kitty pi

In an effort to further inflame familial relations and annoy the f*** out of my parents next month at our family reunion, I am beginning to practice and hone the fine art of being a snob.   I don't need a lot of practice,  but for the past few years I've been on a bit of an anti-pretentious bent mainly because Orange County is one of the capitals of pretentiousness and I find it rather ridiculous.  Also, I tend to do that which is opposite of the mainstream.  I am starting my snob-training with simple terminology since I need a refresher due to living in slacker surf-town and thus our neighbors' vocabulary consists mainly of "dude, where's the beer?" or "dude, where did I leave my bong?".  The other part of OC where I work is all Republican and all-spoiled (with their nannies and their trips to Europe and their home remodels).  Me and Mr. Quilty quietly try to blaze our own trail and avoid the fray wherever possible.   Along the way, we've noticed subtle things which make us laugh and which will surely irritate/befuddle/amuse my parents (who don't live any where near the West Coast).   

 

One of my favorite Orange County-isms:  When going to the mall, or what is known at Chez Quilty as "Teenage Buttcrack Land", the food court at the mall is not called the "Food Court".   Instead, it is the "Dining Veranda".   Who wants to go on a date at the food court, when you can go to the Dining Veranda?  Of course, it really is a notch above most food courts.  Even the girls at Hot Dog on a Stick are slightly classier than average, I suppose, even with their exposed butt-cleavage.  

 

I know this isn't unique to Orange County but will irritate my parents nonetheless: 

I do not drive a used car.  It is "pre-owned".  (Plus it's Scandinavian so that is a bonus!)

I buy "vintage" clothing (at the thrift store).  Or, I will when I can afford to buy anything at all!

I never eat spaghetti.  I do eat "linguine with organic tomato, basil and garlic sauce".

I only make gourmet macaroni and cheese.  And my Asian Noodles, i.e., ramen, are the best in town.

We go to the "cinema" to see "films", not the movie theater.

 

The list goes on and on but you get the point.  For my family reunion, we are going to Las Vegas on NASCAR weekend which, I think, means above-average numbers of people who are - how can I put this? - not like us.  In an effort to blend in with the crowd, perhaps I'll buy Mr. Q a wife-beater tank and see how drunk I need to get him before he'll put it on.  Somehow, I don't think there is enough alcohol in all of Las Vegas for that to happen. 

 

Since Mr. Quilty and my parents have never met, and he is sure to offend their delicate Red State sensibilities anyway, it is my earnest hope that we can at least go in well-armed with the latest high-falutin' intellectualism we can muster.   I do love my parents,  but since they have always thought I was a snob, and Mr. Q doesn't have a shred of white-trash in him, I am quite sure they will be disappointed if we don't go all out for their entertainment.