Help me get rid of my psycho girlfriend

Greg Milow stopped his brand new car in front of the Viewpoint Restaurant. He stepped out of it and gazed at the fancy façade with a smile of approval. He had selected that spot after a very thorough internet search; apparently, it was one of the best places to have dinner in San Francisco –delicious food, not too expensive, high-end decoration, and a very impressive view of the city.
He searched for help, but there was no valet in sight; so he had to rush to open the door for his girlfriend before she started complaining, as usual, about the “lack of courtesy these days.” Debbie was thirty-two, like him, but sometimes she seemed to have the mindset of a much older woman.
She got out of the car with a look of annoyance that suddenly went away when Greg offered her his hand, as he was used to. She gave him a half-smile and straightened her pearl pink dress. She was wearing her long golden brown hair up in a ponytail and a pair of tiny earrings.
“Is that a new dress?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Yes.”
“Oh, okay.” He lowered his head slightly and tried not to guess the price of it, at least not in front of her.
“You look nice,” he said.
“I know.”
A very young valet appeared then, running from the parking lot. Greg waved at him, but the guy didn’t seem to notice it. Instead, he stepped in front of a Rolls Royce.
“I guess one has to be a millionaire to stop being invisible around here,” muttered Greg.
Debbie rolled her eyes. “The simplest job in the world, and these people don’t know how to do it.”
Greg didn’t mention the fact that she had never worked in her life, except for the lemonade stand she always bragged about –“I already had two employees by the age of ten, and it was the classiest and most profitable lemonade stand in the area,” she used to say. No, he was too busy trying to call the valet’s attention.
“I’m going in,” she said impassively and started walking toward the restaurant.
When Greg managed to get inside, Debbie was already arguing with the receptionist.
“This place is called The View Point, not The Shitty View Point,” she was grumbling. “We didn’t come here to smell the toilets while we’re eating.”
“Ma’am, as I’ve already explained to you, the tables next to the windows must be booked at least one week in advance. I can assure you that every spot inside this restaurant is equally enjoyable.”
Greg leaned to his girlfriend’s ear. “Please, let’s just go inside. I’m tired of waiting,” he begged.
The receptionist took it as a sign of acceptance and guided them to a small table, which was located on a busy spot, away from the wide windows and very close to the bathrooms.
“Good evening, my name is Carl,” said the waiter, handing them the menu. “I’ll be at your service. Anything you need, just let me know.”
“Finally,” uttered Debbie, jumping slightly on her chair. She opened the menu and only read the first page. “I want the house specialty,” she said with determination, “and a bottle of your finest wine.”
“Very well…” Carl wrote it down. “And you, sir?”
“And please, a bottle of Fiji water,” she interrupted. “Is it really from Fiji or that´s just another stupid thing they want idiots to believe?”
“I… guess it is. I mean, from Fiji… Well, the bottle says so…”
“The bottle says so,” insisted Greg. He just wanted to finish ordering. “I want a mushroom soup. And water. Plain water, please.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She leaned on the table right after the waiter left. “Why do you have to be so cheap?” she complained. “We never come to a place like this, and when we do it you just order the soup? You might as well write ´world’s greatest cheapskate’ on your forehead.”
“I’m not hungry, okay? That’s all.” Greg unfolded the napkin on his lap.
“Oh, really? Well, you don’t have such a full stomach when you can eat a burger, or French fries, or onions rings, or any of that crap… You have to eat healthier food, Greg. If you continue this way you’ll end up having a serious heart problem. Not to mention you’ll get fat, really fat.”
“I’m not fat. I can still eat whatever I want,” he replied.
“Seriously? Did you see a picture of your father when he was your age? He was half his current size. Now, his wife has to use a lever to get him of his couch.”
Greg got indignant. “That doesn’t count. He’s had a bad knee since the accident. That’s why he can’t get up so easily.”
“That doesn’t explain the size of his stomach.”
“It does.” He took a deep breath. “Why are we even talking about this? I’m not going to get fat. I’m too skinny for my age. Actually, I should eat more.”
“Don’t be so confident about this,” she sentenced. “Your jaw is getting bigger, and you’re growing a belly.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you don’t know it yet, but I can feel the protuberance when you hug me. Every day it’s getting less and less bearable to see you naked.”
“Is that so?” he asked offended. “How would you feel if I told you the same thing?”