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Pet peeve III

If I invite you to my birthday dinner, why should you pay? You are my guest.

I know people do this routinely, so that's not actually my pet peeve. (If I don't want to subsidize other people's shindigs, I don't eat, just stop in to say hi.)

But if you invite me to one of the more (or most) expensive restaurants in New York City, where I don't even eat their specialty (OK, it was Nobu & I don't eat fish), after telling me how well off you have become, & insist I bring my husband, & then your best friend, who inherited $400 million in Texas oil money, orders dozens of $30 two-bite appetizers—well, in that case I am peeved that you split the bill & expected me to cough up.

This was a long time ago & I'm still pissed.

Maybe I didn't say anything at the time because another guest—a cop who had brought his daughter, so I'm sure he was under the same misapprehension as I was, that we were guests not hosts—threw down a couple of $20s & growled, "that's all I have." Johnny said my face wen t white so it was obvious I wasn't expecting this.

Now I make sure in advance.
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