Monday, October 23, 2006

Poor Lil' Rich Girl

I cut a coupon out today. Go figure. I won't think twice about throwing down $350 on the new pink DVF wrap dress with bright pink lips on it, but will get excited at the prospect of getting a free Carvel soft serve sundae.

Then I went to the HSBC ATM and checked my balance. I will probably be reading Clipper magazine from cover to cover next time it comes.

I don't know what it's like to not have money. I don't know what it's like to need coupons either. Since C.B. is at a business dinner (again) I threw myself a pity party and opened up a bottle of Schaefer.

Good thing I married a banker. The downside is that he simply does not understand why I need Frette linens or why I need to get my hair blow dried every Saturday.

On the upside, I recently found out why there are never size 2 clothes at Betsey Johnson at Merrick Park. The girls who work there are size 2s, duh.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


It looks like someone has taken stock of my trivial, senseless rantings. Surprisingly, I have been offered two writing jobs.

The first, unpaid, will be for a friend’s website If you are an avid baseball fan or an intensely sarcastic person blessed with wit, I highly recommend that you visit his site.

The second, which warms my heart, is a fashion/social site. I don’t know many details yet, particularly about the pay, but I am beyond ecstatic.

On a completely unrelated note, C.B. has been working 14 hour days. I know he’s a banker and all, but seriously. He hasn’t been spending a lot of time with me, which gives me the perfect opportunity to guilt-trip him into shelling out $3500 for the Norwich terrier I want.

Sigh. That is best case scenario. Most probable scenario: C.B. will buy me goldfish or will force me to settle for a generic Labrador. Those are so Jennifer Garner. Such is my luck I guess.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Fashion vs. Finance

Since I know C.B. is getting a four-figure check from the IRS, I've been subtly lobbying for some presents. Ok, not so subtly... A Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 or a pair of patent white, cool-as-fuck, four- inch Chistian Louboutin platforms specifically. He has decided to invest the money. Yawn. Snore. Bore.

So much for me trying to convince him that using the $ to buy gold Valentino aviators with crystal trim or any pair of Tom Ford sunglasses would be a great unisex investment. I pride myself on my ability to fuse fashion, function and finance in times of crisis. Although I agree that owning shares of Berkshire-Hathaway would be beyond chic, my potential purchases would be a lot cooler...

Friday, April 14, 2006

Wistfully Waiting......

Sherry Wolf Ballerina Bag. Italian washed bone lamb. Out of stock. That means I’m out $570 and remain sans bag. C.B., whose opinion I certainly didn't ask for, sternly scolded me for paying up front. I didn't pay in advance, dumbass. I paid through Pay Pal and even ponied up for rush delivery before I got the email informing me that I would be waiting indefinitely for it. I bet Oprah is probably not waiting indefinitely for hers…

The disappointment I feel is only comparable to the time I ordered the new Chantecaille mascara at, only to find out, after paying $40 for it, that there was a two month waiting period...

As I transferred money from savings to checking yet again, to cover another unnecessary-but-chic expense, I was wracked with guilt. After evaluating whether I should seek a refund or suck up the wait, I decided for the latter. The joy experienced when the concierge (who's fully up to speed regarding the situation) informs me the package has arrived and I tear into the box to unveil my new treasure, will be simply unparalled.

Bankers like C.B. don't realize that some bags just pay for themselves in compliments (and jealous looks) and that their value can accrue over time. Does he not get that in the event we have a daughter one day, she will undoubtedly love me more for all the vintage designer bags I will pass on to her? The bags will not only look cool but will have gained sentimental value. That’s like a good turnover right?

Thursday, June 02, 2005

Camping? EEWWW

When C.B. turned to me last night and asked if I might want to travel to northern Michigan and go camping, I let out a hearty giggle. Maybe it was the four glass of wine I had quickly consumed, but I did not think he could possibly serious.

Sensing that he was slightly hurt by my reaction, I asked him many questions (Could I take my ipod? Would there be running water? Could we possibly walk around in the wilderness during the day but sleep at a cozy five-star hotel at night?) to see if I could handle a couple of days in the wild.

He matter-of-factly informed that we would have no access to running water, mirrors, or even toilets. I would have to dig a hole to do number two in. EEEWWWWW!
I was horrified and appalled that he thought I would be willing to dig, squat, and bury.

My idea of roughing it is staying at the Sheraton (I can’t handle static-y comforters, 250-count sheets, polyester curtains, generic art, or really thin towels). The thought of sleeping in a tent (which I would undoubtedly have to help pitch), in a sleeping bag (which I don’t own), and eating canned food (bloat city), coupled with the looming possibility of being mauled by a bear or a gang of raccoons, does not appeal to me at all.

C.B. smugly pointed out that I had gone camping once before. Correction: I went to a Woodstock-esque festival held at a well-lit, private farm in VA, which was attended by 900 people, including 15 of my friends. Although I had to sleep in a tent and go in the Port-a-Potty, that “camping” trip held the promise of doing mushrooms.

Due to this slight discrepancy in our views regarding fun vacations, C.B. is now pouting and muttering stuff about our “incompatibility”. Bottom line: I am most definitely not going camping. If I feel a sudden urge to be in communion with nature, I will (precisely in this order) watch the Discovery Channel, take some Xanax, drink a glass of wine, and then take a long nap on my monogrammed, 500-count Frette linens.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Rainy night = Ruined Shoes

I had a great time last night at the Sprockets Music party. Not only were the drinks free, music great and the quesadillas outstanding, but I also managed to flirt with three pretty cute guys. Ok, so two of them were wearing awful shirts with random gibberish scribbled on them but it was dark and I was both drunk and mad at C.B. (who I recently found out was hiding a secret from me.)

The only bad thing about the evening was that the sudden downpour that occurred around 10:00 p.m. caught me out on the patio, causing my silk, Pucci stilettos to get muddy and soaked. The five vodka tonics and two glass of wine I consumed prevented me from freaking out, as I would have if I had been completely sober. Luckily, I came home shortly after and scrubbed the muddy fabric with Didi 7. The white patches that had once been white and turned dark brown last night are now a light, grayish color. Oh well, I guess that will have to do.

Although I was looking forward to spending Friday afternoon chain-smoking Marlboro lights and watching re-runs of Meet the Barkers on MTV and then watching About A Boy yet again, I have to spend it at my cousin's high school graduation. Oh joy.

Monday, May 16, 2005

Champagne-Fueled Chaos

After spending two weeks at a very un-chic location, I am back in the MIA. Since I've been back I am annoyed to admit that I have already housed five guests and spent around five hundred dollars clubbing.

Getting inebriated at Mansion on Friday night (at the Roc-a-Fella party) proved to be a bad idea since I foolishly blew my Manolo Blahnik budget on Veuve Clicquot and got in a fight with C.B.

Since I was mad at my boy, I quickly paid my bill (an activity which I could only accomplish with tremendous help from the hostess since I am very bad at adding when I am drunk) and darted out of the club with the intention of taking a cab home.

Not only was I not able to find a cab, but since I was wearing a miniskirt and wandering around Washington Ave. by myself at 4:00 a.m., I got groped by a crack head.

In my attempt to run away as far as I could from a bunch of shady characters and seek shelter at the Delano (which was a good 10-15 blocks away) I scuffed my Pucci heels.

As I was fighting back tears on Collins (I really love those shoes), C.B. pulled up in his trusty Chrysler and gallantly tried to rescue me from the mean streets of South Beach.

Although he looked really cute in his shirt from Urban Outfitters, I refused to get in the car. I finally relented and agreed to let him drive me home, but not before I severely scratched his arm and kicked him in the shin as hard as I could.

Needless to say, C.B. was not happy about being a victim of domestic violence but he forgave me because he is simply the best boyfriend ever.

Hopefully, this will be a slow week because I simply cannot spend any more money on champagne or late night dinners at Jerry's Deli.