Confessions of a Park Avenue Peacock: How it Feels to Be Filthy Rich and Fabulous in NYC
Let's get one thing straight: "elitist" is just a fancy way of saying "knows what's what." And trust me, honey, in the concrete jungle, knowing what's what is the difference between brunching at Balthazar like a baller and getting stuck in a bodega line with that guy who still says "bodega."
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| How Does It Feel To Be An Elitist New York |
Life on the A-List:
First things first, forget rent-controlled pre-war walk-ups. We rock penthouses with views that make pigeons jealous. Think Central Park as your front yard, helicopters your UberPool, and paparazzi hiding in your hydrangeas just waiting to catch you in your cashmere yoga pants. It's glamorous, it's chaotic, and the only roaches you encounter are the ones on Fifth Avenue after Fashion Week.
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Dining & Dishing:
Now, sustenance. Forget your dollar slice pizza, darling. We do Michelin-starred tasting menus where the amuse-bouche is bigger than your apartment kitchen. I'm talking truffle-infused air with a side of dehydrated unicorn tears. And the gossip? Oh, the gossip! It's juicier than a dry-aged porterhouse at Peter Luger. We dissect socialite scandals the way surgeons analyze livers (only with more champagne).
Shopping sprees on steroids:
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Retail therapy? That's for tourists in Times Square buying "I Love NY" keychains. We do personal shopping sprees in Paris just to pick up a baguette. Bergdorf's is our playground, Barney's our sandbox, and Fifth Avenue our personal runway. And don't even get me started on vintage couture auctions – let's just say I once outbid Rihanna for a Chanel gown older than my grandmother, and let's just say Rihanna wasn't happy.
But wait, there's more:
It's not all caviar and Manolo Blahniks, though. We have our share of drama too. Like the time my chihuahua, Princess Buttercup, got lost in Central Park and a ransom note demanded a Birkin bag (she was found, safe and sound, chewing on a Prada loafer). Or the endless quest for the perfect Hamptons summer weekend invite (trust me, the Hamptons are like "Game of Thrones" with worse WiFi).
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The Verdict:
So, how does it feel to be an elitist New Yorker? It's like living in a Wes Anderson movie directed by Baz Luhrmann, soundtracked by Jay-Z, and fueled by bottomless mimosas. It's exhilarating, exhausting, and utterly ridiculous. But hey, someone's gotta keep the city running on gossip and Dom P�rignon, right? And who better to do it than us, the sparkling, diamond-encrusted cockroaches of Park Avenue?
P.S. If you see me sipping lattes at La Mercer, don't be shy. Just don't ask me if I know Anna Wintour (everyone knows Anna Wintour). And please, for the love of all things fabulous, don't wear flip-flops. Trust me, the sidewalks have eyes. And they judge.
Tip: Keep the flow, don’t jump randomly.
P.P.S. If you happen to find Princess Buttercup's missing diamond collar, a reward of one (slightly chewed) Prada loafer awaits.
Stay scandalous, stay stylish, and whatever you do, never underestimate the power of a well-placed Birkin bag.
Yours in fabulousness,
A Park Avenue Peacock (who insists on anonymity, but secretly loves being interviewed by the New York Post)
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