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If you are a woman living in overclass snoburbia, and you are between the ages of 35 and 55, you must have a mid-thigh length down coat*. It must be brown or black.
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* It must not say North Face on it. That was so two years ago. I mean, people at Wheaton Plaza are wearing it now**.
**1. How you know a trend has reached total mass market saturation, or, 2. Where fashion goes to die
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Let's talk about space - mine.
People stand too close to me. People in a snoburbia movie theater line jostle me or brush against my coat. I hate that. Or they stand one foot away when speaking.
But I have just figured it out. It's not them, it's me - and where I'm from.
I noticed, when recently visiting my Appalachian hometown, that a couple awkwardly hugged the other side of the Walmart toy aisle and said, "Excuse me!" as they passed by - four feet away - turning sideways, as if they were encroaching on sovereign territory and must ask for admittance. In my hometown, people a table's width away from you beg your pardon as they pass. Perhaps this prevented violence in the not-so-distant past.
But in snoburbia, apparently, your personal space bubble is defined by shoulders, not by elbows - or the end of your shotgun.
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Reportedly, the Apple iPad is the Christmas gift most desired by children in the under-13 set. (It starts at the "unbelievable price" of $499.)
Um... no.
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I was at a party, and I expressed admiration for the shoes of the snoburban woman next to me. I believe my exact words were, "Your shoes are really cute." This apparently was the prompt that caused her immediately to slide her foot out... so that I could gaze upon the Manolo Blahnik label while she said, "Thank you."
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People often ask me how I come up with topics for my blog. But really, they hit me when I least expect it, sometimes ridiculously.
Recently, we needed an ambulance. The EMTs asked, "Which hospital would you like us to take you to?" I mentioned the big one that was closest to us. But the EMTs looked at each other, knowingly. They said, "You don't want to go there." So they took us to the smaller hospital in the snoburbs, the one where you can get cappuccinos and rugelach in the lobby.
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I attended a large political event today in my snoburban county. Every major and minor local politico was there. There were speeches, of course. There was praise of firefighters and police officers and union employees, of course. There was an honor guard, a bagpipe group playing patriotic songs, an orchestra of local high school kids (mostly Asian), and a Jewish a cappella group. Saying prayers were a Rabbi, a Muslim imam, and a Baptist minister. An African American soloist sang "God Bless America" (beautifully) from her wheelchair. There were no unitarians or atheists, though.
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In this part of snoburbia, you must know how to pronounce words like "shikse" and "mezuzah." When you eat, you nosh. When you carry something heavy, you schlep it. These words have seeped into my vocabulary. (I grew up hearing about the rosary and the Trinity.) The grocery store in Bethesda was packed for a few days in mid-September. My children attended at least three Bat or Bar Mitzvahs a year in seventh and eighth grades.
One of my friends moved away from here, and her kids were shocked by the new school system: "What?! We have to go to school on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur?"
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Happy Hanukkah to all my friends who celebrate the Festival of Lights. (Or is it Chanukah?)
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In overachiever snoburbia we relish our ability to stay awake. It's the subject of discussion at parties. "I sleep only four hours a night..." (subtext: "...because the global economy would collapse without my efforts," or "...because the Scouts would cease to exist without my selfless toil.") The counter to this is: "Yeah, I know, I only slept three hours last night."
I, however, do not engage in this competition. I am a sleeper. If I don't get enough sleep - and I mean at least seven hours - I become:
a.) grouchy
b.) a total nincompoop
There have been many sleep studies in recent years. And they generally show that a person who doesn't get enough sleep has increased depression and stress levels, as well as reduced cognitive function. In other words, he becomes:
a.) grouchy
b.) a total nincompoop
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* This is a real word, and it sounds especially funny when you haven't had enough sleep.
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Oh no. I dread this feeling that is coming on. It's the feeling of having crossed a line from which I now can never retreat: I think I am becoming a cheese snob.
I have bought cheese from the artisanal cheese man at the local snoburban farmers' market every Saturday for about a month now. And now I can never eat ordinary cheese again. I didn't plan on this. It's the very kind of thing I would tease one of my friends about. But the other day my husband brought home some cheese from the Safeway - a cheese I normally like, and... it did not taste good.
So this morning I walked to the farmers' market for my cheese fix. I stood next to the French woman who was arguing with the cheese man that, "This cheese was made in France." He seemed to delight in telling her it was made in Appalachia (Washington, Va. - not exactly typical Appalachia).
I bought some semi-hard, rosemary-rind cheese and some chevre. I may even try a piece of the aged Stilton he is going to bring next weekend.
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I feel a little uncomfortable saying this, because it's not very snoburban of me, but... I don't like Thanksgiving. Not at all. Don't get me wrong - it's not in that Thanksgiving-as-metaphor-for-family-dysfunction way. I love seeing my family, who come in from out of town. I also love the long weekend.
It's just that Thanksgiving is a massing of all those things I don't care about, all on one day:
• Food
• Rituals
• Finery
Maybe it stems from my mother making me clean the wax off the candelabra or iron the tablecloths every year. The good china, the crystal, the turkey that has to cook all day. All that pressure, culminating in... one meal.
I'd rather we just hang out. Can't we just order a pizza?
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P.S. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
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I am starting to think of screenprinters as carnies, or maybe pirates. In the last couple of weeks, I have sold quite a few snoburbia t-shirts because of the Washington Post article. Great, right? Well, not so fast.
I placed my order with my screenprinter, and after a reasonable number of days, called to see when they would be ready. Well, the dreadlocked Jamaican guy who does the printing, "has disappeared for four days and no one has seen him." Okay? But they found a temp who could do it. Okay.
So I called on Friday to find out about picking up my shirts, and the really nice, apologetic guy who answered the phone explained that if they weren't printed by the end of that day, I wasn't getting them at all. "Um, why?" I asked. Because they were going out of business and the bank was coming any minute to padlock the warehouse - with my shirts inside.
So now, I am trying a new screenprinter, who seems professional and good. One of my snoburbia Facebook page friends sent him to me. So I checked out his Facebook page - it shows a photo of him wearing a t-shirt that says, "Eat, f**k, kill."
Aargh.
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I have just spent four hours helping my son with his science fair project - mostly through motivational speaking, with occasional bouts of sighing. In this quadrant of snoburbia, science fair projects are a serious affair - for parents. Some of my son's classmates' parents are scientists at National Institutes of Health or at one of the genetics companies in the area. Or they're just lawyers.
Even in fifth grade, you should see the projects these kids come up with.
Then there's high school. Here were the titles of a few of the Science Montgomery high school contest winners from last year: "Validation Of Parabolic Ion Trap Geometries For Application Within Quantum Computing," "Decycling Densities Of Tessellations," and "Investigation Of Nano-structured Super-hydrophobic Coating On Structural Substrates."
My kid's project: "Comparing the bounciness of balls of different materials."
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I want to talk to you about... ED. No, no - not that ED, not the one in those creepy ads where silver-haired couples are holding hands and smiling knowingly.
It's the other ED: Early Decision. Early Decision is what you do when you have been groomed your whole life to attend a particular college, Williams, say, or Stanford. (There is a whole hierarchy of decisions to confuse you: Early Action, Restrictive Early Action, Early Decision, or Early Notification. But it's okay - your parents will hire a college admissions counselor to figure it all out. Or you will camp out on College Confidential.)
Before I lived in the snoburbs, I thought college applications had to be in by January sometime. But that is so regular admissions, so public university.
The deadline is nigh. Now it's a nail-biter until you hear the news. If you get in, you're golden. If not, you are stuck with your reach school, which is devastating.
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Around here, in the snoburbs, you mustn't just eat your food. You must do a statistical and cultural analysis of it. Food is political. It is not to be taken lightly - and certainly not to be enjoyed. That is, unless you know it was harvested sustainably or grown locally and organically (and purchased at the local farmers' market).
If you do not follow the above rules, you deserve to be flogged. For instance, if you indulge in Nutella, you, personally, are destroying the rainforests. [Note: But deliciously.]
I know a 10-year-old boy who was at his friend's house, and who, when offered some chicken, asked: "Is this free-range, organic chicken or is it factory-farmed?" Okay, that was my kid. I am so proud.
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Something snaps in regular people the minute they have a baby and move to snoburbia.
I was watching the show, Modern Family. There was an exchange between Mitchell and Cam, a gay couple* raising a young daughter, Lily. It was a pitch-perfect capture of the angst snoburban parents feel.
Mitchell came home, panicked, after noticing that Lily's usual playmates and their moms were missing from the playground. Where were they?
Mitchell: [T]hey all sent their kids to preschool!
Cam: What?! We agreed to wait until next year!
Mitchell: It was a fake-out - to make sure their kids got a spot.
Cam: Those skinny b*tches...
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* We don't even notice whether parents are gay in snoburbia, because we are so tolerant.
After I voted yesterday, I was proud to wear my generic "I voted/Yo vote" sticker. I felt extra special. But then I saw this one from snoburban Northern Virginia*:
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* I don't actually go to Virginia unless medically necessary, so thank you to astute Virginia reader Chris L. for sending me this photo.
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From the application form for the Montgomery County middle school Mathematics, Science, and Computer Science Magnet Program. Children apply for it at age 10, in fifth grade:
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Nutella. I first discovered it in the cabinet of a friend in California. This friend bought $180 shoes (in 1987), drank Orangina and shopped at Trader Joes (in 1987). She and Nutella were cool.
But now, Nutella is at Costco, and Orangina is owned by Dr. Pepper Snapple.
And the other night, I was horrified to see a television commercial for Nutella. Now the masses would know my delicious chocolate secret. But not to worry; it was aimed right at snoburbia. First of all, the ad was placed on that ersatz egghead show, Rubicon (watched on DVR, of course). And then there was the subtext:
Nutella, is "perfect on multi-grain toast and even whole wheat waffles."
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Sociologists, pay attention. After every school or community event in snoburbia, an important ritual occurs: the elaborate thanking ritual. This is where the women who volunteered in the event try to out-thank each other. The one of us who thanks with the most spirit wins.
I just volunteered at a fundraising event, a party to raise funds for our endangered children's library. And, as I expected, within 24 hours, the ritual began:
Kudos to Sue* and her incredible volunteer team, who put together a
magnificent afternoon… the D.J. spun the finest hits. It
was truly an afternoon infused with community spirit.
Sue to volunteers:
Thank you so much for creating such a wonderful dance party! We raised
over $3,000 for the... Children’s Library… Congratulations and
thank you again for all your help!
Sue, I think the thanks goes in the other direction!!! Thank YOU for being
such a tremendous leader and orchestrating such a special event for
our community…
And we have a winner! It's only been a couple of days, so I fully expect a few more. No one has thanked the thankers. And no elected official has weighed in yet.
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* name changed to protect the thanked
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My son took his first kung fu class today at the local snoburbia martial arts academy. The instructor told me they used to mix all levels in one class and everyone was considered equal. But, she said, "For some reason, that didn't work around here. People always wanted to know what level their kids were as compared to other kids. So we had to go to a colored sash system."
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Maybe it's the cold weather coming in, but it's time to wax serious for a moment. Well, as serious as I can wax, anyway.
In the last couple of days, I have heard two interviews on NPR* and had a conversation that helped gel a thought that has been rattling around in my head for many months. It's about race and snoburbia.
One interview was with Vijay Iyer, the jazz artist. Interviewer Terry Gross asked him whether, when he was growing up, people questioned him about why he, an Indian American, was playing jazz?
And then I heard an interview with Eugene Robinson about his new book (which I can't wait to read), Disintegration: The Splintering of Black America. He talked about how the African American overclass really did not relate to the black underclass (whom he called "abandoned"). The two live their lives largely in separate spheres.
That same day, I was having a conversation with a Japanese woman who was newly arrived in snoburbia. She said she liked Bethesda because people don't treat her as a foreigner. When she went to another part of the country, she felt uncomfortable, and people stared at her and her family. They asked her probing questions.
This got me thinking about how race is treated in snoburbia. In the local snoburban high school, kids mix seemingly without regard to race. They think nothing of calling someone of another race, "hot." (Where and when I grew up, one would have kept such a thought to oneself.) My kids and their cohort have friends of white, African American, Asian, Middle Eastern and Latino family background. They don't talk about race at all. At all. Really. It just doesn't come up, except perhaps as a descriptor.
But when I look more closely at who all of these kids are, it becomes clearer. No matter the race, all of the children are advantaged, from educated parents. Some of the blacks and Latinos are children of government bureaucrats, scientists or diplomats. Some were born in another country. But they all have at least some money and educated parents.
Left out of the snoburban teen social groupings are black and Latino kids from the less fortunate neighborhood. (There are virtually no poor white or Asian kids around here.) Those kids also attend the same high school, but they talk and dress differently. They live in one or two pocket neighborhoods and ride the school bus. They don't go to the same parties or even to the same mall. They are more on MySpace than Facebook, so their online social interactions are limited; this aspect is rapidly changing, however, and may already have changed by the end of this paragraph.
When I talk to my friends who live in the area between the coasts about my blog, they usually make the assumption that I'm talking about and to white people. Then they immediately ask me if I have seen Stuff White People Like. (Well, of course I have seen it. The dude got a book deal out of it. I'm not bitter. And no, I am not going to link to it.)
It always strikes me as strange that there is an assumption of whiteness when people who don't live in snoburbia think of privilege. In snoburbia, no one would ask Vijay Iyer why he played jazz. However, if he were very poor and undereducated, people might wonder (not aloud) how he discovered jazz. Snoburbia is much less stratified by race (though, to be fair, white people are the majority).
If a family like the Obamas moved in next door (or into the White House), nobody would bat an eye. We know them. They are familiar. They are not wearing t-shirts with baggy sleeves down to their elbows or big, gold hoop earrings [see below]. They planted a garden and go to Sidwell, so they are of snoburbia.
Instead, what gets people around here in a complete tizzy? People in snoburbia are more upset that the Obamas may not have planted an organic garden. Quel scandale!
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A note about my photo: I knew exactly what type of earrings I was looking for. So I typed into Google image search: "gold hoop earrings." Many pages of results later, I still could not find the right image. Very reluctantly (and I am even more hesitant to tell you), I typed in: "ghetto gold hoop earrings." The photo you see at the top was on the first page of results.
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* the CliffsNotes of snoburbia
I have been away for a while. No excuses. Oh, yeah, except that my 60-year-old living room ceiling collapsed! Here it is:
The gray stuff on the ground is not dust - it's the ceiling itself. But even in this minor catastrophe and mess, I found a kernel of good: Fodder for my blog.
I was getting bids from contractors, and I called my friend who is a contractor who works on historic homes. She said she would give me a quote to re-plaster the ceiling. I said, "No, drywall is fine." She seemed shocked: "Really? Everyone around here insists on plaster. No one wants drywall."
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Montgomery County Public Schools has issued a booklet, Seven Keys to College Readiness. The first key is, "Advanced reading in Grades K-2." The third key is, "Advanced math in Grade 5." Every few weeks, some vexed parent pops up on one of the listservs on which I lurk,* worried that her kindergartner is not yet reading Harry Potter or her third grader is not yet doing Algebra.
Not to worry - in MoCo, forty percent of children qualify for the GT tag or "gifted and talented." Most live in the green zone, another term for snoburbia, where college is a birthright and it is assumed one's child is GT. On one listserv, a commenter said a more accurate moniker would be AA: "Advanced and Advantaged."
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* because "lurk" is a funny word, that's why
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Wanted: A small tv for our au pair
Offer: Peg Perego Pliko stroller
From Freecycle - Silver Spring:
Offer: "Deadheads for Obama" pin
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At the parent meeting for my son's new elite soccer team*, a gasp went up in the room when the coach announced, sheepishly: "Coaching staff requests that parents do not attend training sessions (practices). The boys need to learn to self-advocate."
What? What?!
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* I thought he was already on an elite team. Wrong. Turns out there are ever more elite teams. This is so snoburban helicopter parents can gleefully conquer the next level.
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I have been following the middle class tax cut extension debate. This is where people who make $250,000 a year call themselves middle class. Those middle class households are in snoburbia, where all the politicians and media commentators live.
The Census Bureau would call them something else: rich. The median family income is $50,223. Only 1.9 percent of American households earn $250,000 or more. This may come as something of a shock to people living in the snoburbs.
When your neighborhood norm is that people send their kids to $30,000-a-year private schools and then $50,000-a-year private colleges, you just might feel entitled to tax relief if you make only $250,000 - or [gulp] under.
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It is the fall political season, and politicians are everywhere, bumping into each other at parades and block parties. They are tired after months of campaigning, and now their claws are starting to come out.
Ire and accusation may work in some neighborhoods - but not in overclass snoburbia. If someone is perceived as "not nice," he is out. In snoburbia, it is more important to be nice than to be right.
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If you are a high school junior or senior in overclass snoburbia, it is a humiliation to ride the school bus. (It's bad enough your parents make you go to a school that has school buses.) Riding the school bus means you don't have a hand-me-down luxury car or a friend with one.
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If you are an overclass trophy wife with a matching teenage trophy daughter, you must shop at South Moon Under, in the Wildwood Shopping Center in Bethesda. I've never seen so much expensive blonde hair (perfect highlights, blown out straight) in one place.
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The TI-84 graphing calculator. In snoburbia, every student in Algebra 1 or above is required to have one - at $99.99 apiece.
The TI-84 is a gold mine - but not for math. The real benefit is that snoburban dads can use it to drop how advanced their kids are in math. Bonus! For example, this recent listserv request: "Does anyone have a TI-84 calculator for my 7th grade daughter who's in Algebra I?" Or this article disguised as a rant against the costly TI-83:
I turned to my Daughter. She's just finished 9th grade pre-International Baccalaureate Geometry, and also has a mandatory TI-83 graphing calculator.
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Some enterprising youths have made a killing on eBay with my son's TI-83 calculators - four stolen in two years. My husband is convinced he has bought back the exact same calculator four times.
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It's August, and in snoburbia that means one thing: It's time for the annual family photo.
Here are the rules:
1. Everyone must wear matching white shirts and khaki.
2. If you are a hipster family, everyone must wear jeans with either a white or black shirt.
3. Most important of all: Everyone must be barefoot.
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In snoburbia, when you mention your family's vacation house in New Hampshire or the Adirondacks, you must say this: "It's just a cabin. Nothing fancy. Been in the family forever."
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A 3-day power outage in my area affected 300,000 homes. We had no air-conditioning, but did have "borrrrrrred" children and a refrigerator full of spoiled food.
On the second hot night, I walked along my dark street to the next street over (the one with the big houses). I noticed some houses had lights blazing. There was a humming sound. What the? They had generators.
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If you are a woman in your 30s or 40s* and you are going to the snoburbia neighborhood swim club, you must wear ribbon flip-flops that match your pool bag. The must-have pool bag this year is clear-coated, patterned vinyl. You must buy it at a tiny store with a cute name like Two Coconuts. (The bag is capacious, to carry those luxuriously-thick beach towels that never dry.)
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* People in their 20s would rather die than be seen at the swim club.
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I recently had to go to a meeting in Ocean City, Md. It was surreal: I, in business suits, everyone else in bikinis and surfboards. Lots of tattoos, American cars and stucco-covered beach hotels. Children named Caden and Jaden. A band blaring Jimmy Buffett. Many people had that deep orange tan, circa 1975.
After my conference, I decided to drive up the road to see the Delaware beaches, Bethany and Rehoboth. As I drove into Bethany Beach, suddenly I felt calm, comfortable, at home. Ahhh! Breezy people. Shops selling kites and frozen yogurt.
Then I looked closely at some of the cars and had a sudden realization: They were from Bethesda or overclass towns like it up the coast. They were from snoburbia.
I felt mildly disappointed in myself. My comfort zone has narrowed. I've lived in snoburbia too long...
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Overheard in snoburbia:
A 16-year-old boy was talking with his mother about the Mercedes he drives.
Boy: Mom - can I have some money for gas?
Mom: What? I gave you $35 earlier this week.
Boy: But this car needs premium!
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It's the Fourth of July in snoburbia. If we are not at the beach, we are decorating our children's bicycles and strollers so they can win the prize at the bicycle parade. A Fourth of July bicycle parade is held so that overclass parents can spend hundreds of dollars on matching red, white and blue outfits for the family.
But mostly, it is to show that our town can be more quaint than yours.
Back in my old neighborhood years ago, we celebrated the holiday by throwing firecrackers on the sidewalk or by scaring the beagles next door with bottle rockets shot out of glass Pepsi bottles.
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If you don't live in snoburbia, you can celebrate the Fourth with the Redneck Pack.
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If you are a Catholic male living in my corner of snoburbia, you must follow the unwritten summer dress code. Men must wear polo (or Polo) shirts tucked into belted khaki shorts. You get bonus points for belts with embroidered whales or anchors. (However, whales on shorts are too flashy.) Shoes must be brown loafers. You probably should part your hair and comb it neatly to one side. This way it will stay in place while you are perfecting your lawn.
If you wear your shirt untucked, you are a heathen - possibly a Unitarian.
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I feel it, and now that big-box retail chain is marketing it: It's phone shame. I am possibly the only one in all of snoburbia without an iPhone (let alone 4G) or Blackberry. I'm fine with it, but the young'uns are horrified. Our antique 2009 phones are obviously affecting their social standing.
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When I was living there, I heard that Washington D.C. had the oldest singles population in the country. (That's because all the good ones are gay, right? It sure seemed like that when I was dating.) But I have another theory. If you look at the states with the oldest age at first marriage, they are the states with the most snoburbs: D.C., Connecticut, New York and Massachusetts.
Maybe it's because people in snoburbia are overclass overachievers, and are used to pursuing and getting exactly what they want, first from mom and dad, then from colleges, then from potential partners.
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"As my genius friend the textile designer says, she asks on first dates or meeting men in bars, 'Do you have a passport and a library card?'"
- Columbia and Sarah Lawrence grad Syreeta McFadden, 35, New York Times
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A real estate listing from snoburbia:
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(Thank you to Silver Spring blogger Dan Reed at Just Up the Pike for this tidbit. He's leaving the area, and we'll miss him. Best of luck to you, Dan.)
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At our local snoburbia elementary school, graduating fifth grade is a momentous occasion that calls for... a whole month of celebration. It's all on the continuum of indulgence to which overclass kids have become inured. (Shouldn't "graduation" be reserved for high school and college, or maybe for celebrating your Ph.D.?)
There's the awards and graduation ceremony. Okay. But there is also a pool party, a dance party (some kids came in a limo), and a class trip to Philadelphia. One thing I love, though: All the school stands outside and "claps out" the fifth graders - everyone claps and cheers as they leave the building for the last time. I'm verklempt.
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At a party in snoburbia, I was talking to a guy who, in a conversation about how popular lacrosse is now, mentioned that he had played lacrosse 25 years ago at his "private school in the Northeast." I didn't ask where.
He tried again in a couple of minutes, saying he had gone to "prep school in New England." I still didn't ask where. Then he managed to insert into the conversation his "boarding school in New Hampshire." I didn't take the bait.
Finally, he couldn't help himself: He just said, "When I was at Exeter..."
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If you are a snoburban high school- or college-age guy in the cool set, your hair must swish just so.
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Hold on - I'm going to get preachy.
Every year at about this time, schools ply children with certificates of achievement. At a nearby entirely African American and Latino public school, they printed reams of paper. The urban school passed out dozens of certificates: for academic achievement, attendance, and every conceivable measurement. Each kid scored at least five certificates. One girl had 12.
Made the kids feel great. But is this a good thing?
A boy went to that school, then transferred to a school in overclass snoburbia. He was confident at first. Then he discovered he was two years behind in math, and also behind in English, history and science. He received no certificates. In snoburbia, you get certificates only if you win a statewide academic award, are a National Merit finalist, or are an AP Scholar.
Finally, he received a W.E.B. Du Bois Academic Excellence Award from a black students' organization - for having a 2.7 GPA. He felt good, right?
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Overheard in a dressing room in snoburbia:
A girl named Sophie, who was about 13 years old, was talking about her best friends: Sophie (a different one), Sophia, Hannah, Madison, Madeleine and Emma.
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It's out! It's the Senior Scatter, the end-of-year newspaper at our local snoburban high school answering the age-old question: Did I get into a better college?
So... Our seniors are going to (ahem): Stanford, Penn, Mount Holyoke, NYU, Columbia, Carnegie Mellon, Johns Hopkins, UVA, University of Michigan, Haverford, Vanderbilt, Northwestern, Claremont McKenna, Notre Dame, Kenyon, Vassar, Georgetown, UC Berkeley, Cornell, Emory, Brandeis, Georgia Tech, Bard, RISD, William and Mary, Hamilton, Amherst, Tulane, and many others.
More are going to University of Maryland, St. Mary's and UMBC*. This being overclass snoburbia, only one person is going into the military.
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* UMBC, the nerdy science and technology campus of the University of Maryland, is sometimes nicknamed, University of Maryland, But Chinese.
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