DC Etiquette #9: Love yourself. Too much.

So, I have a supplemental job waiting tables. Before you judge me by what I do since we're in DC and that's the only good measure of anyone's character, rest assured I have a real person functional 9 - 5 job that requires a college degree, etc. Calm down, everyone.

Having gotten that out of the way, I encountered the King of the Douchebags earlier this week. For all intents and purposes, I think it's fair to refer to this grand douchebag as Summer's Eve.

When I approached Summer's Eve's table, I was slightly weary of the fact that the two people sitting there looked like they were roughly 14. As they immediately ordered a bottle of wine, I carded them. Summer's Eve did not like this, and tried to "relate to my struggle" if you will:

"I waited tables for 2 weeks once, and don't you feel so awkward when you have to card someone?"
"No. If I serve you and you're not 21, I could lose my job. So I don't feel very awkward about that."
"Right well I always just thought it was so awkward when I'd card someone and they were older than I am and-"
"I need to see your ID."
"Oh really? (surprised tone) But yeah, so awkward when someone is older than you are and you card them, so-"
"We're exactly the same age."

At this point I had a slight inclination that I was in for it.

I brought the bottle of the wine to the table. Which Summer's Eve immediately sent back, because, as he stated, "Ohh...yeah...I don't mean to be a douchebag (well that's pretty fucking ironic, Summer's Eve) but the menu said the vintage was 2006, and this bottle's a 2007."

When I returned to the table, he began to try to strike up conversation. He did this by speaking exclusively about himself for a solid 5 minutes (trust me, this is an absurdly long time in dbagville). During this point I found out a lot of things that were incredibly uninteresting about Summer's Eve: born and raised in DC area (shocking), went to school in Boston, started his own NGO, and was probably jacking off under the table listening to the sound of his own voice as he told me all of this. I can't verify that last one, but his hands WERE under the table the entire time. Just sayin'.

The conversation then took an unexpected twist as Summer's Eve asked me what I was doing with my life, and if I was planning to go back to school for anything. I said yes, and he asked how far along I was on the application process. I remarked that I haven't even taken the GRE yet. To this comment, Summer's Eve offered some stellar advice:
"Oh the GRE? It's easy, don't study, just go in and take it."
"I don't think so, I feel an inclination to prepare for any test I take."
"Well actually, men test better than women on the GRE. I read about it in an article, if you want to give me your email address, I could send it to you."
Awkward silence.
"You know, you could just take the GRE, get whatever grade you get, then explain to an admissions officer, you know, that you took it, didn't do so well, but really talk up your other credentials and that you feel the GRE was really just a waste of your time, and I think someone would really just respect you for that."
"Really? I think someone would think I'm just incredibly self important trying to go around application requirements if I did that."

I also appreciated the fact that he assumed my silly woman vagina and I would automatically bomb the GRE.

Nonetheless, I continued to "enjoy" Summer's Eve's inane ramblings throughout the duration of the wonderful experience of waiting on him. For example: "I love the W, it's the only place you can see the White House from, without actually being IN the White House." I've enjoyed the view from the benches with homeless people across the street from the White House myself, but whatever...

Finally, Summer's Eve paid and left, which was hands down the most magical part of the evening. And I say that because this is the receipt I picked up from the table upon his departure:

To be fair, I was at least well compensated for putting up with his bullshit for far too long. What you can't see very well on the check, since I blurred it out using my great photo editing skills/lackthereof, is a special message, just for me. He dropped his sweet digits (which he apparently forgot, and had to cross out the last four digits to write it properly?) but left the best line scribbled there on the bottom: "Talk more about me."

I know, I know, you're probably super jealous and extremely upset that I blurred out the number so only I can enjoy this man's company. Tough shit. This insufferable dbag is aaaalllll mine. I'm considering kicking off conversation by sending him a text saying, "I hope you die in a fiery car crash," but I feel like that could be misconstrued as slightly abrasive and quite immature. Plus that sort of talk would make my mother embarrassed of me. I'll hold my silence.