Let's be an upper middle class neighborhood!

I am the brass pineapple door knocker ordered from the Winterthur Collection catalog years ago.

I'm the Range Rover parked in the garage

I'm the seldom used Yeti cooler in the garage.

I'm the kale.

We're the old biddies of the Alumnae Panhellenic Association. High school seniors start sucking up to us right about now in hopes of getting us to write them recs for rush (sorry, [italic]recruitment[/italic]) at Bama, Ole Miss, and UT in the fall.

I'm the faux marble bust of a famous Greek philosopher that the lady of the house bought online for her foyer without having any clue who I am...or the desire to find out.

I love walking the streets where I live. The busts on plinths of Antinous and another that sit outside this art deco villa are just one of the many pleasures.

i'm the glassybaby pantry, a.k.a. brontë's old room. i get so excited every morning when the lexapro-abilify-klonopin cocktail kicks in and and she comes in to pick a few of my children for the day's display! today she took a diva for her closet, four kindfulls for the great room, a wingman for dh's home office, two grateful reds for meditation purposes (root chakra again...gross), and six little boy blues to offset the long trough of daffodils on the dining room table.

i can't say i would have chosen the same ones.

Another pic of a neighbour. Big balls are very upper class. You can never have too many.

I'm the drug addict son wanking to porn in his bedroom while listening to his cheerleader sister getting fucked by her black boyfriend in her room.

I'm the look of digust on the white people face as the "ethnic" invading the neighborhood

I'm the six-burner Viking Professional Series stove that has never been used because neither of the two co-owners know how to cook. The only thing they know how to make for dinner is reservations. But I look good and always impress those who visit.

I'm one of the Ottolenghi cookbooks on the counter next to r12. I'm always opened to a page appropriate for the season; a salad with shaved white asparagus, presently.

I find it so embarrassing that I'm forced to take part in this charade. R12 thinks he looks good and impresses guests! He has no idea that they all know he's a sad little posturing virgin. I wish he'd jump into a grease fire of his own making....but that would require being turned on.

I'm the carefully placed flowers and plants that are really borders marking out private space.

I am the bunch of ludicrously expensive and scarcely ever used pots and pans dangling above the kitchen island.

I'm the Trump Pence sign that'll be vandalized in two nights' time!

I'm the decorative jar of vegetables and such.

I'm the existential dread.

I'm Linda and my husband is away on business. On his business trips I load a few inner city teens in my Range Rover and throw a sleepover party.

I'm the voices full of whispered pride at the vegetarian potluck with which our neighbor who has a biracial child is discussed. There aren't any black people here, but we think it's really cool and are proud of ourselves and take common credit for our community's diversity achievement.

I'm the fake leather bound book in the library where the lady of the house hides her pills, that she calls dolls because she loves camp, It's very near the other fake book where her closeted husband hides the meth he uses when he has a trick over whenever his wife leaves to visit her mom out of town.

I'm the black Mercedes parked outside that belongs to our cat acupuncturist.

I'm the casual entitlement with which we ignore our deep cleaners, our indoor plant waterers, our landscapers, pool cleaners, nannies, and two personal assistants.

I'm the estate planner wracking up the billable hours as Daddy and his Firstborn Son work out their issues.

racking.

I'm the M.A.D.D member who vilifies everyone who drinks while I pop pills from 10 different prescriptions because they are legal and therefore not a drug in my mind.

I'm the frigid wife wondering why my handsome husband is always next door watching sports with the hunky bachelor airline pilot.

I'm the Hamilton playbill purposefully left on the coffee table to show the world just how cool, hip, rich, and non-racist the homeowners are.

I'm the green lawn that is always beautifully manicured like the landing strip of my fish hole. A water shortage is for other people to take part of, my lawn comes first.

I'm Landon, and, like, I'm a lesbian. Mom and Dad are making me come out (ha-ha) as a debutante. My gf Chloe (we met in Chi O) is doing it too, but man, this is lame.

I never tire of these impromptu LGBTQ pop-up protests.

Delightful!

I'm the gun collection hidden in the custom-built cage in the basement, disguised to look like an ordinary storage cabinet.

We're a cramped two-bedroom apartment in a nondescript building in "The Flats," the least desirable part of our city's most desirable suburb. A single mom with two jobs lives here so her daughter can attend the top-rated public high school. The daughter makes straight A's but doesn't tell Mom about being ostracized because she drives a 2011 Camry and doesn't own any David Yurman.

We're huge Trump supporters. We know the only things holding us back from being ultra rich and phenomenally successful like the Trumps are the blacks, the Muslims, and the Jews. President Trump understands how we think.

I'm the many stately silk topiary trees scattered through the various porches and patios.

I'm the huge mahogany hamper full of soiled Lulu Lemon attire in the vast walk-in closet of the "hers" master bedroom. I'm waiting for Candelaria to empty me into the giant front-loader in the basement.

I am the sign that says "Armed Guards on Duty" in the neighborhood that has the $120,000 property taxes. I am the 6 car garage I am the 1961 Ferrari 250 GT SWB California Spyder the neighbor just bought I am the 12 Hermes bags in every wife's dressing room/closet I am the Chanel suit you have to wear to the ladies luncheon lest ye be judged poor. I am the Bentley, and or Rolls Royce at every other house. I am the gated estate fences that keeps the trick-or-treaters from the poor area's from even stepping foot in this area

I'm the triple wide stroller the bitch mom pushes her spoiled rotten kids in, taking up the entire sidewalk and the selfish garbage pushing me could care less that no one can pass.

I'm the security guard at the gate. I'm sorry, they're not answering and you aren't on the list. You can turn your car around over there.

I am the status symbol magazines displayed in a fan arrangement on the coffee table.

I'm the Mackenzie Childs accent piece.

and the huge Arthur Court Jack Rabbit Wine Cooler which we put out a few days before Easter.

^^^^

Some of the comments here are apt - for Republican, suburban neighborhoods. Although it's clear that the lower-class posters don't have a clue.

I'm the homeless twink that daddy told to crouch down in the backseat of his BMW M4 until the custom mahogany garage door to his home closes behind us. Apparently, the wife is in Santa Barbara visiting her parents this weekend. I think he's just as excited about having pizza delivered.

I am the plaque hanging on the wall that says

Live

Laugh

Love

R34 You are so far off the mark it's almost laughable. Your post may well apply to the Trump supporters of the Deep South and Flyoverstan who are UMC wannabes, but it does not apply to those in the UMC.

I was born and raised UMC, and I can assure you that no on already in it thinks that "brown folks" and Jewish people are holding them back. In fact, they hardly think of them at all.

I am a piece of mousse cake that's still sitting in the refrigerated bakery case at Molly Stone's in Burlingame. When the Pure Barre class across the street lets out at 5:30, I will be purchased along with an aerosol can of whipped cream. Jen will then take a bunch of forks, spoons, and napkins from the salad bar and put them in her pocket. That's not really a big deal, is it? Not like those...well...you know....[italic]other[/italic] people who steal plastic bags for their kids' lunches from the produce department. I mean, that's just plain tacky and wrong.

Anyway, on the five-minute drive back to Hillsborough, she's going to spray me over and over again with the whipped cream. Eat a bite, spray, eat a bite, spray... You'd never know it to look at her, but she's a bit of a slob when she's in a food frenzy. Good thing she waited the extra three months for white vegan seats in the Tesla X. Just like Jen, you'd never know it to look at them, but they're a breeze to clean!

Oh well, here she comes. Gotta go! Maybe I'll post again around 5:45, post-purge. Just like the other mousse cakes, I'm going to end up swimming in the Kohler Purist Hatbox. I can't wait!!

I am your teenage babysitter who knows all your jewelry since once the kids are asleep at night I have to entertain myself ...and you don't come home until after 1 am.

I am the glassed-in 'Florida Room' decorated with blue and white porcelain copied from the pages of Veranda magazine.

I'm the nanny the stay at home mom had to have because the snowflake is too fragile to take care of one child on her own. The other thing snowflake doesn't have to take care of is keeping the baby's father sexually satisfied. That is my job too only lazy mommy don't know it. Shhhhhh.

That isn't Linda.

Linda looks like trucker Bob in a wig.

Or rather, trucker Reymondo from Manilla.

It's amusing reading some of these, which are like lower middle class imaginings. No one would be seen dead with silk topiary, or display magazines "in a fan".

We're The Links, Inc. Far, far snootier than the Junior League could ever imagine.

I see that The Gulf Coast Region is mostly adhering to our paper bag test thankfully!

[quote]mostly adhering

Speaking for myself as well as ladies #4 and #5 of the Santa Barbara chapter of Jack and Jill, we understand your plight, Miss DeLamoureux.

I'm the gin and regret.

I am the trailer park cock your husband came to suck every other week.

I'm Mommy Boot Camp (held at the local park to feel 'accessible' ). Every one of the attendees hates themselves and the rest of the world and the ladies take turns bringing vegan donuts and Whole Food treats to try and sabotage one another.

I'm the Yale Handsome Dan sticker in the car window.

^ *on the

I'm the Good Bloke facade that the arsehole father puts on when he's out, at work, or the family has visitors to the home. Wife and kids silently roll their eyes when everyone else says what a Good Bloke he is, how Down To Earth and funny, after he's spent the week ignoring them except to shout, slam doors, threaten and abuse them. But they're all nicely dressed and polite, and he wears a suit at work so....

I'm Juan, the shirtless, sweaty gardener with a 9" uncut ping swinging commando in tight gray sweatshorts. That teenage Miller boy on Maple Circle makes a mean glass of lemonade. Gives a decent blowjob too. But his dad could teach him a few things.

I'm four and my name is... I can't spell my name because it sounds just like "Jason" but it's got all these other letters in it, sometimes twice I think.

I'm the trendy kitchen remodel. My owners spends 5 figures on me and planned this for months. I'll look dated in 5 years.

I'm a Volvo station wagon

I'm the expensive fresh flowers delivered weekly and displayed about the house.

Thank you R54! Absolutely no-one would have any kind of fake plant or magazine fans on the coffee table. Good Lord what are you people thinking?!? The gin and regret at R58 is spot on though...

I'm the woman who chose the Baccarat and Lalique vases in which "Rose & Orchid" will place the tastefully selected floral tributes which perfectly match each and every rooms décor. I spent 3 hours designing the floral look for this week. The most expensive vase takes pride of place on the 900 year old Monastery dining table which comfortably seats 26 people with the extensions on it. The Christofle is looking slightly dull... "No. We don't allow Wedgewood on this table Erna. That's for the children's table... Where are the children anyway? Oh? They're at boarding school again. It's 8.37 am and time for the first drink of the day... Erna?"

There seems to be some confusion between the definition of 'upper middle class' and 'wealthy' on this thread.

You are so right about that R70 . It's bizarre. What most of you are describing has nothing to do with upper middle class, which is more about conspicuous consumption of goods, services, travel, vacation cabins or apartments etc.

Yeah a lot of this descriptions are of the upper class.

Im the 50 something straight couple that just had our first grand child. It's now the happiest day of my life, except for when my kinds were born, I got married, graduated from college, got my first car and my first blowjob. Anyway, did I say how happy I am? I will post pictures every day on Facebook so you can see the spawn grow into a frog. I will be pissed off and block you if you fail to like all my baby pics. You selfish ungrateful people.

I'm Sloan, Kingsley, and all of the other last names parents use as first names for their children in a desperate attempt to sound WASPy and old money. Who the f do they think they are fooling?

I'm the decals on the back of the SUV that show the makeup of the family.

I, like R75 also have a window sign on the back "Baby On Board". Because everyone gives a shit about me and will suddenly drive more safely to protect me and my cargo of spawn.

I'm Pintrest.

I'm the $9,000 white custom-made sofa that no one is allowed to sit on.

[quote]I am the plaque hanging on the wall that says Live Laugh Love

You're 3-4 tax brackets out of your league

As others have noted, while DLers are usually spot on about things, this thread misses by a wide margin. Posters are either aiming too high (Bentleys and Rolls in all the houses, ) or too low (Live, Laugh Love signs, Trump voters)

FWIW, I grew up in Brentwood, in LA, in the 90s and 00s, and the only people with Rolls were old movie studio types or Middle Easterners. Mercedes/Audi/BMW/Lexus was much more the norm. The moms all drove SUVs.

And nobody would have had L3 signs. Unless, of course, they had worked on the movie. (It was a movie, wasn't it?)

I'm the local police force that pulls over the black cater-waiter on his way home from working the Millers 25th anniversary party.

We just want to know what you were doing in this part of town at this hour. Do you live around here? The Millers on Elm? Okay.

I'm the strip mall near the new McMansion developments in Atlanta/Charlotte/Phoenix/Dallas/Houston

I am called The Shoppes At Pheasant Run. Even though there are no pheasants anywhere nearby. Nor have there ever been

I am the restaurant which would once have been called a "coffee shop" or "diner" in the Shoppes At Pheasant Run. I am called "Maison du Fraîche. An Eatery of Distinction"

Few of my kale salad eating patrons can pronounce "fraîche". But they can all pronounce "eatery".

We are the moms coming out of the 9AM Pure Barre class and climbing into our giant European-made SUVs.

We are all dressed almost identically in black Lululemon or YogaSmoga leggings and colorful tank tops that match our socks or sneakers. We all have long straight hair pulled back into a pony tail.

Not much has changed since seventh grade.

I am the stressed out high school student.

I am taking 5 AP classes because everyone else is and how will I ever get into a good college.

I have a tutor for each of them because my mom said that all the Asian kids go to Kumon and learn this stuff the year before so it's only fair.

I go to sleep around 1:30 or 2AM every night when I'm finally done with my homework.

That's why the main way I socialize with my friends is online.

I am Barney, the family golden doodle

I cost $1200 from a breeder up in Simi Valley

My obedience school courses cost $2000 (I had to go twice since the first time they forgot to do the follow up exercises.)

I eat special organic dog food that's made by the wife of one of the local vets. It's hand delivered and costs my owners $90/week. I also eat lots of table scraps, especially from Mom, whose diet plan includes giving me half of whatever it is she's eating.

Zach and Emma are supposed to walk me, but they have a lot of homework, so Consuela usually does; Jose too when he's here. Dad takes me running with him sometimes on weekends. He tells me I'm a "chick magnet" whatever that is, and makes me wear a bandana.

Last year I had tendonitis and the vet had me do physical therapy. It cost $50/session for 20 sessions.

What's Obamacare?

I am a pair of $200 jeans from Fred Segal that 11 year old Emma just spilled tomato sauce on. I am sitting on the floor of her room where sometime tomorrow Consuela will come, scoop me up and wash me.

Maybe the stain will come out, maybe it won't.

Either way, there will be no consequences.

At least not for Emma.

I'm the automatic lawn sprinkler system: six high-efficiency rotary sprinklers with patented Rain Curtain nozzle technology. We rugged sprinklers deliver a rotating curtain of water with large droplets that fall quickly to avoid windblown overspray and to cover evenly from head to perimeter. We laugh at the thirsty Darfur orphan.

I am Travis, 9 year old Zach's private batting coach.

I used to play college ball and spent a year playing AAA before deciding to come back home and figure things out.

Zach is a good fielder (for a 9 year old) but doesn't put enough power into his swing. His parents, who are looking for a sport Zach can play in high school to round out his college resume, are paying the guys who own this place $85/hour for the lesson. I see $40 of it.

That's a lot more than I'd make driving an Uber.

I am the 50% bump in pricing for any type of home or car repair job that contractors automatically add on once they hear the address.

I am the nervous look on Mom's face when she has to drive Consuela home one night. People say Echo Park is changing, but she doesn't see it.

Maybe if she plays one of the Mexican stations on the radio, people will think she is Argentinian.

I'm one or another of the the clean eating fad diet mom and her tween daughters are perpetually on. Last year it was raw vegan but Georgina got oxalis acid poisoning from the juiced spinach so it's back to the old standby of organic, dairy-free, gluten-free Atkins for us!

I am the local Soul Cycle studio. I was very crowded when I first opened and many of my classes sold out.

But that was in 2015.

Now it's just a core group of die-hards and a big influx of middle and high school girls at 3:30.

I'm the eating disorder that 90 percent of the women have.

I'm a gluten-free cookbook.

I'm the bottle of Earl Williams stashed in the long-retired Waterloo box.

I am the middle son who decided to become a screenwriter. I'm 33 and haven't had too much success. I'm in an improv troop and people have been interested in some of my scripts. But mostly I get high and have meetings to discuss projects.

My parents tell me they think it's wonderful and they are glad I am doing something so creative.

But when I leave, my father starts complaining about how they should have been tougher on me and how he is going to have to support me the rest of my life.

My mother says maybe I'll meet a woman who is a doctor or lawyer.

My father says maybe they should encourage me to go to grad school. And that if I was gay it would be easier, because what kind of woman is going to want to marry a man without a job.

My mother agrees and starts crying.

EVAN Williams. Maybe I should pour it out.

So what's the cutoff between upper middle class and "wealthy"? (I say "rich.") To me, upper middle class implies at least one partner will have to be a successful professional and so while there is excess and potentially lots of $$$, there will be some restraint and a focus on education that those who can survive on accrued $ alone won't necessarily have. And that breeds its own kind of smug. People also need to take into account the huge difference between upper middle class attitudes in different areas.

I'm the 28 year old gay son who is home for the weekend. I am lying on my bed in my old bedroom pretending to finish off an important project for work because my siblings aren't here yet and I don't want to deal with my parents alone.

The setting helps me remember what's unusual about the neighborhood I grew up in and that's been reflected in most of the posts from R81 on. (I was inspired by how wrong most of the other responses were. Unusual for DL-- we usually get these things right.)

But it's almost noon and I'd better go downstairs and be social.

Later.

R98-- easy gauge-- will the next generation need to work to retain their standard of living or can they live off of trusts/inheritance?

I'm the under five minutes average time response of the police.

We're the Caltrains speeding through Palo Alto, always ready and willing to lighten R84's competition.

Although, ours wouldn't be caught dead at a Kumon!

I'm the lowest crime rating and the highest school rating on Trulia

I'm the $60 mini-wheel of Mon Sire brie and $30 jar of organic fig jam that was bought for company but appropriated by 16 year old newly vegetarian Brittany, home from Sweet Briar for the holiday weekend. We are devoured within 24 hours with various crackers and crusty baguettes and add another 5 lbs to her Freshman 15.

I'm the cigarette that glows in the dark.

I'm a dime bag of weed hidden in the teenage son's closet.

R105 -- I'm the tension hanging over the house.

The children hate us for the things we're not.

We hate ourselves for what we are.

Greetings, sisterfriends of the NPHC (read: AKA and perhaps Delta), The Links, The Girl Friends, Las Amigas, the Continental Societies, etc.

No one in an upper middle class neighborhood is joining some colored club. Stop trying to make it happen.

I held the door open for a colored lady at Neiman Marcus just the other day and she didn't even say "thank you"!

I'm the Marlboro Lights that are furtively smoked in an area of the backyard where none of the neighbors can see.

I'm the landscaping contractor for your gated community. Give me or my teams any shit and we'll save the worst annuals for your yard and grade the good pea gravel into your neighbor's drive.

[quote] No one in an upper middle class neighborhood is joining some colored club. Stop trying to make it happen

Yeah because upper middle class black people don't have their own clubs and social organizations. Only whites are allowed to have clubs and social organizations. And only whites are upper middle class.

You're very smart. You must have learned all of this at your upper middle class Klan meetings.

Keep making angry bitter white supremacist happen.

Oh shut up, r113.

Some more:

I am the coastal-based executive vice president who listens to his Flyoverstani underlings talk about their new ride-em lawnmowers and thinks "Thank God for Mexicans."

I am the 18 year-old gay college freshman who grew up down the street, hears his Flyoverstani roommate talking about having to mow the lawn and trim the hedges and thinks the same thing.

I am the plastic surgery that every woman in the neighborhood has starting at age 45. They've figured out that is they have me early, when they don't really need me, I won't be as noticeable later on.

I am good friends with the new nose that every Jewish, Italian, Persian, Armenian and Greek girl in the neighborhood gets right around the time of her sweet 16.

I am the lavish, over the top bar and bat mitzvahs that the neighborhood seventh graders will spend many a weekend attending. I will take place at a country club or hotel, there will be well over 100 guests, a DJ, professional dancers, photo booths, hoodies with the logo created especially for the bar or bat mitzvah on them as take-home gifts, chartered buses to transport the friends to and from the neighborhood if the party is not local.

And that's just the low-key ones.

I'm a bounce house rental guy making fortunes off of their younger brothers' and sisters' birthday parties since it's always somebody's birthday.

I am the $14K/summer camps the neighborhood children depart for every summer starting at age 8. I am frequently in Maine, the Berkshires, the Adirondacks or the Poconos. I have often hosted several generations of the same family. My bunks have electricity and comfortable mattresses but are usually not air conditioned, much to the shock and dismay of my inhabitants, who are also getting over the shock of having their phones taken away from them as they are forbidden.

Sports will be very competitive as playing against other upper middle class kids allows the campers who are decent athletes to really shine. The basketball players in particular.

I am the one week Bible or Boy Scout camps people from more middle class neighborhoods talk about when reminiscing about their time at camp. The adults who went to the sorts of camps referenced in R119 smile politely while thinking "no, that's not really camp."

I am the organized expeditions the high school sophomores take to places with both poor people and great beaches so they can spend half the summer doing something charitable, something that will look good on their college applications.

The remainder of the summer will be spent at camp.

I am the over the top 30th birthday party thrown for the unmarried sons of the neighborhood families. He may be a hedge fund manager who makes more than his parents, but the parents feel it is their duty to throw him a lavish party at a chic local restaurant. They'll tell his friends to be sure to invite plenty of girls because what a great story that would make if that's how he met someone.

The party will often have a theme that makes gift-giving easier for the guests, like "scotch" or "baseball."

I am the prodigal daughter.

I was overweight and unpopular in high school and could not wait to get out of Upper Middle Classville. I wrote songs and made videos about how stupid and shallow everyone was and my college classmates at Reed/Bennington/Oberlin knew EXACTLY what I was talking about.

Now I am married and live in a funky house in Echo Park/Crown Heights/The Mission. My husband has a beard and works as a documentary film maker. My parents seem to like him even though he can't talk sports with my brothers. (I think they're just glad I'm not still a lesbian!)

When I am home I will criticize everything my parents and siblings say or do. I will demand that everything I eat and that my kids eat be organic. I will ask my brother the banker if he still supports Trump even though I know he voted for Hillary. I will tell my other brother how disappointed I am that he is in law school, and then accuse my parents of brainwashing him over dinner.

But when my father slips me a $5K check on the way out the door, I will take it without any hesitation.

I'm the earrings.

I'm the caftans.

R113 I am fascinated and loving seeing the social organizations of the African American upper class. I had a roomie at Miss Porter's who introduced me to Jack and Jills back in the late 70s, I admit that up until then I was ignorant as to the incredible network the BUC has built in this country. I loved reading about the Northeasterners( nee "Gay") above, and I had a good chuckle at the changing the name in '79.

As for the ugliness expressed by one misanthrope above(my first and only F&F ever given) he should be so fortunate as to be on the same economic level of these people.

More please!

Mammy at the keyboard.

I think Roger was in one of those black lady clubs.

We're the National Charity League, a.k.a. "Deb in a Box." Not top-drawer enough to have your sweet precious come out at the favored cotillion in your city (last name ends in a vowel, you're a country singer, your money comes from incontinence-care supplies)? Then TAKE THE BALL BY THE HORNS and start your own!

We're the upper middle-classes in the Northeast, chuckling heartily at all that Cotillion horseshit.

We are yet another Chinese family buying a house in your fabulous school district. We both work, so we'll move the grandparents in too. They'll watch the kids and still get up to do tai chi in the park at 6AM.

You can mock the way we make our kids study as much as you want, call us "tiger parents", talk about how 'socially awkward' our kids are.

But let's see whose kids get into Berkeley and whose kids wind up at Irvine.

I'm the dogs that starting disappearing after the above chinks moved in.

We're brand new iPhone 7s.

We are in the locker of every sixth grade girl.

Except for one girl whose father works for Samsung and made her get a Galaxy.

Nobody talks to her.

I'm the tight pussies

r131 let's see whose kids are creative and have critical thinking skills instead of being boring, soulless robots who are book-smart but not really emotionally or intellectually intelligent.

LOL R135-- I was providing their POV, not my own. FWIW, I agree with you 100%

We're the wives who all have graduate degrees, but haven't worked since the second we got pregnant with our first child. Our kids are all teenagers now and we could easily go back to work, but we just don't feel like it and would rather play Desperate Housewives all day. Our husbands all secretly resent us and feel trapped. Oh well, it's 3pm so off to the wine bar!

We are a group of four families who are on vacation together at Disney World. The kids have been dying to go and so long as we stay at the Grand Floridian it won't be that bad.

Or so we thought.

Who are all these people by the pool with giant tattoos and bad dye jobs? This trip is setting us back close to $10K/family. How can they afford it.

We will spend the entire trip mocking our white trash hotel mates and the hordes of overweight Flyoverstanis on scooters. We will regale the folks back home with these tales for weeks on end too as few things horrify the folks back home like tales of overweight Trump voters.

But the kids will be able to go on Space Mountain as many times as they want. Jason knows someone at Disney.

We are the Indian family moving in next door to the Chinese family.

We are very much like them only we enjoy playing team sports.

Oh, and your dogs and cats are safe around us.

We're the $50 gift certificate to WalMart a kindly Flyoverstani aunt sent for Christmas.

Christmas 2015.

We've been sitting in a bowl on the table since then.

Who the fuck shops at WalMart?

Is there even one anywhere near here?

We are the gay married couple who recently moved into the neighborhood with our two kids.

You wonder which one of us is the "man" and which one is the "woman"

You wonder if one of us has designs on your husband.

You wonder if one of us has designed on your college-aged son.

You wonder how our children were conceived and if it's okay to ask that.

You wonder if it's okay to tell us that we remind you of Cam and Mitch from "Modern Family."

We're the white people wondering what that new Indian family is going to do with their yard. Will they landscape it? Will they even take care of the grass? Will there be all kinds of statues in the yard, like that ten-armed elephant thing they pray to? We're all very nervous about this.

We are the long-time residents calming down the white family from R142

We explain that Indians and Chinese have been moving in for the past five years or so. They like our schools. They like our property values. They like our Jews.

We explain that the Indians will hire a lawn service and make sure their lawns look like everyone else's. They will talk to the lawn boys in that way that people who grew up surrounded by lower-class servants do.

The Chinese grandparents will take care of their lawns. They will do everything by hand. No fancy machinery.

I am the PTA meeting at the local Montessori preschool.

The mothers in attendance include two former BigLaw attorneys, two former Goldman Sachs associates, a former partner at Ernst & Young and former SVP at Google.

They have agendas.

They have PowerPoints.

They have all day to sit here because they have nannies (whom they call "babysitters") at home.

I am going to be the longest PTA meeting ever. Yay me!!!

[quote]The Chinese grandparents will take care of their lawns. They will do everything by hand. No fancy machinery.

Oh good lord, it's going to look like some third-world Killing Fields shithole out there! I knew we should've gone HMO! I knew it!

HMO?

Home Owner's Organization? I dunno.

Nancy meant HOA, she's just upset. I'm going to calm her down with two bottles of wine and Big Little Lies. I'll have my girl swing by to take her kids to Tai Chi and dance class.

Sigh. yes, Bridget. Tell her we don't have those in LA or NY, they're more for places like Charlotte where everyone lives in a [italics] new [/italics] house.

The reason people live in this neighborhood is because they like older houses. Or teardowns.

If you want new, there's always Calabasas.

And seriously Bridget. You and Nancy need to chill.

The Chinese and Indians are so 2013.

It's the Persians we need to worry about. You saw what they did in Beverly Hills!

Such a shame, it was really a top high school when I went there. My parents could. not. move. out. fast. enough.

Fortunately they were able to get a good price because one of those Shahs of Sunset people wanted it for a teardown.

The Chinese are just buying up everything lately!

[quote]So what's the cutoff between upper middle class and "wealthy"?

Interesting question. A simple dollar figure is a poor indicator due to property prices. $1million in assets might be middle class in flyoverstan, but in NY or London or Sydney it is barely so. Double that and it's still not upper middle middle. Several friends have over $2 million and no kids and they don't feel the slightest bit secure: they feel very struggling middle class, and have to watch their pennies. I'd say entry level to upper middle these days starts at a fully paid off home plus $2 million in assets and a second property of some sort -- either investment or holiday home.

$5 million in assets outside a fully paid off family home and second property is entry into lower upper class. However someone working in finance here might have a better idea.

What what would someone making 100,000 to150,000 year with or without a mortgage be?

No need for messy calculations R152

As I laid out before, it's a lot simpler: can the children (or theoretical children) live the same sort of lifestyle without working thanks to trusts/inheritances?

If yes, upper class

If no (they'll still need to work) then upper middle class.

As Paul Fussell laid out in "Class" many many years ago, money is the least of it. Where you live/went to school/your job/your interests-- way more important.

I'm the Dyson collecting dust in the basement because this fucking house has central vac. And a maid.

It's one thing when they tear down beautiful original homes and build monstrosities that look like dermatologist's clinics that go right up to the property line, and why the city hasn't gotten its act together to give the neighbourhood heritage status to stop that sort of thing, is something I'd like to know, but where was I? Oh, right, if that wasn't bad enough, they all want their kids to go to St. Albans or Caledon Day and then they positively refuse to do their part once they get them in. They won't join committees. They won't volunteer. You try to engage them in anything, and they just look at you like nervous rabbits and wave a cheque at you. I'm sorry but vibrant community schools are not built by cheque-waving. Of course, their husbands almost all still live in Hong Kong.

I'm the leather chairs in the game room with matching Smathers & Branson needlepoint pillows.

We're Franklin Lakes, New Joisey, and youse can kiss our collective titties.

I'm the super greedy landlord that the idiots I just rented to are willing to pay 5 grand a month for a studio on Ave C on the Lower East Side. The five flights of stairs they have to walk up, oh those they'll brag is how they get their exercise. Their first night here they will realize they will never lack for company as the rats and roaches come out to play. After all the building was built in the late 1800s. They will be shocked in the summer when they realize the electricity in this building won't support an air conditioner and sometimes not even a toaster if other tenants are using one too oh and better not make that smoothy as your Vitamix is too powerful to plug in here. Ah, bread and smoothies have carbs they will tell themselves. I love stupid people who have more money than brains. They are why I get to live in a mansion in Long Island.

[quote]What what would someone making 100,000 to150,000 year with or without a mortgage be?

Middle class if in a top tier city. Upper middle would need another $250k plus & no mortgage.

But I agree that attitudes have a lot to do with it. My brother's daughters were bequested land from their grandparents worth at least $1 mil each, and will inherit at least $3 mil each from their parents, but they all look like scrubbers with 10 cents to their names, and work hard at service jobs. Aside from their homes, they don't own anything such as art or furniture or cars or clothes worth spitting at. We need to invent a name for such people: 'the multimillionaires next door' doesn't even begin to cover the banal squalor of it. Duck Dynasty would be closer to the mark.

We're the plausibly old "Old Master" paintings and the shiny "Modern Masters" that are never looked at too closely, and just as well since nobody really knows what they're looking at anyway -- still our purpose is served. But if our owners knew the markup they paid and what our true value is on the open market, well . . . .

A person can't hide what social class they're from, not for long, at least not in the south. We know what you are five minutes after meeting you. The vehicles you drive, the clothes you wear, where you went to school, what you like to do in your spare time, where you live (and by "where you live", I mean where has your family lived for the past 300 years), these are some dead giveaways. You'll never be anything more (or less) than what you were born into. Social class is history, and we can't change that. Economic class is a different thing altogether.

^^ I know lots of broke "old money" -- the loot only spreads so far after a few generations and the heirs multiply -- and they DO carry their poverty with style and even grace. Poor sweethearts.

As awful as it sounds to be pegged as one class or another for life, it's much easier. You don't have to worry about buying things you don't really want or can't afford in order to impress a bunch of people you hardly know. Buy what you like, do what you like, fix your house up the way you like it.

I should also point out that in the south, there is still an urban/rural class divide as well. This adds another layer to any discussion of social class.

'Can't imagine much Southern money going back 300 years. Most wealth I should think had to be created after the crushing defeat of 1865. Old Southern families though, sounds romantic.

We're the kids and we hate our names.

R165, I can see how you'd think that. It's not so much that new money has been created, it's that we're still hanging on to the old.

I'm the Bentley sitting in the garage depreciating at about $2000 a month, who will be traded in before I'm four years old so to not embarrass my owner when he's in sight of the other Bentley owners.

I'm the ticking clock... making the only sound heard after dinner is over...

I'm the scribbled-in Sotheby's catalog waiting to hear whether I'm going to New York City on auction day for one last fling.

I thought a lot of the big Southern fortunes were made by entrprising families who "sold out" the confederacy during the reconstruction era (like the Inmans in Atlanta), R167.

And while there is no doubt some serious wealth down there, it seeems to me a lot of Southern blueblood types would be barely upper-middle-class (economically) in other parts of the country.

I am Chicken Caesar Salad.

The first wave of big money came after the Civil War, made by, as you said, people who were willing and able to take advantage of the relative economic chaos. Another wave came after WW2. Some of the people making money in the 50s were great-grandsons of families who lost a lot after 1865. It's less about money than about hanging on to what you had. To me, that is the south's greatest strength and greatest weakness. It's good to respect the parts of the past that are worth respecting, and it's good to hold on to what your family before you worked so hard to get. But that same mindset is what keeps us from trying new things. A lot of the old ways are good. But a lot of them aren't worth a shit.

There’s only things that interest me, work, and those trappings of aristocracy that I find worthwhile. The very things they’re forced to sell when the money runs out. And it always runs out. And then all they’re left with is their lovely manners.

I am the cash register receipt on the kitchen counter from Whole foods for $200.00 for the 2 small bags of groceries.

I'm the Scalamandre zebra throw pillows.

I'm the mancave. I exist so that the husband can jerk off to porn because his wife never puts out, and so he has a quiet place to drink enough that he forgets he has kids.

I'm the Xanax and existential angst around the swimming pool.

Bret Easton Ellis wrote a lot about me in his early - and better - works.

I'm the case of Wine that arrives each month from the WSJ subscription. If I don't work, I'll be shared with neighbors. If i work well with meals, another case will be shipped to the favorite liquor store down the road from their summer house.

Also, children will be allowed to drink me when they're home on break. They don't go to camps. The family only sees one another a few weeks per year and they don't waste free time with strangers.

I am the Pottery Barn Kids and Pottery Barn Teen furniture that is in all the kids bedrooms. I have a life span of about three to four years. Then I'll be passed on to someone Consuela knows from church who needs furniture for their kids. They will come in a pickup truck and get me while mom watches, eagle-eyed to make sure they don't steal anything. I will then make some Latina girl in Boyle Heights very happy. At least I'm not being shunted down to the basement like the Crate and Barrel furniture they got when they first got married. "Let the kids destroy it now," Mom says. "We can always get something decent when they get a little older." (Her decorator agrees.)

Meanwhile, back on the west side, a new shipment of more age-appropriate Pottery Barn Kids furniture will arrive. Along with coordinating sheets, towels and comforters picked out by the aforementioned decorator who was less than thrilled to learn that the 9 year old living in the room had complete veto power over his suggestions.

I am the Media Room in the basement of the new McMansion. I have a 108-inch 4K TV, a killer sound system and a dozen reclining "home theater seats" my owners ordered online.

My owners friends will roll their eyes whenever my owners call me by my proper name, but they will come over to watch movies anyway because it's sort of fun

I am the personal trainer the wife hired for her husband when even the 36 waist pants started to get tight.

I am an unemployed actor and former D1 athlete. I'm hoping that one of these middle aged guys that I train can get me in front of the right people. I'm 31 and time is growing short, Jon Hamm or no Jon Hamm.

The guy seems to really like me and he's seeing some results. He's a good client, he takes everything I tell him to heart. He's started texting me a lot now, not just photos of the restaurant menu so I can tell him what to eat. When I come in his wife says "honey, your boyfriend is here" and tell me he talks about me all the time.

I've heard about this kind of thing. It could land me a job. And if you breathe into it, it only hurts a little bit at first. They say the key is to relax.

This thread could have been great if everyone agreed on exactly what 'upper MIDDLE class' meant. A "Let's be Frisco, Texas" or something along those lines and would be far less clunky.

What would Sheridan think of those home theater seats? I suspect he'd be appalled.

Agreed R183.

I've tried to bring it back to LA/NY/SF suburbs, circa 2017, but a lot of people aiming too high or too low.

I feel that more of us are hitting the mark than missing it.

And anyway, I enjoy reading how the others see us.

I'm the African-American who despite being a Fortune 500 exec with a six-figure salary as well as being better educated than most of his white neighbors, is still stopped by the police when strolling or jogging on his own block. Not to mention being snubbed or viewed with suspicion by these same white neighbors.

R187 see R81

Same cops.

I am all the practically new things put out by the curb on trash day because the residents bought MORE Giving stuff away is just too much work.

I'm the opiate problem that is so much more acceptable than nicotine addiction.

I am R187s neighbor who doesn't understand the side eye my neighbor gives my lawn jockeys. They are just a cute ornament! My grandparents and parents had them, so why is my neighbor so humorless? This is why no one accepts him. I mean, my god, one of them was president! How can they complain about statuary.

I am R191's horrible Aunt Elsie telling her friend Ruth that "the children are very nice and when they talk, they sound just like white people! The parents too!" in the same tone of voice she would use to tell Ruth about her encounter with a talking pig.

To which Ruth will no doubt reply "they teach them to talk like that in front of white people. I bet they don't speak like that when they go back downtown to visit."

I'm Aunt Elsie's maintenance worker at the rich old folks' waiting room. She gropes my johnson whenever I pass her scooter. She presses processed cheese into the dining room upholstery. These rich cunts love processed cheese.

I just think they should know their place, R192. Don't they prefer warmer weather? I would think Glencoe would be too cold for them.

Nearly 200 posts and no one mentions me?

R193 is vulgar, and like One of THEM. I only hire Eastern Europeans to do my work. They are white, at least.

"There seems to be some confusion between the definition of 'upper middle class' and 'wealthy' on this thread. "

And no one cares.

I'm the order of girl scout cookies that Patricia delivers to Catherine's doorstep at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, for the sole purpose of catching a glimpse of Cathy without any makeup on. Patricia's daughter hasn't been in girl scouts for 3 years.

R197 Well, there is a fine line between the top of the upper middle class and the bottom of the wealthy demographic. I am fortunate enough to have straddled that line for most of my life. While I agree with another poster upthread who mentioned that a Rolls or a Bentley would be nearly unheard of in an UMC household, there are definitely many traits and habits of the two groups which are common to both.

And I don't think of myself as a "wealthy" person, when you consider the 1% and how decadently they live. But most folks think that if you have no debt, and a net worth of over 6 million, with enough income from your portfolio to live well for the rest of your life, then you are not middle class.' Wealth s relative: at the boarding school and university I attended I always felt poor-ish...but then again, to a citizen of Haiti(such as my housekeeper) I am viewed as if i were Warren Buffet.

Rolls and Bentley haven't been the same since they got taken over by the Germans. An older Corniche or Silver Shadow is truly elegant; a Phantom is just grotesque.

15% -- number of US-based Rolls or Bentley owners who do not have a close relative named Mohammed.

And athletes, r201. I know from experience.

These all sound like the "aspirational" who've "arrived" at least in the niche reserved to corral their sort.

R200 By the time Rolls and Bentley changed hands they had become a pretty crappy cars unable to keep up with the technology drivers take for granted today. The Germans saved those brands.

The basic models, without all the bling add-ons, still look the way a Rolls and Bentley should.

I'm the mother of two delightful little boys, both named something simultaneously trendy and "solid" so as not to make people think we're new money. I live on the coast in a house that my husband bought ten years before he met me not because of the location (it was considered a shitty suburb back in the 90s) but because of how cheap it was. My life consists of getting up, preparing food for the men in my life, waving them off to work/school and then packing myself off for a morning of yoga or whatever new fitness trend has hit the gym. Then I go home to a cocktail of antidepressants and three large gins.

I'm the wife who maintains a carefully curated social media profile because my husband was once a Very Big Deal and wasn't I lucky to have snagged him (but no one really talks about how we met in the aftermath of a family suicide or how I 'forgot' to take my birth control pills). Each and every picture I take - be it of the carefully styled bedroom/kitchen/living room or the views of the sea or sky outside or even the food I infrequently consume - is usually backed up by at least four other shots, taken on phones or real cameras, all to provide me with multiple shots in different formats and lighting. I live for the comments and little hearts and stars and thumbs-up. My home is equally well-curated. I ignore the titters of some who claim that my home is more a museum to Bought Taste and think 'Wouldn't that rug I bought from Habitat look nice under the living room windows' or some other stress-inducing conundrum that drives me to the point of rapid insanity trying to guess and guage the reaction from my followers. I sometimes scour eBay with the intent on buying some designer furniture - all in the best possible taste, of course - but sometimes my lack of success makes me feel as hollow as the unfinished third storey on our house.

I'm the woman who lives for those little hours between five and nine before my darling husband decides to come home. Oh, I know what everyone thinks - they've got such a perfect life! Look at how wonderfully carefree Little Jake's curls are! Look at how shiny Jason's BMW SUV is! They don't know that it took Frank down at the garage over an hour to buff out the key-scratches that Jason managed to get after he ditched his latest twink. Little Jake's curls are as about as cunty as he can be.

Me? I'm the woman who has been toying with the idea of ending it all in our perfectly sterile and pristine white bathroom, so perfectly maintained by our Bulgarian house-cleaner that you'd swear that the toilet has never been shat in or that my husband was bent over in the shower getting fisted three nights ago, or that I vomit up every second lunch into the sink. I might do it with the assistance of that designer razor that I bought Jason three years ago but has rarely been used (but Sofia rinses it off to get rid of the dust). But then, I think, well, why bother?

Today's Bentleys aren't as gaudy as their Rolls counterparts, but after they were sold to VW and BMW, both were more visually appealing when they were still using some of the old design cues.

The standard Rolls Royce Ghost is actually a simple clean attractive design.

I totally forgot about the Ghost -- yeah, it does look way better than the Phantom, but to me it doesn't look like a Rolls anymore. More like a Cadillac STS.

When the Silver Shadow was introduced in 1965 everyone complained that it looked like a Peugeot or Studebaker Land Cruiser. It looked NOTHING like previous Rolls Royces

It was a much more radical change and less Rolls-Royce-like than today's versions. It was a small piece of crap with successive versions that were even worse.

I'm the lone renter in the neighborhood who lets their dog crap on everyone lawn...and never picks it up

I'm the shitty handball court built on a previously cheap back lot. People think I'm a shed and that's the idea. Nothing meets code because my builder didn't have to follow any.

I've been used for handball, kinky handball, ugly secretary fuckfests, and stag parties.

I am the name Emily. A new one of me is born every couple of years somewhere in the neighborhood and we are always exasperating little cunts.

"Bitch is throwing down!"

Oh, please R131, it's bad enough our child had to deal with yours in high school. We'll send Emily to UC Santa Barbara or else she'll go out of state to a school with other white kids.

I'm the gal who married into all of this. My dad was a postal worker, but most would never know it unless I have to shove some of my street credibility into a political argument on FB. My new thing is MidCentury Modern furniture. Before that it was photography. I have thousands in equipment, but I still can't take a great pic unless it's outside and the sun and clouds are just so. I photographed a friend's wedding and she was pissed that I got no pictures of the elderly family members, just a few young Abercrombie types and endless closeups of the food, flowers, rings. Just the things. I'm acquisitive and I don't feel I've fully purchased something unless I've bragged about it on FB. I will post a pic of the aftermath of Christmas or my latest buying binge and caption it with, "Next year, a trip to Paris, no presents!" I spent 20 minutes staging the photos to look messy, but with all of the best labels facing the camera. We'll take the trip to Paris and have a jillion presents anyway. I'll also post things like "Does anyone know what kind of sheets they use at the Ritz? They are not forthcoming with that information and don't seem to mind losing my business over it." There is one tell to my lower roots. I will offer you the price of everything I ever bought and inquire about everything you bought. Just straight up ask, "How much was your house?" I can't help myself.

Hi, I'm a stay at home drug addict. I have adderall with my fair trade roast coffee, haul ass in my SUV to the RowHaus for back to back classes. Have a martini at lunch with my girls, where if I'm lucky, I'll trade some reeeeeaaally good weed for a couple of addies, take a Vyvanase and spend another 30 minutes at Benjamin Moore, driving everyone crazy with my months long obsession with 3 imperceptibly different shades of beige. Then it's to the liquor store on the other side of town (I divide my time between 4 different ones) and to the acupuncturist to placate my doctor who prescribes me goodies for my nonexistent "back problems. " Then to the psyche doctor for my addies and xanax, luckily I have plenty of valium from my regular guy. Then to the Pain Center" with a faked up migraine. I get a shot of demoral and fengren so I don't puke. Uber home for a martini a smidge of weed vaping before hubby gets home to drink himself silly. Off to bed with a glass of wine and a Lunesta. What a day! Now was it Summer Sand or Winter Wheat? Sandwheat? Summit Sandwiches? hahahahhahahaha

R215 Were you spying on me 24/7 five years ago? I don't know whether to laugh or cry at how on the money your description is of a UMC/UC pill head.

The paint obsession is on the money.

R215, you hit the nail on the head. Ever noticed how women like that never say they "bought" something? Instead, they "purchase" it. As if using what they think is a fancier word makes it less vulgar! Mary!

The slices-of-West-LA-life are perfect. Sounds just like what my siblings and their families experience in NYC suburbs. It's become an incredibly bubble-like existence as those suburban towns get less and less economically diverse. Having grown up in one, I interacted with kids from different socioeconomic backgrounds far more regularly than my nieces and nephews do.

R215/R216 sound like you are describing someone you know fairly well in each. Yes?

bumperoo

I know four Bentley/Rolls owners and three are squarely UMC, with none having a Muslim background. One of these is beyond UMC, having been a successful corporate raider in the Eighties. I would say the German cars they all own are favored and are the ones actually driven.

[quote] I'm the $9,000 white custom-made sofa that no one is allowed to sit on.

Yea, sorry but anyone except lower or maybe lower middle class would use it. If they would even buy it.

And mom is never driving Consuela home. You call her a cab and pay for it. Everyone would do that before taking time to drive her home.

In San Marino, I used to see all the poor Consuelos waiting for the sparse post-8PM buses.

Sorry R222, kudos for reading through the entire thread so carefully, but have to disagree with both your calls.

1. There are plenty of newly UMC people who'd buy the 9K couch and keep it as a showpiece. I had a friend in high school, his parents were what you might call "upscale blue collar" (his dad ran a successful plumbing contracting business) who were like that. IIRC, the dad had a Porsche that he drove twice a year too.

2. While public transportation is indeed the preferred method of getting the help home, followed by a car service, we have a classic family story about my mom driving Vernice, our African-American housekeeper from Scarsdale to the Bronx one evening. Seems Vernice stayed late, the car service never showed up (which is why Uber is so successful in the burbs) and Mom was going into Manhattan to meet my father, so volunteered to drive Vernice home with predictable results (police pulled over white lady in Mercedes, assumed she was there to buy drugs.) -- point being it happens sometimes.

Carry on-- I'm sure you'll spot some other errors!

Furniture that you can't sit on is very lower class.

No, furniture swaddled in plastic is very lower class.

It certainly is NOT, r226! Very prudent, actually.

R226 FTW!

Not everyone in an upper middle class neighborhood acts upper middle class R225.

Furniture you can't sit on is very nouveau UMC. They're in awe of the fact that they have a $9K couch and want to keep it perfect ... same way they will keep their expensive clothes in pristine condition

Granted it was 35 years ago, but my Mom often shuttled our maid Elnora back and forth in her Country Squire station wagon. Also, we lived in a small town with no public transportation or cabs.

When I worked at the mall years ago, I noticed that UMC women would be very rude to store help. They would get very nasty, very demanding, very haughty, as if this made them the UC women they wished they were.

Credit and debt and spending money were different, too. The UMC women would declare that they wanted some extra something or a policy broken for them because they had a charge card at the store. Big deal. Having that piece of plastic just means you are in hock to the store and are stupid enough to pay interest on the crap you are buying. The UC women again were different. They were able to splurge big when they wanted to, but they were usually knew how to save money, too, and were VERY careful with money. They were more level-headed. They sure didn't want to pay interest on a bill. They didn't just splurge and then crow about it to the world about how much they just spent.

I'm the walk in closet. I'm paneled and professionally lit. I have a mirrors capable of showing every angle I'm so large that I even have a dressing table and shelves for designer bags, She's thoughtfully kept all of the included storage bags, but only the ones that have a nice, showy label. The shoes are all in their original boxes and their own showy labels give her a lot of comfort, but not so much that she doesn't keep a box of wine that she sucks right out of the spigot when she feels like her kids and husband are monitoring her actual "downstairs wine consumption." Teehee, she thinks she's so clever, but I heard the husband telling his mistress that she was going to Hazelden next month whether she wants to or not.

Ah yes, the booze hidden in the walk-in closet. A time-honored tradition among the upper middle classes!

Mommy gets upset and cries when she drinks her wine.

I'm Ann Romano's facial expressions, which always made her look a bit "special needs."

I'm the puppy milled Double Sheepadoodle. My parents, who are both Old English Sheepdog/Standard Poodle mixes are on a farm in Missouri. It's not as bucolic as it sounds, they're both up to their knees in a shit and piss slurry, confined to airline crates. My dad will be killed when he manages to squeeze out and he's stuck between the top and bottom pieces of cage. It's a terrifying 4 hour ordeal. My mom will be shot in the head when her uterus comes out with her 6th litter. She's only 4 years old and finds her death a mercy. My owners named me, "Fenway", because the man likes baseball and the mom wouldn't name her firstborn after a ballpark. They compromise with Phineas, and he goes by Phinn. He goes by my cage, that they call a run, every day. He lost interest long ago. I used to be able to sleep in the laundry room on cold nights, but when I started barking, they got a heater for my dog house. Twice a year, I'm sent to the groomers who have to shave my matted coat. They charge $150 and my owners call it highway robbery, but they do it anyway. They'd be appalled if Company saw me looking like this. It's funny though, because Company doesn't even know I exist.

Arf! Arf! R235!! I'm R85. Sounds like my owners treat me better than yours! Maybe you could have a play date over here!

I thought 'no furniture' was lower class?

Having the Neighbor's missing furniture in your house is really lower class!

My mum had the chauffeur drive Myesha back to lower tax ville. He drove the gardener's truck. We had a live in cook, a chauffeur who lived in an apartment over the garages, a gardener who lived with his wife (who was mum's social secretary) in a cottage on the grounds of our estate. Some gardening work was contracted out. Mum and Papa made sure I got two relatively useless degrees, but also guaranteed me a position at the art museum, where I really don't do anything except travel and go to dinners.

I think I'd still want to do my own gardening.

I am the landscaper who gets excited when the lady of the house talks about perennial beds and arbors. She thinks that her yard will look like something out of a Martha Stewart book. She doesn't know that is difficult to achieve, esp. in the climate she lives in. Plus, she doesn't have a live-in gardener. BUT it will mean big bucks for me, so I lead her on.

R240 Many UMC women were in Garden Clubs and tended their own gardens in the years during which I lived at home. Like golf and tennis it was a very social activity.

Not in Connecticut, R242. They would hire someone to do the garden and then claim they did all their own gardening. Even stuff that took an experienced gardener to do. What a joke. Gardening is hard,dirty work. The lady of the house has to look good and has other things to do. Like lunch and cocktails.

I am a batch of Wholesome Bakery fresh cream cakes languishing at the day-old products shop because that high-hatted old cunt on Blossom Avenue turned her nose up at us. Maybe her slag of a sister will take us home to share with the other nice sister and her lovable layabout of a husband at their dumpster fire of a council flat.

I'm the locomotive sized SUV that they got their 17 year old son after he carelessly totaled 3 smaller cars. The first wreck left him with an oxycontin addiction that's moved on to heroin. He "fell asleep" at the wheel of that last incident and is such a smooth talking white guy, who actually looks like a young Steve McQueen, that the cops bought his story of driving all night from a college he's planning to attend in the fall. He won't. He'll be killed in wreck number 4 as he's in a shivering withdrawal, texting "yo meet at the spot in 10?" and runs into a bridge abutment. His parents reasoning that the SUV would keep him from hurting himself and just other drivers was faulty again.

Thank you R109. Wtf?

So how does a thread like this come back from the dead?

R152 forgot include the socio as in socio-economic.

Fuck R248-- did you just read through nearly 250 posts?

R196, high on the high. Meaning no pig feet but higher, better cuts.

R250, high on the hog.

I'm the vibrator

I'm the tennis court in the yard that needs weeding.

R249, yes I did. I don't have ADD but a PhD. Useless. I still get a script of Adderall from one doc and some Vyvanse from my n.p.

I'm just outside of Westport Connecticut. I get by as UC because my family arrived here in the 1600s. Behind on paying my huge property tax bill.

My gorgeous home is known as a "winter's peak". That means I see a sliver of water after the leaves fall from my attic.

I'm the utter and complete desperation to join the upper class. I will forever remain, unfulfilled, haunting this tacky, new money cesspool of a home.

We're the pair of Hitchcock chairs that had belonged to Jean's mother before she died in 1972.

I'm one of the five gold wood framed pastel portraits that mother had done when each of us turned 5 years old.

I'm the piece of needlepoint that took Margaret over 6 months to complete. She plans on using me as their piano bench cover.

We're the Repousse tea service by Kirk Stieff Silver Co. prominently displayed on the dining room sideboard that had belonged to Nancy's great grandmother who was from borderline old Baltimore society.

The bellows that was a house warming gift when they moved in back in 1981.

I'm Autumn Breezes, one of the eight Pretty Ladies figurines by Royal Doulton that are sitting on various pieces in the formal living room.

I'm the framed Mezzotint hanging on the wall in the entry foyer.

I'm the porcelain jardiniere in the formal dining room that is used twice a year. I was originally owned by Etta's sister in law Dorothy.

I'm the mahogany double sized bed that has been in the family since Phil Sr & Lillian were married in 1919.

I am the Hummel figurines on the mantle. There is more money tied up in those ugly bric a bracs than some people will ever see in their lifetimes.

R263 Your post brought back memories of my long gone grandmother who has "Autumn Breeze" and "The Balloon Lady" in a curio cabinet back in Richmond in the sixties.

I'm the fine art print by Thomas Kinkade and his little elves that hangs proudly over the gas fireplace. Now that he's dead, my owners know I've skyrocketed in value, and after they auction me at Sotheby's they'll live like kings when they retire.

Sometimes I communicate telepathically with the copy of me hanging over the fire place in the neighbor's house.

R269

Nice attempt but true upper middle class wouldn't have anything by Thomas Kincaid in their homes. Climbers, yes.

I'm the look of disdain on the face of the investment banker's wife, touring the house depicted from R263 - R269 and the eye roll she gives the realtor when she sees the Hummel figures.

The realtor reassures her that it's a great price for a tear down and the previous owners children have promised to clear the place out first.

I'm the colonial 2 streets over that had that huge addition built onto it a few years back. It now overwhelms the property and most of the neighborhood' female occupants bitch about it whenever they get together.

Along the same line, I'm the house that the new young owners redid. They replaced the 70 year old slate roof with a metal one and painted over the brick with a dark earthen hue. I'm not really that bad but I don't quite go along with the sedate quiet elegance of the other 'understated' (cough cough) homes in the 'Gentle Winds' neighborhood.

Did the one standing, two in from the right start life as a girl?

I'm the sex dungeon that is in one of the neighborhood homes!

I'm the spoiled brat kids. We will get into trouble with drugs and misbehavior, but mom and dad will get us out of it. Other kids, poorer kids, with parents who have no connections, will go to jail and/or have their lives ruined.

I am the widening gulf between the neighborhood kids and everyone in the bottom 95%. Other than the occasional soccer game, they will go through childhood without every having to deal with kids from another social class, as every minute of their day from birth to high school graduation is tightly scheduled and tightly scripted. While they are in college, Mom and Dad will pull some favors and get them an internship somewhere--they can take it since they're not expected to earn any money over the summer. Once college and/or grad school are over, Mom and Dad will pull some more strings to get them a job, which they will seem qualified for, having interned in the field the past three summers. Then Mom and Dad will help them rent an apartment in the same gentrified neighborhood where all their high school and college friends live.

What do people mean that Millennials can't get jobs?

Sigh. Alas, all to true, R277, all too true.

[quote] I'm the lone renter in the neighborhood who lets their dog crap on everyone lawn...and never picks it up

Were the greener than normal spots with thicker grass than the rest of the lawn. All that dog crap fertilized the parts he crapped on and helped make the brown spots rich, green, and lush again.

Yes R278. And I neglected to mention the army of academic tutors, private soccer coaches, SAT tutors, private college admissions counselors and the like that the parents will employ to ensure that their offspring remain firmly ensconced within the 5%.

I'm the sex toys in the nightstand

You're right again, R280, right again.

oh R277, bumpity bump, bump!

I'm the trunk full of family memorabilia, photograph albums, yearbooks that sits in the attic.

bump

I'm 48 years old and was quite the jock. I played cornerback, quarterback and uh, something else since I was 6 years old. We used to really bust skulls. If I hadn't torn knee all to shit junior year, I could've gone pro. A lot of guys say that, but it was Sports Illustrated who said it first. My wife has the article framed in my Man Cave. Thank God I had my dad's insurance firm to fall back on. We're doing okay. My coworkers ask if I'm okay a lot lately. My wife too. It pisses me off. Everything pisses me off. Traffic was so bad the other day, I just sorta zoned out and got lost. I had to call my wife, but I couldn't figure out how to use the phone so I just started walking and...and...Goddammit to fucking hell...now what were you saying?

An UMC home doesn't have a flag in front, OP, LOL.

I'm everything from Frontgate.

I'm the neighborhood, "Tabbystone Landing". My houses were built in 1985 and we are the hottest spot in this ruralish little outpost of Atlanta. We're located on the bottom of Tabby Mountain altho some of our homes (which even then commanded prices starting in the 450s) are a little bit up the hill. We'd have gone further up the mountain if the county would've allowed it. But really, who'd want to live among all of the various antenna up there? We were shocked when the county commissioners reversed their decision and allowed a new development, "Carrington Crossing" to be built. My God, how gauche. Are they Dynasty fans? The over dramatic Spanish villas and Ugly McMansions that are painted garish colors like, yellow and baby blue. Everyone's astounded at the prices and even more shocked at the amount of trees taken down. They scalped the top of Tabby Mountain and those giant monstrosities are leering down at all of us. To make it worse, they aren't a swim-tennis community and you just know their brats will sneak into our pools. Did I mention Tabbystone Landing has TWO pools? It's also vexing that they're using our neighborhood to get theirs. So much traffic.

I'm the teacup Pomeranian. The health problems that come with my being bred so aggressively don't matter so long as Mommy has enough cute designer bags to tote me in. Bonus points if they match her shoes.

I'm the semi-finals. The very semi-finals, mind you.

I'm the 4th nanny this 5 year old has had. She gets rid of us any time the kid or the husband gets too close to us. If only she'd look at his browser history and little cache of nudes in the behind the books in the study, she'd know a female nanny's nani, ain't what he's interested in.

Im the little baggie used to pick up Gigi and Fifis little poops

I'm the book club. Through books they get to read about the lives they so desperately seek to live but can't because they chose another life.

I'm the 9 lemons in a bowl!

I'm the hot new trendy dog the Husky. Everyone stopped paying attention to me after a year so I tear up the lawn now.

The very accurate R289 are why the upscale suburbs of Atlanta and Charlotte are one of the rings of hell.

I am PureBarre.

I am in every upper middle class suburb in America and many that just want to be upper middle.

Fraus like me because they can exercise without sweating too much and still wear cute Lulu and YogaSmoga clothes. And while I am technically co-ed, you'd be hard pressed to find a penised person in any of our classes.

I'm the two bottles of wine hidden in the back of mommy's bedroom closet. Sometimes I'm a box of wine when mommy just doesn't give a shit.

Why does Mommy need to hide the wine R299?

Is she a Mormon?

I'm the stainless steel commercial Sub-Z side-by-side, built-in, of course!

(Maybe, one day, I'll grow up to be Yo-Yo's custom designed, one-of-a-kind, all glass built-in!)

Because mommy is a closet alcoholic, r300. She drinks secretly in her room, or in the house when nobody's home. Then she throws out the empty bottles in public trash cans.

I'm the Bolli and Stoli.

I'm the discontented mother and regimented wife. This Charlene bitch thinks she's hot shit because some Saudi sheikh came in her left eyeball.

I'm the process server bringing yet another lawsuit against a certain type of UMC poser/swindler for failing to pay back a loan. His Audi is in the driveway next to his wife's Mercedes station wagon and the lights are on behind the curtains. On previous attempts to serve him I ran across several Amazon packages on the porch addressed to his wife. They will never answer the door. My client will eventually pay me by the hour to sit in my ten year old Toyota Camry waiting for one of them to come in or out. They will try throwing the papers back at me and probably not show up for court. The plaintiff will win a default judgment and send me back with an order to appear before a judge to explain why he still hasn't paid them. By then, the real estate sign will be on the lawn and I'll tell my client so they can put a lien in his house.

I'm one of many younger second wives the lower rung strivers traded up for after making it to UMCville. I'm often from the lower or working class and used to be a cube hottie in his office, but sometimes I'm from the Ukraine or Thailand. I'm pregnant with my third anchor baby as I type this. His ex wife still lives in the old house in LMCville with his teen kids that I pretend to care about.

I'm the lacrosse tee shirt crusty with dried cum under Jr's bed from hours of jacking off on the internet to hardcore bareback gay porn Shhhhhh.

OP puts a pic with a flag to show an UPM home, LOL. Maybe in the South they have flags?

I'm the vintage Fortuny draperies that the cat pees on after being maladjusted by the Mercedes driving cat acupuncturist up-thread.

We're the obscenely expensive stainless steel boutique flatware and holloware our owners bring out for their social climbing parties. We're not fooling any of the patrician old money guests who know the difference between inherited sterling silver and high grade stainless steel from 100 feet away. Our owners are never going to rise above upper middle class status.

Real Russia blogger goes to middle class US suburb for Halloween trick or treating.

I'm the sound of a leaf blower in the late morning.

I'm the landscaper's cock

I'm the golf/country club and yacht club membership.

I'm also the way everyone looks - well groomed and shiny.

I'm treading water in this neighborhood on my newly acquired $120k per year salary and massive consumer debt. Sending my younger second wife Tanya to work would be too massive a blow to my manhood. Besides, she's pregnant with our third and it better be a boy this time. I just bought lots of expensive furniture and a $2,000 flat screen TV and a Mercedes for Tanya so all my old friends and family back in Lower Middle Classville will know I've Made It.

I'm pretension and envy.

I'm the army of undocumented Guatemalans doing your yardwork while you bicker on the internet about sending me back.

Rolling my eyes at the CUNTS in this thread determined to let everyone know that they are upper middle class.

I'm the lower middle class brother in law asking how much you paid for everything in your house, then advising that you could've paid less if you'd gone to XYC store or bought it used, etc.

I'm the scruffy IT guy and his frugal librarian wife. We bought one of the best houses in this UMC neighborhood 30 years ago, when it was affordable. The house is all paid for and we are happy to park our battered volvo and fishing boat on the unkempt front lawn, we just love bring down the tone of the neighbourhood.

To really rile the neighbours up we humble boast about our successful, public school educated, adult kids.... "I don't know where Robert got it from, we've both got two left feet and it is a hard life being a ballet dancer in Europe. Still at least Alice has her feet on the ground, but I'm not sure if cancer research is really the right job for her. Oh and Matthew is thinking about changing his major again; archeology, statistics, physics and now medicine that boy just can't make his mind up. At this rate he might lose his scholarship."

I'm the IT guy setting up your server in you bathroom in Chappaqua

I'm the dentist who's avoiding the process server. I haven't paid several of my suppliers for almost a year and have borrowed money from people I'll probably never pay back. Anybody could be trying to sue me. I have a few judgments outstanding already too. Can't they wait? Ah, fuck it. Time to hit the nitrus oxide.

I'm the army of undocumented aliens that descends on the neighborhood at around 10 AM to either blow their leaves, cut their grass or clean their houses.

Only about half the people we work for have a way to contact us--we just show up for the rest and hope they pay the invoice-- they usually find us when they move in and see us working for the people next door.

(This is not true in the South and much of midwest where having someone else cut your lawn is still considered a sin.)

We are the local Little League team.

Our uniforms all say "Leafy Hills Little League" on the front and have our last names on the back.

None of that middle class "ReMax Real Estate" shit for us.

(The uniforms cost an extra $100 on top of the $700 our parents pay for us to join)

We are one of the local travel soccer teams.

There are many of us, since every Emma and Jake is a potential soccer superstar

We are year-round, so we cost twice as much as Little League

And not only do our uniforms have our names on the back but we also have matching track pants, hoodies, winter jackets, gear backpacks, water bottles and ski hats.

Most of us get private lessons on top of the two practices a week.

We are 9 year old.

I am Emma L's mother. It seems that Emma B. also wanted to her soccer jersey to be number 23 and her mom's been lobbying the woman who runs the local soccer club because Emma's older sister Charlotte was also number 23.

But I have a JD from Yale and used to be a litigator at Skadden Arps.

Emma B's mom has no idea what is about to hit her.

I am the pitying stares the moms with Ivy League JDs and MBAs who no longer work have for the moms with Ivy League JDs and MBA who still do.

And vice versa.

I am four children and a wife who doesn't work.

I am the ultimate status symbol.

I'm the incest-surviving Mommy, who talks about how "amazing my Man is and he's such a good Daddy!".

What's particularly UMC about that R329?

I'm the hot 16-year old jock boy, I have girls knocking on my window at 2am to fuck me. My entire life is laid out for me, and it's going to be easy.

Again, why is that an UMC thing R331?

That could happen in any type of neighborhood.

Sounds like you had a crush on a boy like that, TBH

boring. see ya.

The UMC teen has everything they want and need provided for them and more. They have no idea what it is like to go without or why that may be the case. Beyond spoiled.

I'm the pills

R332 There's for sure a certain type of white UMC jock-God who has no idea how hot/lucky he is.

When I was 41 I moved back to my hometown and reconnected with one who'd just gotten divorced. It was amazing the stories he told me.

Do tell, R336, do tell. What did he have to say. We've got time. Inquiring minds want to know! Really!

As I kinda said, just stories about girls coming to his window at 2am. He was the state wrestling champ. He told me about having a three way with a girl and another jock guy from our high school in the locker room of their beach club. Shit like that.

When we ran into the third party of that three way, I mentioned it to him, and he seemed to freak out internally. I think he considers it "gay".

Yeah I was good friends with one of those guys. He was hot as hell, a jock, from a UMC family etc etc etc. We were walking in the store one day and some older guy gave him a dirty look. He turned to me and said that guy hates me. I asked why. He said at about 2AM one night I fucked his daughter on the hood of his car while he watched out the window. '

I am the $700 tennis racquet stringer in the beach room. Mommy and Daddy bought me so the boys could re-string their own rackets and save a little on the $30,000 a year each of them cost in lessons, camps and junior tournament entry fees. After the boys played with me twice they said I was too complicated, but it was too late to return me by then. Mommy and Daddy don't mind visiting me in the beach room. The map of the Vineyard and the framed Oaks Bluffs photo arrangement help Mommy and Daddy pretend they are not on Long Island for 11 months of the year. When they load both cars for the month at their Chilmark rental, they never take me with them, even though they play foursomes every day it's not raining. I don't mind, because I read their back issues of Tennis magazine while they're gone.

I'm Mommy's stash of wine bottles in the back of her enormous walk-in bedroom closet. I get used every day, after hubby goes to work and the kids go to school.

I'm the summer home on Fire Island. I'm rented out to groups of friends in June and July for thousands of dollars. The tenants will not realize you can't keep food out on the counter or sink or I'll become infested with bugs. They will also not heed the signs in my bathroom warning my toilet bowl could overflow if not careful. Paper towels and tampons may not get flushed in me. I'm deserted in September during hurricane season with the old style bicycle and red wagon. My grounds get trampled by deer every night. I fear some careless rube might toss a lit cigarette near me. Then I'm doomed. It is called Fire Island for a reason.

R332, right? I know..

I'm the sailboat rental parked at the yacht club. I sleep 6 comfortably. I break down regularly and need to be taxied back to the marina at least twice a month. Truth is, I'm tired of going up to Connecticut. Tired of being stocked with Heineken and trendy wines. Tired of barnacles. Tired of my name. Wait..what is my name?

I'm converted, detached two car garage in the back of the property. I'm always occupied and help pay the highest property taxes in the whole US of A. I've been gutted and became a loft. Skylights have been punched into my roof. The cost of renting me is $1500 a month. To move into me, you'll have to pay one month's rent plus $1500 in security deposit. Tack on the $1500 realtor fee and we'll be spending a lot of time together. No, you cannot have a pet! You can thank former tenant and his cat Chuckles who never met a litter box he liked. No, you may not smoke in me. You'll also be saddled with paying my utility bills. You're also responsible for shoveling our part of the driveway. Any questions?

I'm the little 24 hr store in the square that sells only junk food, beer and lottery tickets. On any given Saturday night it sees an endless progression of local drunken teenagers.

Sorry, I meant "I see"

Don't even think of setting foot or car on me. Don't you see the sign? It says Private Road. Don't think about venturing further than the collection of mailboxes right outside my territory. I'm very thin, outfitted with two speed bumps. Being next to the bridal path I have to smell horse shit day in and day out. Summers are unbearable. My two friends are the main driveway and the delivery driveway with gate. I'm surrounded by huge trees that are hundreds of year old. During a major storm a few years back my old friend Grandpa Oakley bit it and fell on me. I got burned by power lines. Workers from the power company are of the unwashed masses. Uh uh. Put it in reverse. You're not using me to turn around on. Out you go.

I'm the gate.

I'm the service elevator on the UES. Since they cut my building up, I've been relegated to the help. I used to be the private elevator leading up to the penthouse. I wore fine wool carpeting. My insides were adorned with hand painted paper. Now I'm bare. I have to lift delivery and service people. The horror. I'll show you horror. Nothing better I like to do than to occasionally go into free fall. Get stuck between floors and lock my doors. You keep pushing my buttons, literally and figuratively and I'll mute my alarm button and cut the phone connection. Just try me.

I'm the $100K Sociology degree from the private college. Only useful for polite conversation at dinner parties. You'd have to shell out quite a few sheckles for that graduate degree..otherwise I'm worthless.

$100k is a bargain these days, R351.

R352, I'm old but have lived a privileged life once upon a time.

I'm all the hairspray or whatever it is that the misses of the household uses to keep her hair helmet like in place.

I am the aggressively floral perfume that is worn. It says I'm feminine but TOUGH and don't mess with me. I get what I want. So do my spoiled, entitled spawn.

I am the blonde hair that came out of a bottle at the best salon, hair done by Raoul in his salon/hair studio.

I am the antiques the family purchases for the home. We are displayed more than used. We are also seen as investments. Jaden and Skylar will not inherit us.

I am the fake tan from tanning salons.

Fake tan is not UMC.

I have seen it on some UMC women. Not often, but enough to mention it.

I am the expensive gourmet market.

Chestnut here. Yes, that's my name. I reside and work at the riding Academy. I'm a gelding and pissed about it. I get my revenge in subtle ways. I was shuttled here after Madonna gave up that farm near the Hamptons. I have no problem with causing injuries when I know I can get away with it. My favorite stunt is stopping short suddenly before a jump throwing my rider into a possible quadriplegic state. You'd better think twice about nudging me or I will embarrass you at dressage competitions. I suggest you bring granola bars and apple subsidies or you'll suffer bone injuries for the rest of your natural life. Mess with me and I might kick you in the face after I've thrown you from my back.

It's true You CAN tell who has lived the life and those who have not. Great thread.

R357, bravissimo. The truth hurts.

R358, so embarrassed for you.

R323 Well, it certainly IS true in Florida(although many folks maintain that FL is not the "south.")

We live in a very lovely gated golf club community in Stuart, and the Mexicans who tend our yard was discovered exactly as you described. And we love them dearly, and I trust them completely. My husband and I finance their yearly road trip to Monterrey to take a large truckload of goods to their families.

Told ya! I'm the lost Benz key that you will pay dearly to replace. I explicitly warned you not to go out drinking at the wine bar when you haven't eaten all day. Hopped up on Vyvanse and cappucinos. Now I'm an orphan living under a grate.

R364, mere middle class. Bet you drain your pasta, right?

Was in R264 should be were

apologies to the oh dear trolls

R362 and 363, get out of the house more often. Or your parent's basement.

R266 If middle class denotes a coupe with Duke/Princeton degrees following Rosemary Hall and Woodberry Forest, coming out at The Bal in Richmond, serving as president of the Junior League while in a large southern city, and retiring at the age of 52 so said couple can travel, play golf and enjoy our three houses(Stuart, Sea Island and Middleburg, Va) then yes, we are middle class.

Was it my fondness for our Mexicans which turned you off?

R368, apparently you get out more than I do. Now cringing for you..you stunted trashy loser. Stay in your lane. Parent's basement. So 2006 a retort. If so I'd be living in a wine cellar.

369, guess you missed the pasta draining middle class thread of Spring 2016. Look it up, babe. Classic DL.

Well hello. I'm the short bus but not for retards. I shuttle your children back and forth to the exclusive private school. I look down my nose at the big lumbering public school buses. They're peasants to me.

R369, no, not Mexicans. Your pretentious beacon attitude of a child of blue collar, lower middle class beginnings. If that. Don't try so hard. The stink of your desperate nature is emanating throughout this thread, if not the whole site.

Good god R373. My late father was the CEO of the largest chemical corporation in the world.

You need to adjust your UMC-dar.

As for my desperate nature emanating throughout this thread, I made one of the first posts: re the brass pineapple door knocker purchased from The Winterthur Collection for which I received 17 W&Ws.

Is that what you meant by desperate?

R369, then you admit to being R358 of the tanning salons. Cringarama for you. So the other person commenting called you out as trailer trash. I second it. Perhaps you'd best make a sweet tea for your maid Ana? That was you, wasn't it? Boy, you sure had your ass handed to you in that thread. Aren't you embarrassed?

374, who is checking WWs? A loser. That's who.

R374, no but your response sings desperado. Like that one poster said.."Why do people start these silly ass threads?" What the fuck is wrong with you? I hope your maid Ana hits you over the head with a crystal pitcher full of sweet tea and lemon.

My housekeepers name is Georgina and she is Jamaican/Haitian,

She will be putting a voodoo curse on you first thing tomorrow. Enjoy!

What's with the name Kenneth? Does it produce pathological liars? They don't lie for gain. They just incessantly lie.

The latest Kenneth, his dad was a renowned CEO as well. Thing is that anyone of us can look up civil cases on ecourt system. Criminal cases in some states. Credit card companies coming after his ass from 2010. Lies and says he travels to Israel on business only to find out he was in the clink for violating probation. The truth of his absence. Don't know how these people keep going day to day. I'm not going to get involved. The disorder does fascinate me, I must admit.

R378, time for a hospital stay, dear.

I am the curved staircase that leads from the entry foyer to the bridge that splits the house into His and Hers wings.

I am money. The UMC adores me, because I make this all possible.

That's it, you stupid bump bitch?

I'm the neighbor frau that orders everything from the Internet and actual high-end catalogues, usually the cheapest items, telling everyone how superior the items are to locally available. She actually believes such gives her cache in the neighborhood. Her car is a dreary Forester, "with all the bells and whistles" which only cost $31,000 and she acts as it she'd spent $92,000, the cost of real cars in the area.

The hot yoga class is scheduled at the same time as the Soulcycle class and I am PISSED!

... and yeah, she has the front-door decorations, seasonal, which she changes every quarter.

How awful. Blocked.

[quote]She actually believes such gives her cache in the neighborhood.

R385 actually believes spelling "cachet" without the "t" gives her cachet.

And WTF is "such gives"?

I'm the photos from sleepaway camp the moms anxiously scour every morning to make sure that the $40K they've spent to send Emma, Charlotte and Miles away for the entire is worth it.

I'm the phone call half of them will make to the camp director this morning to inquire why Charlotte wasn't smiling in the picture from gymnastics and why Miles wasn't starting on the camp lacrosse team.

I'm Oliver the labradoodle. I've been getting all the attention Mom usually puts on the kids and I've been taken to the dog bather twice this past week where I've been shampooed with organic almond shampoo and had my nails trimmed and filed and gotten a new bandana with the name of the dog grooming service on it.'

I'm the dad who's paying for all this but still not getting nearly as much sex as I was promised

^^entire summer

R376 You obviously don't get many W&Ws.

If you did you would know that the pop message lets you know what the count is and which of your comments is being complimented.

Yes, it is wildly validating, and for admitting that I am quite ashamed.

I'm the 3 bedroom 1.5 bathroom house built in 1920 and last updated in 1977 that just sold for $750K. My new owners are planning to do a gut renovation and add an addition so that I'll eventually have 4 bedrooms and 3 full and 2 half bathrooms.

It pays to be in the right school district.