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.


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’.

fancy outfit and sneakers

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.


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.


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.

Check out this blog beeteedubs

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.

5 Minutes With The Snob

Why are you so distracted?

Imaan Hamman getting even prettier. Photo:

Woah, woah woah! Start from the top. Don’t just come here and start talking prose from your ass. Take a deep a breath, I mean like wtf?

I’m a feminist now. So can I say ‘girls’ or ‘chicks’ referring to women? What about bitches and hoes, what’s the verdict on those? And sluts? Or should I say actively sexual exploiters, personally or otherwise . . . In the exploiting and not the dressing. Come on, wake up.

Go home Bob, you’re rich.

You know what I was thinking? . . . Nothing.

Do you think I need more hairspray?

Sui He “Is this smudging? Should I stop talking after this?”

If I’m not in the front, then why am I here?

Nice pot plant. Do you have an indoor gardener for your indoor plants or do you just spritz them from your water bottle?

You’re on ‘Brow-Duty’, I don’t want to feel betrayed when I look in the mirror later.

Do you have everything?

I don’t, for the life of me, understand why there isn’t any music playing.

Stockings, hmmm.

How’re my brows?



Love ya, bye.

xoxo. The Snob.

Stupid Intelligent People

My thoughts, two days ago:

“Plane crashes in the French Alps. Why would anyone fly over such a high mountain range? Is that a thing? It shouldn’t be. Surely they take detours through lower places. Who the fuck is going TO the French Alps by plane? Isn’t that what trains are for? Like in that movie in which Brad Pitt’s character and his friend (or not) get arrested for being suspected as Nazi’s? I don’t know, really. Brad was the blondest of blonde and had that awkward as fuck German accent . . . Hmm . . . Anyway, they were travelling by train to reach the peaks, I guess they were planning on hiking the rest of the way. Whatever. Maybe today’s pilots should be flying higher with stronger, faster aircrafts. Our technology might have just reached a lag, or is it just not making it into popular culture? We need raised landing stations with smaller airports, for smaller aircrafts like helicopters to drop off at a lower point (as in ground level). It would be so over-the-top cool, literally. Surely it’d have to be accommodating, like a whole different city in the sky with different levels of gravity . . . Urhmm”

So all that lovely thought just ended up being drowned out by yesterday’s update. The pilot was suicidal (successfully) and basically took everyone down with him. Co-pilot, might I add. Andreas Lubitz, took the wheel and took a shot at population control too. Sigh. Seriously? Can we all see his recent psyche evaluations, please? Here’s a good idea, let an unstable, selfish individual fly people to basically anywhere, but let’s add the French Alps in that route, in a plane in which the main pilot can be locked out of the cockpit. Insanity. Who’s taking the fall for this one? (The pun there that you think you’re registering is invalid because this plane didn’t fall, that would’ve been an accident, so just stop.)

Fine, people get sick of their lives and end up killing themselves. Some people take a significant amount of sleeping pills, shoot up whatever drug they trust to do the job, buy a gun and turn it on themselves, jump from buildings and cliffs, jump in front of speeding trains, gas themselves in cars, hang themselves, stab themselves, poison themselves with something fancy, slit their wrists . . . In Seven Pounds, Will Smith’s character, Tim, fills a bath with ice water, gets in and adds a jellyfish to the equation. That was brutal, beautiful, depressing, intelligent and creative. No, not Andreas Lubitz. He had to kill himself (and all the passengers) ON THE JOB. Like, just how busy was his work schedule? None of the above options occurred to him? Why doesn’t he fit the description of a terrorist? What he did was very similar to what suicide bombers do. Am I missing something? Aren’t we all?

So it turns out, they do fly over intense mountains, how romantic. These things fly high! . . . He took a PLUNGE! I guess I can’t hate a dead guy, but my heart goes out to those who lost their loved ones. I’d be devastated and furious!


It’s time for Germanwings to explain their sloppy staff member, they have a lot of answering to do. I wouldn’t want to be CEO right now. ‘Current Affairs’ are so fucked up. Grab your popcorn and your tissues, snobs. There’s probably more.


The Snob.

P.S. Do try and enjoy your weekend, stay away from mountains for now, I think.

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 😦 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.


The Snob’s New Year’s Resolutions!

okay, first of all, how retarded is that phrase ‘New Year’s Resolutions’? Not ‘solutions’, ‘resolutions’. Strange, like oh again! Anyway, here are mine. Keep in mind, I’m like, talking to myself.

1. Work out, you lazy bitch! No seriously, working out is fun and the rewards are a hottter body so why the fuck aren’t you doing it? Huh?

2. Bottles are nice unless they’re filled with emotions. Stop it!

3. Stop wearing that gorgeous blazer with EVERY outfit, duh.

4. Wear those oxblood-red shoes, scared bitch!

5. Dance more, boring picky bitch!

6. Write more, uninspired bitch!

7. Don’t allow people to waste even a second of your lovely time, I mean really.

8. Shut up sometimes. (I’m a straightforward person, waiting for someone to get to the point simply bores me and then I’ll have another point and I realise they haven’t yet made a point, if I can do it so can you, but hey. Maybe I have to wait, yawn . . . Yay, let’s be positive)

9. Wear what you want to wear, it’s my body and my clothes not OURS!

10. Tame your criticism. It’s that getting to the point thing, I don’t like going around the bush and that pisses people off, weirdly enough. People like the cushioned blow which means you have to speak to everyone like they are pussy little girls with no self esteem and analyse everything you say, so “That top isn’t very flattering” has to turn into “Oh, the last time I saw you, you were wearing this pretty top, that style really looks good on you. And I love your pants!”- I don’t even think that bush is big enough for some people. Perhaps they should just accept that I’ll tell them straight.

11. Expand my blogger network. Bloggers can be so shy, I don’t know what it will take.

12. Love love love.

13. Make stuff. (more stuff)

14. Lookbook-my lookbook is gathering dust, so sad.

15. Take more photos.

16. Indulge in fashion like a squirrel with nuts!!!!!

I would say ‘stop bitching’ but usually when I bitch about something, it’s because that something needs to be bitched about so excuse me. Either way, I hope everyone has had a great year or at least an adventurous one filled with real shit because that’s what happens.

xoxo. The Snob.

At Which Point Can I Say “FUCK THIS”?

This a story about a girl, a girl who went on a tedious journey for blogger freedom!

Okay, no it isn’t really, but it sorta is, okay.

So two days ago I started this blog ( or however many days ago it was) but more specifically, I found out that I could import posts from my TUMBLR ( )! Isn’t that SOOOOO cool? Isn’t it? Yes, the idea, as in the theory is fucking-blogger-freedom-rad. This is the part that annoys the shit out me though, it’s the big

BUT . . .

Yeah, you see it actually doesn’t/didn’t work. I searched this option all over the net like a fucking FBI agent looking for a fugitive-con artist/terrorist/sexual sadist/serial satanic ritual killer or in brighter terms (not so much brighter) like a crazy fashionista (hate that word) looking for the perfect shoes to match her outfit before an important event. Also I happened to fit into the generation that has been diagnosed by society (or whoever) with whatever they call it when you have a short attention span, like quick fixes and cheap thrills, have the focus of a toddler with a too many toys and ants in his/her pants and is a social media junkie. Speaking of which, I should probably get to the fun part because someone in this ‘poor little generation’ will go to their Tumblr to check out studded denim shorts.

I found a whole lot of applications that’ll apparently do this Tumblr to WordPress thing FOR YOU, and by that they meant that I’d have to fiddle with codes, fiddle with my Tumblr and possibly fuck up both my blogs. I love how these techno-geeks think it’s that easy. I know a little about codes but honestly I can’t imagine what a site would look like just by looking at a CODE! I’m a blogger, not a site technician. Oh and then there were people who had my problem (nothing was working), and people whose posts were all confuzzled after the switch, broken links, duplicates and also,apparently search engines could possibly remove both blogs because of duplicates because they think you’re copying someone’s blog, so I’d have to edit my whole Tumblr as ‘private’ (so then who’s going to see it? Huh?).

There were the lucky few who were like, “Oh my gosh, I LOVE IT, it totally works”.

Did I say LUCKY FEW?

Some part of me is glad that these developers (of the app) haven’t worked their shit out because I really love my Tumblr, it’s frustrating losing your followers even for the better

(and with hit counters views!!!!!!!)

I’d rather not part with my lovely blog. I discovered what the issue really was through this brain wrenching journey. It’s that primary writer’s block you know, when you’re dealing with a blank page and a lot of thoughts or no thoughts at all or too many thoughts that translate into nothing. The hardest part is starting. You want to have a fantastic blog like, right NOW, and it’s annoying that it isn’t that simple.

I’m glad I went through that shitty process, all my Tumblr followers are going to have to cut me some slack. I’m a writer too!

Enhanced by Zemanta