The great depression

I’m flat broke. Even though my parents disowned me years ago (well, financially, at least, save for the random Fendi bag and pair of Louboutin shoes during their generous moments), I’ve never been this broke. I almost had an asthma attack (which I don’t have) when I found out that my checking account had only 3,000 bucks. I mean, really. That can’t even buy you a decent pair of shoes and maybe will account for two dinners at Pepato or a really drunken night out. I had to reassess my plans for the future.

Causes for poverty: Moving out of ancestral home on my own meager Play- doh, funding my new fashion venture Loungerie Lux (which I hope all you readers will be suckered into buying), my addiction to anything Rhett Eala, Greyhound, couture, the latest must-have bag (the Balenciaga classic and Fendi Spy bag could have easily paid for a year’s worth of rent), traveling almost every month and foie gras. Any financial analyst would just ask me to pick out his ingrown toenails if he saw my financial report for the year.

My boyfriend reads Fortune, Time, Newsweek and considers Golf Digest his tabloid. I read Us Weekly, People and Star and know more about Paris vs. Nicole than the state of the nation. It shows our goals in life: him to be a citizen of the world, me to be a starlet. Needless to say, my direction in life needs some maneuvering. I’m 25, not quite the enfant terrible anymore, almost on the precipice of ceasing to be a darling ingenue. In a few years

I’ll be in limbo and just be in my thirties. Let me correct that: broke and in my thirties. In other words: has-been.

This month I can actually say that I went to Australia and all I got was the W Angelina and Brad back issue (which my friend Pepper actually paid for).

So when I wear boho from now on, I’m not actually pretending to look poor like Mary Kate Olsen. I’m pure dumpster. I deserve this, really. I did this to myself.

My brother is incredible at making money. In his mid-20s he bought a Jaguar on his own, two BMWs and a gold Rolex watch for my mother. I, on the other hand, am fantastic at spending it. Years ago my mom tried to teach me to invest, so she gave me a sum of money to work on. Work on it I did. I tanned at the Ritz-Carlton Millennia (taking a junior suite, at that) when I felt very depressed and bought lots of Gucci, Prada and a sweet pair of earrings. Happiness and memories are priceless, says a credit card company, and I guess I’ll take their advice. That was my investment. Needless to say, my chance for my mother’s financial mercy was nipped in the bud.

So now it’s backfiring. When I was looking around for a new apartment to assert my independence – which is quite pathetic when you just start doing it in your mid-20s – I realized how my high-maintenance lifestyle (which I don’t deserve and gain from this magnificent concept called credit, which also led to the great depression) has really come to haunt me. This is officially my first apartment on my own. My first one – when I was still the darling apple of my mother’s eye – was in front of Central Park in New York next to Barneys and Bergdorf. A stone’s throw away from the Plaza Hotel. A charmed life despite my apartment’s rather modest size.

It’s funny when you start looking for a place. You start out real small. Well, I did, rather. I wanted a one-bedroom. That’s all. I searched the metropolis and saw some of the most hideous pieces of real estate, if you could call them that. One was rather appealingly described as a penthouse loft. Well, it was more like a brothel/closet. It had a massive bar and a spiral staircase that led to the bedroom‚ and that was it. I was getting used to the idea of slumming – dismal quarters stained with quarter-life-crisis angst from my predecessors. Then I found my dream building.

It really pays when your best friends are real-estate developers. It felt like it was home the moment I stepped in. The fact that my best friend lived there was a plus, much to his chagrin. Then I saw the humble one-bedrooms and comforted myself that yes, this will be my home. Mine and mine alone. Until, of course, just for kicks I checked the two-bedrooms which I looooved – for me it was the Playboy mansion. I was so ready to sign up and when I struck a deal with the realtor, I was in heaven. In apartment-hunting you start out small but end up suckered into something bigger and better.

Then, a few days later, I was told that the owner of the apartment was a reader of my silly column. Suddenly and mysteriously, the price rose. I leave that to speculation, but I was brokenhearted and turned down the deal. Then, just at that very moment, another unit came up; it was the biggest two-bedroom in the building and so much cheaper. What did I ever do in this life? I was so happy that I almost wrote my check out in calligraphy.

So now there you have it – I’m a sham in chic clothing. I would rather starve than pass up Chanel pumps. This is the kind of horrible person I am. I don’t even know how I got to be like this. I grew up with my grandfather, who was darling but not fabulous, if you know what I mean. He was really simple. I think my dad did this to me. He is fabulous. When we were a poor little scion family back then, he would still buy his Gucci while I was in desperate need of milk. Thus my faux-anorexic frame. Just kidding. But there is truth to that exaggeration. He was and still is the biggest label whore. He named me after his favorite fashion house, for heaven’s sake. I was almost named Gucci, actually. Imagine being named Gucci in the ’80s when that scandal broke. I would have never forgiven him.

So I cannot call myself nouveau poor because I was never rich to begin with. Just living way beyond my means, like all the poseurs out there. That’s why I always warn you, don’t be fooled by the scion. We were raised to learn how to look privileged and charmed even in the most dire of financial circumstances, like an anemic checking account.

When people turn their noses up in the air and continually say they’re old rich, like a voodoo chant, it just means that: they were rich once and poor now. The real deals just are. They’re not obnoxious about it. So if you’re a gold digger, take my advice. Don’t be fooled by the flash. It may just be mirage. You may get that odd LV token of love in the beginning of your rather spectacular courtship, then you start modeling to pay for his gambling debts. Then you start seeing your beloved killing his siblings or what have yous (i.e., children from outside the famille) for their inheritance. It’s just plain gross. I mean, they feel entitled to it, but the truth is it’s not even their money. It’s a gift. A legacy to put to good use. My mom put it in my head to bring my own bacon home.

I take pride in being a working girl. I hate being called a socialite. What is that, anyway? I like to have fun in overpriced outfits, but please don’t call me a socialite. Just irresponsible. And I’m now taking my future into better figures (seven, hopefully). I hope that being my new entrepreneurial and wholly independent self will make me the real deal and not just another clichéd sham.