snoburbia, the blog

weekend in snoburbia

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From my friends' Facebook posts, a cornucopia of typical snoburbia weekend activities:

• Dropped daughter off at a Bat Mitzvah. Now to boxing class.

• Husband crushed his PR at the National Marathon this morning.

• Daughter stroked the novice eight - won the regatta this morning.

• Off to The Container Store and Trader Joe's.

• Son plays FC Westchester (Scarsdale).

• Ready for Earth Hour tonight.

• Off to North Oldham to watch son play lacrosse.

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the pawn of beers

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So we recently had a big party. My friend offered to pick up the beer. He brought back the usual bottled varieties - and a case of Pabst. Pabst! Pabst is what the drunk in my old hometown neighborhood used to spill all over himself before he passed out in the alley.

Who the heck was going to drink Pabst? So I hid it out on the porch as a backup, late party replacement. I certainly didn't want it to feature prominently in the cooler.

But apparently, Pabst is a staple of twentysomething hipsters*, as is anything working class that their parents in snoburbia have rejected. (Next: Bud.)

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* It may be over. Real hipsters would not be caught dead drinking something that the johnny-come-lately hipster masses have discovered. Real hipsters also never call themselves hipsters.

 

we care a lot

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The kids at a nearby overclass snoburbia high school just held a charity drive, to raise money for a worthwhile cause. They did stunts like duct-taping the principal to the wall.

The haul? $38,000. It is rumored that one boy gave $700.

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no ski bunny

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I, for one, am relieved this season is ending. Ski season, that is. If you live in snoburbia, you must love to ski. If you do not love to ski, you have a character defect. ("I have never skied," I said, to the blank stares of my friends, who were regaling each other with tales of recent ski excursions.)

I finally made my first attempt at skiing, when the pressure to take my children skiing became too much to bear. They picked it up right away and loved it. I, however, ended my skiing career in tears, death-gripping the outstretched arm of the bemused ski instructor as he guided me to the bottom of the bunny hill.

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it's a gas

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I pulled into the snoburbia gas station, and absent-mindedly started filling my tank, as I usually do*. Then the pump clicked and I looked at my total: $80.35. What the f...amily! Apparently I chose the second most expensive gas station in Maryland, at $3.79 a gallon. In a few days (I drive a lot), when I fill my tank again, it will be at the station I passed today in outer suburbia, $3.42 a gallon.

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* I usually roll into the gas station on fumes, down to zero. This is because you can't find a gas station in snoburbia: Residents of snoburbia feel about gas stations the same way they feel about Cash for Gold stores.