondeHater is saying. (“Last year, I made over $100,000, and my brother drives a Ferrari.” How he managed to slide that into the conversation is still beyond me. Maybe if I dyed my hair brown I’d understand.)

“What do you people put in your nachos?!” I demand. One of my friends is flirting with a 350 pounder, and the other with a horse’s ass. (Admittedly, I might not have hated him so much if I was brunette at the time. But still.)

I suddenly feel something swipe my face. I look at Allie – she’s giggling. I look at the ground – her bra is lying at my feet. I impulsively chuck it back at her, and she chucks it back at me. We then stopped throwing it and start simply whipping each other in the face with it. Our once light-hearted play fight morphed into a full on, rage-filled catfight. Suez tries to break it up, and I push her away yelling something about this being a blondes-only fight. Furious, she dives in.

The next morning, we all admitted the brawl was alcohol’s fault. Maybe I misunderstood the boy; afterall, he did have an accent, and I am blond (and thus not smart enough to comprehend one). Maybe Suez misunderstood my recount; afterall, I was probably slurring like a crazed monster. Who the hell knows.

Catfights aside, the Cactus Club is a great bar that boasts Boston’s Best Margarita and some pretty decent tex mex. But PLEASE beware the three B’s (blue mayan bowls, bastard mcblondehaters, and bras). Combining them is a very dangerous decision. Instead, I recommend an exclusively girl’s night out. The caramel apple martinis are absolutely fabulous, and let’s face it: the male species is highly overrated.

~ by Brittany Fischer on April 10, 2008.