Thursday, May 13, 2010
The Woman Peculier
I tried, but failed again to mind my own business last night while I was sitting at Houlihan’s nursing a beer waiting for lacrosse practice to be over. These two women of moderate looks and stature slide into the seats next to me and immediately begin perusing the glossy drink menu. They ask the bartender about their signature “skinny” drinks. How fun would it have been if he said, “We have them, but they are reserved for skinny girls.” But he didn’t, of course, so they settled on something like a purple-razz-mojito-tini. Fine by me, my Sam Adams Light was working…the grilled shrimp Azteca, not so much. (Somewhere in the near past, the suits at Houlihan’s decided they needed to upscale their menu, so they settled on trendy “small plates.” I can see the junior ad exec jumping up from his Power Point presentation now. “I’ve got it! Shrimp…stay with me…with some sort of a corn infusion…we’ll call it Shrimp Azteca!” With much drizzling of sauces and some roasted corn and cilantro you end up with…three shrimp on a corn husk.)
But let me get to the point. After the gals finished their delightfully pink-ish cocktails and some more deliberation over what type of flavored vodka they want in their next drink, they settle on the apple-choco-rita or something like that. And here is the difference between men and women; before anymore orders can be placed, there has to be a polite discussion about who is paying for what, accompanied by much flashing of credit cards. “Why don’t I pay for this round and you pay for the next round?” “Or, do you just want to pay separate?” “You pay for this round, I will leave the tip and pay for my own drink, plus tip for the next round if you pick up the tax.” It wasn’t quite like that, but damned close.
With guys, paying for drinks is a no-brainer, I have picked up many, many bar tabs and likewise have had thousands of rounds bought for me. With guys, there really is no difference between footing the bill for a twenty-five cent draft or a twenty-five dollar lap dance. The theory is quite simple, we are lazy fucks when it comes to keeping track of our money with our friends. I have never “split,” “divied-up,” or otherwise itemized anything with my friends. “You bought dinner? Drinks are on me.” “You need to go to the ATM, screw that bro, on me tonight. Get me next time.” Kind of like the cliché about horseshoes and hand grenades, you just have to be close.