Most people are stupid.

This is what my eighth-grade history teacher told me and as I go through life, I have learned this to be sadly true.

At the moment, I am staring incredulously at a woman who has just asked me to make her a weak, vodka martini. For those that do not know, a standard martini consists of gin or vodka and dry vermouth--all alcoholic ingredients. So, it isn't really possible to make a weak one. I suppose I could put water in it, but somehow I think this woman may be upset with my doing so.

Like I said, stupid.

Her husband, who is seated next to her, reminds me a bit of Tom Hanks. That is, if Tom Hanks were a lumberjack. He is dressed in a plaid shirt and overalls, which I was not aware until now could still be purchased in the United States. "Paul Bunyan-chic"...so do not remember seeing that during Fashion Week. Wonder if he left his blue ox in the parking lot.

"And may I please have an apple martini," Mr. Bunyan asks.

Inadvertently, I make a face. What (straight) man drinks apple martinis? I consider telling him to retrieve his testicles from wherever he left them, but refrain for fear that he may pull out his ax and cut off my head.

I set to work on making their drinks. I see Kathleen, the manager, hovering near the restaurant entrance. Quickly, I flash her the 'please lock the door' look, which she (thank God) sees and complies.

It is the end of a very long and busy evening. I was actually cleaning up for the night, when this couple strolled in. Hopefully, they will have one drink and be on their merry way.

I present Mr. and Mrs. Bunyan with their respective martinis and ring in the transaction. They seem content to talk to each other rather than me, so I resume my straightening up for the evening.

Once that is done, I grab my bag from underneath the bar and head to the restroom to change clothes. I have a quasi-date with a Norwegian lawyer I met at a nightclub two weeks ago, which is another reason I am hoping these two vacate the premises quickly.

After my costume change, I return to the bar hoping to find it empty. Instead, I am greeted by the martini couple intensely making out. My stomach does a flip-flop and not in a good way.
Don't get me wrong, I think it's great when older married people are still madly in love with each other. I would appreciate, however, if they were madly in love with each other outside of my line of sight.

Even worse, I cannot stop watching. It's like a car crash on the side of the highway. I know I shouldn't look. I don't even particularly want to look, but I am powerless to turn away. The middle-aged lovebirds are too busy slurping and slobbering all over each other to notice me. It's almost as disturbing as watching "Two Girls, One Cup."

Almost.

Suddenly, the couple disengages. They swiftly gulp down their drinks, toss a ten dollar bill on the bar, and leave without a word.

Guess they decided to continue in private, which is just fine by me. I pocket the ten dollar tip, which almost makes up for the image of their flailing tongues seared into my mind.

Almost.

With a quick 'goodnight' to Kathleen, I am out the back door and off to my date. I meet Oscar, the Norwegian lawyer, at a small wine bar/restaurant around 11:30. He is dressed in a navy blazer, white button-down shirt, and jeans. He is a decent looking guy, but somehow I don't think he is going to be my type. I was a wee bit intoxicated the night we met and I am surprised that I actually recognize him upon my arrival.

He greets me with a kiss on each cheek and we sit at the bar to have drinks. A glass of pinot noir for myself and a glass of chardonnay for him. As we peruse the menu for appetizers, I cannot help but notice how attractive the bartender is. Despite my best efforts at self-control, I find myself making googly-eyes at him whenever he comes to our end of the bar.

God, I'm an awful person!

After we decide on our appetizers and order with sexy bartender guy, we chat about work, hobbies, and other inane nonsense people talk about on a first date. Oscar, my date, seems nice enough, but he is a little bland for my taste. I take a large gulp of wine, hoping that the drunker I get the more interesting he will become.

Great theory, but it does not quite pan out.

As Oscar prattles on about work, I start to zone out. I wonder what my cat is doing at home, what I would do if zombies took over the earth, what sexy bartender and I would play for our wedding song, and other random things.

My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of our food. As we eat, I throw back two more glasses of wine. Thank God for alcohol.

I nod and smile through the rest of the evening, throwing in the occasional laugh where I think (or hope) is appropriate. The check finally arrives, just as I start to have vivid fantasies about my new down comforter waiting for me at home. I reach for my wallet to offer money that I know Oscar will not take. Instead, he hands his credit card to the bartender.

I can almost taste my freedom.

When the bartender returns, Oscar signs the credit card slip and closes the check presenter. But, not before I see the numbers on the receipt.

Our bill was just shy of eighty dollars, not bad for the number of drinks we (mostly myself) had. It is the number below that with which I am having a bit of trouble. In the space marked "tip," there is a very neatly printed four dollars.

Are you f-ing kidding me?!

That is about a five percent tip! Did he miss the part about me working in a restaurant and even so, who the hell is that cheap?

Oscar stands and pulls my chair out for me. I want to leave before the bartender comes back and sees the paltry gratuity my cheapskate date left. It is my firm belief that people who stiff servers, without just cause (and I can assure you there was no reason for it), likely have other terrible habits, like kicking bunnies.

I thank him for the evening and practically run out the door. I do not want to be associated with the five percent tipper.

Men of the world be warned: cheap is an absolute deal breaker!