The worst thing about being a townie is that when I hang out in Marin, I run into the most random collection of folks I could possibly imagine. In the ladies room of Noonan’s last night, I stood at the sink washing my hands and stared at my reflection, wondering what the hell I was doing at Noonan’s. All of a sudden, I hear her.
“Hell to the naw! Is that Beth? What is up, my girl? Oh my god, yo. Do you not remember me?”
Oh god. I have no idea who this is. I squinted. “Remind me.”
“Becky from grammar school! I know, I know. I put on some weight. Who hasn’t, right? You look so cute, yo. I totally recognized you. I saw you walking through the bar and shit. I was like, ‘Aw shit, y’all. I totally know that bitch.’”
Um, newsflash Becky. This is the suburbs. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling with your ill-fitting velour jumpsuit and penciled eyebrows, but Larkspur is not the hood. You have no street cred if you shop at The Village. And packing your own low carb salad dressing is not the same as packing a gat…