The urban Galapagos of the 1% and its strange inhabitants

I’ve recently moved across the street from the rich part of town. My place is on the dodgy side that’s refusing to gentrify, where search helicopters still fly overhead and you can hear the pitter-patter of people yelling at each other on the front lawn. But when I cross the street… modern architecture! Children playing outside! Signs on manicured lawns that say things like “Vote NO” on whatever proposal I assume will keep poor people out.

So, much to their chagrin, I’ve been exploring the part of town where rich people wander. Let me tell you this, rich people are a fascinating and confusing breed.

Women only wear workout clothing

On The Real Housewives of Wherever, those half-in-the-bag Botox peacocks are always strutting around in a statement necklace and body-conscious dress. This is a lie and the entirety of the Bravo network should be held accountable. Let me tell you what rich women wear. Yoga pants. Fleeces. Trainers. If there is a thread of their clothing that doesn’t have spandex in it I swear to God I’ll vote for Trump. I can’t figure out if they are trophy wives and staying fit is part of the job, or if they like what Lululemon does for their vertical rectangle butts. But as someone who cares deeply about vaginal health, I just cannot imagine that kind of tight, dark environment isn’t a breeding ground for yeast infections or bacterial vaginosis. I’ll go bagina to bagina with any of them rich bitches because cotton boy-shorts under joggers give my lady the aeration she deserves. Unfortunately that outfit also gives me away. Which leads me to point #2.

They know what I am

Even if I cover up the tattoos and put on workout clothes and try my best to blend in, they can sense a poor is in their midst. You know in Inception, when they’re all up in people’s brains but they have to be really careful so that the brainfolk can’t detect them? Well, when they aren’t careful, like Ellen Paige wasn’t, the brain people start looking at her suspiciously and eventually violently. They know she’s not supposed to be there. This is what rich people do. My sister came to visit and whispered to me, “Are they staring because I’m a lesbian?” I made her feel better. “No, they’re staring because you’re a poor lesbian.” But boy do they stare. And you should see when I break out my back piece tattoo. Naturally, I do A LOT, because the fact that I live within yards of them and they can’t stop me from patronizing their coffee shops and Tex-Mex restaurants and movie theater fills me with a kind of spiteful joy I thought I’d lost somewhere along the way. Which leads me to point #3.

They don’t seem to understand joy

The hubs and I are, on our best days, idiots. And I am a goofy destructive idiot, like Marmaduke. Which means that, even though he’s more than a half-foot taller than me, I always throw my arm over his shoulder when we’re walking, which causes him to lean over and hobble since I’m dragging him down like I’m a drowning child. Then, when I think of clever things to say, I pull him into me with my elbow crook and say it square into his stupid face. I think of (what I believe are) clever things to say a lot, which means we have many strange conversations in this state. This makes him laugh. Imagine my surprise when I was doing this walking down the street and look up and saw, without fail, that every individual person was staring. We used to live in our city’s gayborhood, and no one much paid attention to us because they were busy laughing and hugging and being joyful themselves. This is quite a change. Rich people glare when you demonstrate laughter or love. They give disapproving looks when you’re holding hands or saying terms of endearment. I think that I’ve come to believe that rich people find displays of affection trashy, but I wouldn’t know because I don’t understand their customs. Which leads me to point #4. (I’m just gonna keep doing it.)

They have weird customs that they all do

I work with A Rich, who I’ve been using as a sort of translator. She’s great and despite the fact that she refers to her “private jeweler” she pretty much understands the absurdity of being rich. Anyhow, I told her a fascinating thing I discovered at the local coffee shop. On Saturdays, when the hubs takes me for my lavender latte, I only see dudes there ordering drinks. I thought, “Hmmm okay so coffee is a real sausage fest over here… maybe the ladies solely use it for enemas?” But then, BUT THEN, I came in on a Tuesday, and it was all a bunch of women having trouble drinking their lattes on account of their Dysport inner-tube lips. I asked my rich friend, “What gives?” She says that on Saturdays, the fathers give the ladies a day off from taking care of the kids and go get the coffees. The rest of the week, the women meet there to gab.

RICH PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I’M SO INTRIGUED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

How did you all decide to do this? Was there a meeting? Did someone vote on it? Did some lady pull a boner and show up on Saturday and was shamed and that was the end of lady Saturdays? Is that how you know we’re poor? What about people without kids? It’s all so fascinating.

If any rich people are reading this, and I assume there are some considering all the Paul Graham butthole licking I’ve seen, can we talk? I have some scientific questions.