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Aww... Isn't that cute? Some nicely dressed grandparents are at the Einstein Bagels with their cute 2-year-old grandson.

But hold on a minute... because in snoburbia, when you think you see grandparents with a toddler, you actually are seeing the parents.

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The only thing I love about driving a giant, hulking vehicle in the snoburbs is this: People in their pet cars get out of my way. I noticed this today as I was driving around a downhill curve on a narrow street. Two little cars - a MINI Cooper and a VW Beetle - respectfully pulled over when they saw me coming. Heh heh.

A pet car is what I call the second, or sometimes third, car of a typical family of the suburban overclass. It's precious and tiny. It’s the pet of either the wife, who received it as a 40th birthday present, or the husband, who is desperately reliving his fantasy of youth by driving a luxury convertible that blows his scant hair around.

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A hybrid parking-only sign at the Harris Teeter food market in snoburban Crozet, Va.

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(Thanks to reader, P., who sent this photo. Please send me other funny signs or observations from your corner of snoburbia.)

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The number of status updates a member makes on Facebook is inversely proportional to that person’s actual status.

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Much like the British upper class, the American overclass is inclined to show restraint in all things, especially in matters of taste. Above all, one mustn’t appear too eager or too earnest. At a dinner party or on Facebook, you should have but one thing to say, and it should be witty or interesting.

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Yesterday, on the car next to mine, I spotted a window decal from my alma mater, a certain large public university in my home state. “Why would anyone put that on his car?” I wondered.

It got me to thinking (because that’s how you phrase things when you go to a public university): It was a perfectly fine college, and my professors and many of my classmates were smart and accomplished. I had fun there, and was known to have shouted, “Let’s gooooooooo!” at large-scale sporting events.

But a decal? Never.

Am I that snobbish? Have I lived in snoburbia for too long? I like to think I would not put a Harvard decal on my car, either (should my children surprise me with a sudden burst of overachieverism.) But would I?

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All good people agree,

And all good people say,

All nice people, like Us, are We

And every one else is They:

But if you cross over the sea,

Instead of over the way,

You may end by (think of it!) looking on We

As only a sort of They!

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In Washington, D.C. and its snoburbs, people cannot have a more than two-minute conversation that does not include, “So, what do you do?” The meta-message is, 1.) “What is your level of accomplishment as compared to mine?” and, 2.) “Should I bother continuing this chat?” (When I lived in L.A., and people asked me what I did, they meant, “Do you mountain bike or ski?”)

There are many media elites living in the overclass snoburbs of D.C. And at a party, people want to talk to them only about their work. So, a reporter I know responds to the what-do-you-do inquiry with, “I work at Chick-fil-A.” This often is met with a wan smile and a hasty exit toward the canapés.

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A chill is in the air, and that means one thing: quilting. (No, not the Gee’s Bend kind.) Women in certain segments of snoburbia will buy anything if it is quilted: jackets, boots, purses, wallets.

In some overclass snoburbs it must be accompanied by sleek hair – usually blonde of questionable origin – swept back into a ponytail or a headband (quilted, of course).

Quilting denotes a ready familiarity with Chanel and horse blankets.

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Thank goodness those hideous Vera Bradley bags are over and have moved into outer suburbia. (Is it just me?)

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