Finally Faux!

I sauntered down Yonge Street yesterday in a bid to get a present for someone - (my boss wanted a faux Louis wallet, long story, just go with it) - and seeing as I can charm the pants off retail employees, Terroni waiters and straight women, my purchase of said tacky wallet, the store clerk threw in a change purse for the low low price of free. WWSD my friends. WWSD.

And so - I am now the proud owner of a faux Louis Vuitton change purse - next time you see someone (ie me) buying a latte at Starbucks and counting their pennies out of what appears to be real Louis - look closely - that shit is Faux.

Living my faux life in Luon (the Lululemon fabric) I found myself with Maglet at the Opera last night. I fancy myself a future patron of the Ahhhhhhhhhhhhts... I told Maglet not to "salt my game". Standing in Jack Diamond's "City Room" I couldn't help but look at the assembelled crowd of whitey's thinking - surely I must know someone. And not to sound racist, but I mean, doesn't every white person sorta look the same? Especially mid-to-late twenty wannabe yuppies:

She: Blond Hair. Check. Skinny Jeans. Check. Oversized Bag. Check.
He: Awkward expensive denim bought for by girlfriend. Check. Banana Republic Black Wool/Cashmere Blend Coat. Check.

But I'm digressing from the Opera, wherein I ran into a cornucopia of people from my past, perhaps exemplified by my run in with the Whiterocks Great Aunt Peggy. You may remember the Whiterock family from previous dinner parties (Mrs. Whiterock told me that the St Clair streetcar shouldn't run through Faux Hill, as your average Faux Hillary wouldn't be caught dead on the TTC). Aunt Peggy - properly British, is well known for her exacting table manners.

For example Christmas Dinner, Whiterock Household, circa 2002. Desert was served, Sim Sim Sima was caught nibbling on some grapes, to which Aunt Peggy replied:

Sima, my dear, why don't you use the grape shears? Picking grapes off the vine is like picking flesh from the bone.

And that really is, at the end of the day, class distinction at work. Similarly - don't think I wasn't sitting in the cheap seats at the Opera clutching that faux Louis Vouis change purse for all it was worth.

Sigh...

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Oh - and to answer the all important question as posed by N (who was spotted outside of the JCC, where she could found doing a little less schmoozing and a little more schvitzing): Dickensian is a word. I don't make stuff up.