The Snob and The Social Reflex: Part Un

Am I frowning? But, boy, is it bright . . . Oh right, I have shades on. Am I still frowning?Urgh, it’s the public.

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Please feel free to mention how absolutely dressed down I am, blending in so as to not have to garner any unsolicited attention from locals.Yeah right. We know the only blending in I’m good at is the blending in that involves the bronzer on my cheekbones and the blush on my cheeks. Now THAT’S what I call a natural transition. Do you think maybe I should’ve highlighted just above the cheekbone? Or a darker contour in the . . . Well, contour above my jawline. Hold on, I’m veering off.

Does it help that my schedule won’t allow for me to manage these cuticles, and so yes, they’ve got my attention in this place, surrounded by people who could also probably use a manicure. What an utterly boring distraction. When am I getting a grooming buddy?

So last November, I got myself (after much consideration and motivation from two of the closest non-women in my life, never again) a pair of sneakers!!!! *Gasp* Yes, sneakers. Why am I gasping? Why aren’t you? Well, you see I haven’t owned a sneaker since 5 years ago when it made sense to be so colloquially dressed, walking about, identifying as young and carefree. Of course, the pairs were well embellished. One, black padded quilting like a Chanel purse, the other with pink accents and a pink sole, and the other, a regular Converse high-top except for the doodles/grafitti that it was decorated with. Yes, they were all bought like that, picked out of a selection of bland running shoes. You see, I don’t think sneakers are shoes, I think of them as more of a necessary tool, like prescription medication (shoes for like, running and stuff?). So planning my outfits around these sneakers gave me a bit of a headache. Not to mention I had to learn how to walk in them, how ironic. Bite me.

So this is world’s apart from the postural exercise I’m used to. The ‘tuck in your butt, point your toes, drop your shoulders, hold in your core, hold your gaze in a thin, long imaginary line shooting straight forward’.

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Nope. It’s basically ‘walk’. I found myself lifting my heel for no reason, arch-less, ball-less, stepping of the one foot followed by the other. Like . . . A boy.

Hey hey! The plus side. I can walk REALY fast, heck I can run! Do you know how exciting that is? Other than the fact that I might NEED to run (from something/someone, most likely for something, like a bus, out of the way of an asshole driver (read: right of way) or because I’m in a hurry or all of a sudden I realise that if I run now, I won’t have do those lunges later!). Reality is such a pain in the bunion.

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Sigh, anyway. Or whatever. Sneakers.

They make feel a little less poised than I want to (maybe ought to) feel, a little less feminine, a little less entitled, a little . . . Low maintenance. Like a sliding door as opposed to a vault. Like an A4 page with a feint and margin as opposed to a taupe woodgrain wallpaper sprawling across 5metres . . . Like I can’t be excused for not knowing the meaning of the new slang word doing the rounds. Like ice, melting in a glass of room temperature water . . . And my feet still hurt.

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They also make me feel like I should know the lyrics to A$AP Rocky/Drake/Kanye songs or perhaps just the names of pop artists and their shenanigans to begin with (Getting there), they make me feel like I can actually dance in a place other than in front of the mirror in my room. They make me feel like I’m drinking, like a lot more water than I am, they make me feel like college kid identifying as young and I guess I sort of am. It’s as if I’m not wearing shoes . . . I won’t repeat that prescription part, you know what I mean.

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I will never complain about the glamorous discomfort that heels provide, about the sway aiding the one already created by my waist-to-hip ratio, about the stuttering footsteps, the walking carefully down a flight of stairs, the hand I might need getting across badly maintained pavements, the sloth pace, not even the ankle I might break by walking carelessly. I mean, I said “never” right? Like, what do you want from me?

Shout out to all the snobs who drab away in flat colloquial shoes for necessity only to get home and slip on your favourite pair of heels to maintain that sought after arch in your foot and just revel in wearing something that was made for poise, statement and flair. Until your whole schedule of excuses to wear heels fills up, soak it all in.

And the next time you go out for a jol and your insensitive friend (we all have one) tries to hurry you, followed by, “Why are you wearing heels?” you have my go ahead to answer in a mini tantrum “Because I FUCKING WANT TO!”. Just do it.

P.S. Pictures of other people because I mean, I’m not ready to be photographed with sneakers on, like . . . Also, they are killing it. Go girls.

Over and (running) out.

The Snob.

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The Snob and The Help

Are you mad at me? I don’t blame you, it’s been a while since I had a seriously snobby post, so you probably should be pissed!

Anyway, you know the people who get paid to do the shit you don’t want to do . . . Saving us from dehydration in the form of letting us not sweat over domestic shit. They rock up and get rid of most things dirty until we help them keep their jobs by making them dirty again. Yes, the Help.

Mmm yeah, there are so many ‘wonderful attributes’ here so we’re going to categorize . . . a little.

The Help and English: As in the help and no English. The language barrier is annoying at times and sometimes for me it’s just an excuse (a great one) to not have to really talk to people, because you don’t understand me and I don’t understand you and small talk generally just doesn’t interest me. It does become difficult though when you actually want to express “Uhm, why did you iron my black jeans? Because now they are GREY, I would’ve bought grey jeans if I wanted grey fucking jeans!” or “Where’d you put my lip balm?” like honestly. How do you say ‘lip balm’ in Afrikaans or Zulu? It’s so retarded, I end up randomly saying ‘Ooh’ or ‘Ah’ in every emotion that they can be said in. ‘Ooh’ (apologetic) when I’m walking over a wet floor, ‘Ah’ (understanding) when I realise she wants me to put the teaspoon in the sink and all the other shit that I say with awkward breaks between words, trying to figure out how you say it in whichever language.

At least I don’t have an old woman busting into the bedroom (anymore) where I am sleeping with minimal or no clothes on, picking things up around me while I pretend to be sleeping to avoid an awkward moment like ‘AHHH!’ (surprised, annoyed). Also when she finds me in bed on the weekend she asks if I’m sick, it’s like “Really? No dude, it’s the weekend and I’m gracefully sleeping off my hangover instead of waking up and having a cranky parade all over the place”, of course I can’t figure out how to say that.

The lunch we make her is always the same kind of nice, whatever it is. It’s not amazing, delicious, the best. It’s always ‘nice’ or ‘very nice’. It’s funny but we know she liked it . . . Because it was ‘nice’, haha.

Dinners revolve around what day she’s coming, I know it sounds silly but we’re more likely to make something other than a sandwich or something that requires sauce, oven dishes, lots of chopped vegetables that need to be cooked separately in separate pots, a sieve, a grinder, five wooden spoons, etc the night before she comes rather than the night after she leaves. Obviously that means we can just go to bed and by the time we wake up, all of that shit will be gone. TADA!

Then there’s the obvious shit like not knowing where they put your shit, which can range from stuff you can forget for a week to really important stuff like . . . My favourite hairclip and my favourite necklace and the skirt I wanted to wear out and a driver’s license. the dogs toys, goddammit, where are the dogs toys? This dog is getting REALLY CRANKY! Where are her toys?! This is actually a seriously mindfucking, whiplashing occurrence. When I was little, my helper cleaned my room and I had to go a whole school week or two not knowing where the fuck a few of my books where. Not cool. A week is a long time to be in shit with your teachers, walking around with an exam pad and having to copy a whole week of work into different books! Ah!

The wardrobe is another thing, I can’t stand having blouses folded into a cupboard, knitted sweaters hanging because it ruins the knit pattern, ironed denims, ironed stretch fabric, pleats ironed into my fiance’s trousers (the one’s that don’t have pleats, leave them! And the one’s with pleats at the waistband have unfinished pleats which you aren’t supposed to iron all the way to the hem.), ironed leggings, missing bra straps, muddled clothing (and those light linen shorts that crease so easily that are still folded into the cupboard instead of being hung, so every time I take them out, they are already creased which naturally adds 20 minutes to my getting dressed time – 15 minutes of freaking out and 5 of ironing) . Every now and then someone walks out of a room asking “Is this yours? Have you seen my . . .?” haha, and some of my blouses are on my fiance’s side of the rack and some of his waistcoats on my side. I figured no one can do my wardrobe other than me, I want shit in order, colour coordinated, blouses, tops, skirts, dresses, jackets, coats, shorts, belts etc. That’s just how I want it, so I re-do it every now and then.

The Precious Pans: Yeah, the teflon coated, non stick variety that aren’t supposed to be scratched . . . Well, they get scratched, somehow the heavy purpose steal wool is the only way to wash a pan. We thought we were making everyone’s life easier getting those pans, apparently not.

The BLEACH: I literally have a headache smelling the amount of bleach being used for surfaces that don’t actually have stains that need it. Obviously using bleach on fabric makes the fabric weaker, but I’m not sure if that’s common sense or if one would know that after a career of using different detergents, hmmm.

Very interesting people and sometimes funny too. Like the gardener/handyman using a watering can to wash the car! I laughed at that for days, what was he thinking? ‘Ooh, look at this big flower, let me use the watering can!’. Also the sadness that I experience when the gardener mows my flowers ūüė¶ maybe they look like weeds, but come on, they are (were) so PRETTY!

Even though I know I can do all this myself, one needs to appreciate help. So much energy getting pissed off when one doesn’t listen to you and ruins, loses or throws away your shit just seems like the price (on top of the price) to pay, not that it’s something one should tolerate but people get over it. Until I get my very own Dorota, with her cute accent, calculated anxiety, nurturing personality and basically an older Polish woman who’s ‘got your back’ then you know, whatever, do what they can’t do by yourself which, of course, defeats the point.

Later Snobs.

 

Wasted Youth?

Back to . . . Some kind of reality, I guess. As in the weird party scene.

You see after over-dressing to literally every place you go to, and then finally having a party where everyone else made an effort, there are the masses that unfortunately a snob has to face. Places which I won’t mention by the way. Every time I go there I get the “She doesn’t even go here” look , and I know better than to open my mouth very often unless spoken to because my lack of brain-to-mouth-filter will ask “Are you the before?”. Yes it’s sad, people wear their trainers out, as in like, running shoes. You know it’s cool if you’re going ¬†to¬†run home,¬†run home! walk home but people do that in New York wearing Christian Louboutins or at least dressy Dorothy Perkins pumps. And not only are there the bouncers NOT asking a few delinquents “Isn’t it past your curfew?” but there are ¬†mothers and fathers of college students who might just bump into their kids making out and fondling outside the bathroom, after they themselves have also just been making out and fondling on the dance floor with someone’s lecturer (and decided to take it to the bathroom). Oh the awkwardness joy!

Oh my gosh! Is that an alcohol bracelet on your ankle? I wonder what your parole officer would have to say about your being here, stumbling over the table to get yet ANOTHER drink (. . . And a shot), tripping on your shoe-lace, spilling your drink on someone’s ugly outfit and going back to the bar to get another drink ( . . . ¬†And ANOTHER shot). Whew! You should probably call Lindsay Lohan to tell her you’re ‘totally rebelling’ and so excited to throw up on the girl you’re taking home tonight! Great. Even though I was so keen to keep my mouth shut, I can’t help but want to tell you that TMZ.com is not a lifestyle channel, really, it isn’t. No really REALLY! IT ISN’T!

This mugshot is found from http://www.perezhil...

This mugshot is found from http://www.perezhilton.com, and the original is from the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. All mugshots from there are released into in the public domain.http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=User_talk:Meegs&diff=prev&oldid=108863911 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There just HAPPENS to be art galleries down the road from some of these places, which obviously brings the surprisingly under-dressed art crowd. I don’t get it, some individuals in this crowd are known in Europe and might become amazingly successful globally pretty damn soon and yet they have the tendency to ALWAYS fit in with the hoboes. Come on, it must be embarrassing for someone to say “Sorry I don’t have change” when you’re near them. That must make it weird if you ever ask for change, for like, a cigarette vending machine or something.

Seeing a girl or guy who is also over-dressed and confused without their significant other is also a sad story. Like, unless you work for some charity organization and tonight your duty is to offer or allow for a charity shag then sorry to tell you, but the best you can do is to video-tape people who can’t dance and make a hit youtube video out of it. Otherwise, you can find your NBF (New Best Friend) in a gay guy because half the chicks here are wearing stripes AND polka-dot and/or orange or their friend’s clothes or some really shit ill-fitting vintage (from the 80’s). Deeper in the suburbs you can literally shout “Ashley! Bradley! Morgan! Jade! Blake! Jesse! Taylor! or Kyle!” and any guy or girl will look straight at you and reply “Hey?”. These apparently unisex or common names . . . Actually don’t surprise me.

Township music is fucking over! I can’t stress this more! Stop trying to make fetch township music happen! And the 80’s left us about ¬†32¬†ago, and that commercial house is disgusting and the cheesy songs from television ads only remind us of toothpaste or the specials at the garage and why does every big party have to be a drum & bass or dubstep gathering with junkies and jail bait spilling drinks on each other and hiding their crack bong or needle set in their hoodies? WHY?

 

I’m not exactly complaining, this ‘scene’ gives me lots to write about, it’s a cultural thing right? I totally (almost) understand why you pregamed on the side of the road, waiting for your ‘First 100 in’ free shots and shit, and I guess you might need your chemical fix due to your lack of personality outside of the ‘group’. Get rowdy! Party! Just know, if I get overly fascinated, I’ll be there taking pictures, documenting your hoodie-trainer-neon-coloured-80’s vintage-shit talking-screaming-drug induced personalities (maybe even a video). There are cool people amongst you, just please don’t spill your drink on my white chiffon!

xoxo.

The Snob!