Friday night, I spent a few hours with an unpleasant person. As is usually the case when I'm stuck in the company of someone I don't like, I find a way to detach from the interaction and observe (read: judge) them. It isn't the nicest thing for me to do, I know, but it helps make an otherwise unpleasant situation fun. I'm going to blog the shit out of you, honey. You don't even know.

During the course of our one-way conversation (she didn't ask me a single question about myself), she disclosed to me - with clear pride - that she never cooked, and she'd never set foot on public transportation of any kind. Later in the evening, I mentioned I had to be up at 8:30 am the next day to help a friend move. She stared at me, horrified. "Why would you do that?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. "Because I'm a good friend?" I bounced the question back to her pointedly. She shuddered perceptibly, and assured me she'd never do such a ridiculous thing. I shrugged and smiled as if capitulating. I know. Crazy me. I is so wacky.

Something came up, giving me cause to ask where she'd gone to college. She answered in a tone that suggested she'd just presented me with an impossibly large and rich slice of cake that I was expected to eat in one bite. Without milk. Swallow that, she seemed to be saying. It wasn't even that impressive a school, but I think she must have had me pegged for a recent, less-than-affluent Los Angeles transfer. I probably still smell like the suburbs. She and her sorority sisters ate girls like me for breakfast.

She barely inclined her head towards me when we spoke, and she frequently adopted a scornful, slightly scandalized look at the off-color jokes and comments the rest of us were making. She was a true pearl-clutcher in the making, despite her insistence that West Hollywood was the perfect life for her. She had the skin of a twenty-five year old and her clothing was pitch-perfect downtown LA. But something about her hair and face were decades older. Maybe it was the Farrah feathered balliage, combined with the vaguely condescending expressions she wore. Eyebrows furrowed just subtly enough to say, Oh, I get it. But I was taught to pretend not to like it. Probably in cotillion classes.

Another couple of years establishing enough career cred to hold her own in conversation, then she can retire and make someone an excellent, entitled Orange County housewife.