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Friday, October 16, 2009

Mind Your Own Business... à La Mar

As my good friend Jenn so delicately puts it: “What the hell gives these bitches the right to express their stupid opinions to whomever, whenever they want?”

“I really have no idea...” I respond quietly, surprised to hear this sort of cynicism escape Jenn’s word hole. She’s usually so happy.

“This one time? I saw a baby without socks on? And I thought, okay, that’s cool, he’s wearing sandals, so whatever, he doesn’t need socks. But then this nasty old woman comes out of nowhere, stomps up to the baby’s mom, and says, ‘Your son is not wearing socks. That’s beyond unsanitary. I’m calling child protective services.’” Jenn rolls her eyes in disgust.

“Huh.” There’s just not much I can say to this.

“I mean, why do people think it’s okay to dump their intolerant opinions on everyone they see on the sidewalk?” She fixes her angry glare on a butch old lady walking ten feet in front of us, who had just told us off in the bathroom at the Hyatt and was responsible for this aggrivation.

We’d stopped at the hotel after a long happy hour at La Mar, the hot new Peruvian eatery at Pier 1 1/2 on The Embarcadero (because we can’t afford meals there during regular dinner hours). By our third round of pisco sours, we were feeling pretty good.

“Where you from, girl?!” an dwarfish, blubbery, bald guy approaches us from the next table over during our second drink. (Everyone in his group is really good looking – except him.) “You’re from Germany, aren’t you!?” he points a stubby finger at Jenn, who was born and raised in Oregon.

“No,” she says with frost in her voice. “Leave me alone.” She has only been in San Francisco for two months and is already getting the hang of the no-mercy city-girl attitude. I'm so proud.

Dumbstruck, the portly guy turns to me. “Lemme guess, you from Ohio?”

I giggle hesitantly. Then like stone, I reply, “No. GOODBYE.” Jenn and I laugh to ourselves while browsing the cocktail menu and waiting for the server to take our next drink order.

When happy hour ends, we're left with $40 tabs and full bladders, so we head to the Hyatt to use the toilettes. Apparently Jenn uses the restroom here multiple times per week, so I follow her lead. We tip-toe into the lobby behind a man who swipes his key card. (How doesn’t she feel like a criminal? Or a wrongdoer, at the very least? The girl's in law school!) After we make it to the bathroom (oh, sweet relief!), the butch lady approaches me while I scrub my hands with fancy Hyatt soap.

“Tell your friend this isn’t a country club,” she says curtly.

“Excuse me?” My confused eyes try to focus.

“Your friend can’t just leave her stuff on the counter when she's not around.”

Oh, right. Jenn doesn’t like setting her designer bags on germ-y stall floors, so she usually leaves them on the counters by the sinks, when she feels it’s safe to do so.

“This isn’t a country club,” the mannish wench repeats.

“I –”

“Or a sorority.” She looks me up at down, lifting an eyebrow at my new, black skinny jeans and dainty purple flats I'd bought at Nordstrom that afternoon. And Jenn starts fuming.


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  1. haha... oh gosh, I seem like a terrible person. But really, she did need to mind her own business. I am still asking myself where she got off thinking that it was appropriate to interject her opinion. Honestly, how different is the Hyatt from a country club? There seems to be plenty of overlapping trends, i.e. MONEY... AHHH... sorry I let that get to me. I would love to get happy with you, my Ohio friend, again soon! XOXO Jenn

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