and that's why you don't try to teach lessons

Sunday night I went out for drinks with Lindsey, who I haven't seen in about 45 some odd years, and we began our evening at Celtic Crossing. (Or perhaps more familiarly known here as The Local.)

The service was heinous, which is honestly fairly shocking because a.) I've never really had bad service there before despite having spent a disturbing amount of cumulative hours of my life drinking pints in various locations on the premises, and b.) there was hardly a soul in the place. It took more than 10 minutes for us to even get our first round of drinks after we'd placed the order, and when we decided we were ready to finish up and head on, we were another hour getting out of the place. I wish, so very much, that I were exaggerating in the least.

And so, when we finally did get our checks, I did something that I absolutely never do. (Scout's honor!) We were trying to crash a house party and the one person we knew at said house party had probably left since it had been better than an hour since we said we were on our way and thus I was supremely peeved. Internet, y'all, please believe me when I say I NEVER do this, but -- I didn't leave a tip.

(I'm cringing. At myself. As I type this. I KNOW.)

But Lindsey wasn't as totally heartless as I was, so I felt less totally heartless about being, well, totally heartless.

After all that, of course, the house party was no dice. And on top of that it seemed that every bar in a five-mile radius was closed, despite the fact that it was very clearly a holiday weekend which very clearly makes Sunday a new weekend day that is called Saturday Too. OBVIOUSLY.

But then! A light! In the distance! And it was Sidestreet, open and inviting us to come and drink its deliciously cheap domestic beers. And so we did. And after about three beers when we decided it was time to head out, our checks were delivered to us with a quickness. Such expedient service!

But then, I opened my wallet. Where there was, in fact, nary a debit card. Because I'd left it. At Celtic Crossing.

Remember that place? That place where I left a big fat ZERO in the tip line?

Holy Allah Jeebus Buddah DAMMIT.

The good news is that our waiter, who was inexplicably enamored with me and quite possibly on ritalin, snatched the check out of my hand and took care of my tab without another word. Which was lovely.

But I guess the moral of the story for me, as I had to do the diner's walk of shame back into Celtic Crossing, imagining several sets of eyes burning into my flesh, knowing I am that breed of woman who doesn't tip, which has to be right up there with people who kick puppies or steal candy from babies, is that there is a god. And he has a sense of humor.

And he definitely used to wait tables.

cheers,

elizabeth