I am a snob. I inherited this trait from my father. Never got those blue eyes that could have helped me in the charm and disarming department. No, I got the eye color that looks like mud on a spring morning and the snob gene. I don’t really feel all that guilty about it. The snobby part that is. I remember my dear old father proclaiming that if he died while in Walmart (where my mother used to drag him crying and screaming) that he would want his lifeless body driven over to Lord & Taylor’s where it would be placed ever so gently on their front steps. No New York Times obituary was ever going to state that he expired by the Bermuda shorts and novelty tee shirt department at Walmart.
The husband was getting ready for work the other day. He gets up at the ungodly hour of 5 a.m., which means that I might as well get up also. Lights, action, and some low muttering about what one of my well behaved cats did during the night. Just charming. It’s like having all the really cool religious leaders sitting at the foot of my bed and going, “Elizabeth, have a wonderful day. And you know all those things you wished for last night? Well, the U.P.S. man will be delivering them to you today. And the Nordstrom and Neiman Marcus families want you to spend the holidays in Vail with them.” Notice they made no mention of Walmart. Even God knows that you can’t wash clothes from Walmart twice because they will melt together in the dryer. I have seen that happen.
Where the hell was I? Oh, right the husband is getting dressed. And then he comes in to say “get up, you lazy bitch” and I see him wearing a red baseball cap with a ghastly flame on the side, shorts with 17 pockets (and men say we carry big bags), tube socks and black sneakers. Oh and a tee shirt with De Kooning-like paint stains splattered all over it and a denim shirt finishes the ensemble. And he is leaving the house this way? Does he not realize that he is living with a snob? Oh, yes, he does. I think he puts these outfits together as a way to punish me for marrying him. Running me over with his pick-up truck six to 800 times would hurt less. And yes, he does have a pick-up truck. My membership to the Project Runway Fan club is in jeopardy. Tim Gunn — I can explain.
I know our mailman has got to be confused. I look at our mail, and I am sometimes aghast and horrified. There are cute little kittens and puppies in need who are featured on envelopes that are stuck in between Outdoorsmen Love Quiche, and I Have a Riffle, and I Don’t Care How Cute You Are Quarterly. I just hate how my InStyle and spirituality and health magazines have to rub shoulders with Cabela’s 15-pound catalogue that features camouflage thongs for men. With beer bellies. I was asked if I would like anything from Cabela’s for Christmas. Who knew they have a divorce lawyer section right after the gun and pepper-spray sections. Way in the back. Real small type.
Just for the record, the husband can look quite dashing when he applies himself. And when he does, I don’t feel like the need to apply to the Snob Protection Plan. But I might try it out for six months.
Now please let me know if I am wrong about this, but who wears black shoes with a brown belt?
Give me a pair of shoes and belt that coordinate or give me death. Just plant my cold body by the entrance to Neiman Marcus’ jewelry department (by the sales items). I said I was a snob. Not stupid.