I’m worried about something. I think I have become a snob. A painting snob. And I don’t want to be. Not after what happened last night. I will have nothing to do with snobbery anymore.
Last night I went to watch my tennis team play North Ranch Country Club. My team is not from a fancy country club. We are riffraff. The serfs, who come from the public courts. We were playing North Ranch in the play-offs to see who will go to sectionals. I did not get to play this time, but we all wanted to go to support our other teammates. I arrived a little late, after playing had commenced, and walked into the clubhouse and up to the front desk. I explained why I was there, and the cute little girl with the turned up nose and the bob informed me that she was really sorry that she could not let me go in because I was in jeans and they have a no denim rule.
After my initial reaction of incredulity, I explained to her that I had come quite a distance to see my team play, and that if they did not want denim tainting their manicured grounds, their team captain should have made that clear to our team captain. She apologized again and explained that a number of my teammates had shown up unaware of the rule as well. She offered to sell me pants from their swank shop (WORK OUT PANTS!!! Oh, much better!!!) which some of my teammates had taken her up on. I happen to be a size two and wear junior sizes, and no way did they have pants to fit me. I did ask her, being of smart ass mind and body, if I could buy pants and return them later that night if they did not fit. She said no. I asked if she meant to tell me that they had a no return policy. At this point she didn’t seem to know what to say to me, and referred me to the manager. Perfect.
I walked out through the door opposite the entrance, into Eden. Like a fly on shit, the manager was bee-lining toward me with her denim radar on high. I beat her to the punch. “No denim right”? And so began the new argument. I tried everything. I told her their team captain was at fault. I told her it was beyond snobbery. I wanted to speak to the board members which she claimed were on the grounds, but she denied me access. I told her I was wearing “7” jeans that cost $187 (okay they were on sale). Nothing worked. She told me I could go and watch from outside the fence. I’m just sure. Boy was I pissed by the time I was escorted out of there. I could have come ALL THE WAY HOME and changed and gone back, but I knew that if I did, and we lost to them, I was going to be a tad cranky and the wrath of Lisa would be on full display.
I still do not know yet whether or not we won, but will post that info next time since I know this is such a cliff hanger for all of you so interested in painting. Which brings me back to my original point. I am guilty of being a painting snob, and have poo-pooed (I tried to come up with a more eloquent term, but couldn’t quickly, and the thesaurus does not have poo-pooed) many a painting style other than classical realism, or painters other than Rembrandt, Sargent and Odd Nerdrum. Because of North Ranch, I feel like Scrooge being liberated by the spirit. I will never trash Pollock again.
I hope we kicked their denimless asses…