My name is … and I am a snob …

Snob (n.)

  1. One who tends to patronize, rebuff, or ignore people regarded as social inferiors and imitate, admire, or seek association with people regarded as social superiors.
  2. One who affects an offensive air of self-satisfied superiority in matters of taste or intellect.

Anyone who knows me knows this to be true, I have never suffered fools, and I also don’t enjoy or appreciate “slumming it”.

What needs to be understood is that I grew up in the ass-end of town, in Council Flats! In other words we had to be poor to qualify to stay there, and we were! Growing up in that environment, you meet some interesting people and you see some interesting things. You grow up quickly. I always joke and say I was born 30 and my body just caught up. The thing I learned pretty early on (fortunately) is I didn’t want to be like some of the people I saw there and I believed I was somehow better or more deserving of better, so I guess I was born a snob.

We get invited all over to talk to groups of people because of the boutique. And last week I was invited somewhere (I’ll leave the details out to avoid embarrassing anyone) but suffice it to say I felt like an alien in a group of distinctly “different” ladies. I could not wait to hightail it out of there! This is really going to sound super snobby now, but what the hey, let me dish …

How to tell when you’re a snob:

  • The high-pitched whiny minnie-mouse-like voice of the other ladies grates the shit out of you!
  • The faux-drunk act perplexes you. You know what I mean? Those ladies who come from the office (not a drop of alcohol has passed there lips), they set foot in a pub and suddenly they’re tipsy and the life of the party! ROLLING EYES!
  • You cringe when the other ladies in your group ask for dinner plates when the waitrons bring platters of finger snacks!!! Like what do you not understand about “finger” snacks! These are the type of ladies that would order Horse Durves!
  • The site of middle-aged, overweight married woman trying to dirty dance with the barman with the aid of a feather boa sends you screaming out the door!

So, it’s official – I am a snob – and proud of it!

PS – this is not to say I can’t let my hair down, there’s a HUGE difference between letting your hair down and this lot!

Letting your hair down:

Frenchy and I had an unplanned crazy Friday night a couple of weeks back, it started with imbibing numerous cocktails and shooters, dancing, kissing lessons outside Billys (ribbit, ribbit) and ended with me sliding down the wall outside my front door staring perplexed at the keyhole, keys in hand and trying to figure out how they go together. The difference is we didn’t act like tarts from the minute we walked through the door! We acted like tarts after copious amounts of tart-inducing liquids were consumed!

Yes, there is a difference!