Snobbery

The weekend starts now (Friday night), and I am so ready for it. Due to one thing and another, I haven't had two days off in a row in three weeks.

This was a funny week, with a lot of slightly unusual things going on. Mostly nice or at least interesting things, but I'm excited to have a couple days with nothing to do but clean my room.

I'm happy to say, I interviewed for and got the cat & house–sitting gig for all of June. I'll be staying in a Victorian house owned by a couple of opera fans. Full of fun stuff, like a theatrical storehouse, opulently decorated with things like a pair of jade elephants standing on a little marble-topped table, supporting on their backs bowls of blue Venetian glass orbs...

It can be jarring to be around ostentatious wealth after the poverty I see at my job. The thrift store is in a poor, dirty, crowded neighborhood, near the epicenter of the opioid crisis. 
This is a wealthy city with decent social services, so I don't see people literally starving to death or dragging mutilated limbs or anything that horrifying, but as American poverty goes, it's bad enough. 

There are lots of lively, friendly things going on too, alongside the tragic and the ugly, and I often have fun at work. But it's a constant reminder that a lot of people don't get a fair chance, born into crippling deprivation and traumatizing surroundings.

Sometimes, but not always, I judge rich people harshly and unfairly. It's an emotional reaction (attaching my resentment at social injustice to individuals who blatantly benefit from it--I mean, there's no way you could be so rich if a lot of other people weren't doing  grunt work for minimum wage), and I work to let go of it: 

Everyone has their own story. And I'm no saint.
Of course class differences matter, but I want to judge people as themselves. If you're a jerk, you're a jerk. Or not.

In this case...
The woman of the couple was open and warm, so that was no problem, but the man was a blatant snob, telling me, for instance, that he doesn't like to go to a certain place because it's "full of hoi polloi".
 
I'm still shocked--naively, I guess--when people are outright and shamelessly narrow minded like that. He appeared to be steeped through and through with this attitude, and I couldn't even think of what to say to indicate disagreement.
I suppose I could have stormed out (for all the good that would have done), but . . . I want to stay in their house! The girlettes will have a ball exploring all the nooks and crannies, and swinging from the crystal chandeliers.

No, and in fact, I played the class card myself, commenting, for instance, on a framed etching by the grand piano, "Ah, yes... Mahler." Ha! It's like I was in some bad stage play.
"A house sitter comes to stay..."

(Mahler! Do people really like Mahler after the age of... say, twenty four? Forgive me if you love Mahler. I just mean, he's awfully emo--perfect for the angst of youth. I loved him when I was a sad teenager.)

I feel my mother in myself at times like that, showing off. She could be a culture snob, and she taught me how to tell crystal from glass. I like knowing stuff like that, but the silver content of your spoons doesn't say anything about the content of your character.

While the couple were interviewing me, sounds of house cleaning came from upstairs.
"The cleaners are here."

As I was getting ready to leave, I was putting on my coat by the front door, and one of the cleaners came down the stairs.
No introduction was offered, just a comment, "The cleaners come every two weeks."

So I introduced myself. 
"Hi! I'm going to be house sitting in June, so I'll probably see you then. I'm Fresca."

The cleaner, a woman, seemed shocked to be addressed, or maybe just shy, but she told me her name. 
Can you take a stab at what her name was?
If you were casting a totally predictable movie, you'd give her this name.

I asked both bink and Mz to guess, and they did, hesitantly--but correctly. 
I'll put the answer in the comments.

Then, an entirely different story:
I was going to send a PDF to the St Paul store for them to print and distribute (a flier asking people to vote for us as Best Thrift Store). I asked Big Boss who I should send it to over there, and he said their manager is on vacation, so I shouldn't bother sending it at all
BECAUSE NO ONE THERE KNOWS HOW TO USE THE COMPUTER.

OMG. 

Poverty is so much more than financial. It's all about, do you have choices? Do you have access to information? Do you know how to find resources so you can even start to learn to do things you want (or need) to do?

Also, it's about do you have the power to help other people???
Does it even occur to you?

It's a terrible impoverishment, being so used to deprivation, it becomes normal, and you don't even think about trying to help others. 
Big Boss never seems to think in terms of training employees, for instance.

That's what can be so crushing about spending time with wealthy people who spendtheir money on elaborate window treatments. Why don't they use their power to help people?
Beyond a certain level, do more baubles really add to your happiness and enjoyment? Or is it actually another kind of deprivation?
(What's the difference between a hoarder and a collector?)

I don't know. Maybe this couple does use their money and power to help people. Maybe they're paying for their house cleaner's kid to take ballet classes or something.

I don't know.
And that's not the most important thing. I can't do anything about what they're doing or not doing. 
The most important thing is, what am I doing?