I am good at many things. I am a good kisser. I make a decent living planning entertaining parties. I can make a ruthlessly delicious martini. And I am a master at practical jokes. However, I am horrible at many things as well. I cannot cook. I cannot dress. And I cannot balance my checkbook within twenty dollars to save my life. No one knows that I cannot do these things because I hide behind an entourage of can-do experts that I either pay or call upon for favors.
This is top secret shit here, folks: I aint all that. If you see me looking fly at the club, I didn’t put that outfit together. If I dressed myself, I would look like a giant bag of Doritos.
I have a stylist. Every once in a while, he’ll come over and rifle through my closet and put together outfits for me and in exchange, I “cook” him dinner. See that beautiful, mouth-watering dinner I’ve “cooked” for my stylist? That, my dears, is take-out from Baraonda. I dine out all the time because I can’t cook. Who wants to measure shit and stand around and stir and bake and knead and boil and…oh, it’s just too exhausting and complicated. I have blogs to write and boys to kiss and naps to take.
And see me at Barney’s Co-op, buying Seven jeans and Limited Edition Air Force Ones? That, my friends, is because I think I have more money than I really do. I don’t save receipts and I budget like I’m a Hilton. Enter my tough-as-nails financial advisor, Marcy. “You don’t need to by a blue tooth,” she scolded during lunch one recent day.
“But Marcy,” I whine. “It annoys me to have to hold my phone to my ear all the time. What do you suggest I do?”
“And speaking of talking on the phone…” she slaps down my T-Mobile bill and points her manicured finger to a number circled in red. “You went over your minutes again this month.” I rolled my eyes.
“How can I save money, Marcy?” I asked.
“Um, try not spending it, darling,” she shot back as she looked at me over her glasses and then looked back down at her paperwork.
“Oh my,” said Brock. “Where did you and Marcy have lunch?”
“The Four Seasons,” I said.
“Nice! Lunch is good there. What did you get to eat?”
“The salmon,” I replied.
“What?!” he said, shocked. “You don’t like fish!”
I don’t like fish. When I was five years old, I poured chocolate milk into my goldfish bowl. When I was nine, I cranked up the thermostat on my grandmother’s salt-water tank, killing all her exotic fish. Once, on a Cub Scout fishing trip, I was so startled by the flip-flopping of a captured fish that I screamed like a girl and stomped on it until it was dead. Fish smell and they are slimy and they give me the fucking heebie jeebies.
So, I’m not sure why I ordered the salmon. I stabbed at it nervously as Marcy grilled me about my spending habits. She is harsh. I felt as if I was on trial and I wished I were wearing a string of pearls to give off an air of stately innocence.
“What is Halo?” she asked.
“It’s a lounge. They make the best blueberry lemondrop martinis and they-”
“And why did you spend eighty four dollars there on January 4th?”
“Um…eighty four? Really? Maybe I was on a date.” I pointed to the paper in her hand. “Does it say who I was with?”
“Tyler, its your bank statement, not Page Six.”
“Yeah, laugh it up all you want- I have to fire my stylist,” I complained.
He gave me a once over. “It looks like you have already,” he joked.
“I have really got to watch my spending habits, Brock. I could have been there by now.”
“Is there anything I can do, my friend, to help you save money?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. “Buy me brunch today!” I slid the check in his direction and he faked a scoff.
That afternoon, I fired my stylist, bought a cookbook and opened a savings account. New York is worth wearing uncoordinated outfits. It will be worth eating my insufferable cooking. Every penny will be accounted for and saved. The budget is mapped out. The date has been set. I will become a New Yorker.