There is something about being born in Southern California that keeps you from using the word “Cali” in a sentence.
That has always been the big three of identifying a tourist or worse, someone trying to pretend they were born here.
- Use of the word Cali. You were not raised here, stop faking this, its just sad.
- Mullet. Can’t get around the hairstyle as an instant identifier of someone raised “Elsewhere”. Its an ugly hairstyle indicative of trailer parks and trucks up on blocks in your front yard. See also inbreeding.
- Calling a soda “Pop”. May as well have a piece of hay sticking out of your teeth, Jethro.
Do I have a point here? Not sure.
What I do have is indigestion based on the conversation going on at the next table.
My muse this morning is a mid-30’s woman that is a walking cliche.
Jersey hair, too much perfume, too much jewelry, too much…
Just too much.
And she is on her cell phone, which has been bedazzled too much.
Volume of her voice? Too much.
“I have been in Cali for 5 years now. I’m practically a native.”
I just about shit myself when that little gem slipped out of her mouth, too much lipstick, with her thick Jersey accent.
Like a more mannish Snooky who may, or may not, have penis.
You would think I would be repulsed.
However, like a slow motion train wreck, I cannot look away.
But its a painful perspective.
One that is tough to endure and also tough to hide.
The person she is talking to is located somewhere called “Back in Dirty D”.
Not sure where that is, but it sounds like a pit.
(My apologies to pit inhabitants everywhere. I am sure your place is much nicer.)
Don’t get me wrong, I am fully in favor of migrating if you do not like your present surroundings.
But at least make the effort to blend in before you declare your native standing.
Its a lot like those that become Irish each and every St. Patrick’s day.
No, you are not. Green beer and wolfing down corned beef and cabbage by the metric ton does not make you Irish any more than having few years of rent paid west of the West of the 405 makes you a native. (Mostly just natives will get this. If you aren’t a native, but you do get it, you are still not a native)
So where does that leave us?
For me, it leaves me in a Starbucks sitting with an irritated nose next to the second coming of Snooky the terrible.
Eventually, she hung up the phone and began texting.
And if you have never had the pleasure of watching a woman with inch long fingernails texting, it is a case study in blissful frustration.
It appears to be 3-4 times the effort of normal texting, but all done with a smile and the low humming of a tune.
No brains, no headaches, everything is streamlined and simple.
Its a little like watching Winnie the Pooh, if he had Jersey hair and a push up bra, but that same innocent ignorance.
Except that I have never despised Winnie the Pooh.
But maybe thats just me.