Why does it seem that your wit seems to fail you when you need it the most? While waiting in line to register for a high-brow, ladies who lunch, fashion event in midtown Manhattan, I overheard someone say “Who is this Budget Fashionista chick?” Apparently the person had been hearing quite a bit about yours truly and wanted to know what all the hype was about. While talking about me and my blog, I stood four feet away glued to the floor—immobilized by both the question and my lack of in action.
So, I spent the whole night coming up with witty answers to the question. Here is what I would have said if my wit would not have failed me . . .
I was born brilliantly imperfect in the land of beer and cheese. Kate and Andy Spade are my imaginary adoptive parents and Marc Jacobs is my brilliant, but deeply misunderstood, imaginary older brother.
Physically, I’m skinny, in an overweight sort of way, like a blotted Naomi Campbell with a curly bob. I read Harper’s Bazaar the way some people read the New York Times. I count Andre Leon Talley, the Bush twins and Kirstie Alley amongst my closest friends, even though we’ve never met. I breathe—unless I’m underwater. I have the occasional quarter life crisis which is usually brought on by the lack of options in my closet.
Six is my lucky number. I once watched six straight episodes of “Little House on the Prairie” to get in touch with my adventurer spirit and to drool over Almonzo. I was six when I first discovered Vogue and the term “Haute Couture.” I also traveled six hours on a packed bus on a dirt road in West Africa sitting next to a chicken with a personality disorder. The day after my birthday is the sixth of April. Six is indeed my lucky number.
I use my rising celebrity status to raise funds for wigless drag queens everywhere. So far, I’ve raised $1.36. I laugh loud at all the wrong times and wear very bright colors as the result of a traumatic crayon incident as a young child.
Although I’m not a middle child, I identify closely with Jan Brady and look toward her housekeeper Alice for advice on how to live my life and how to cook a great pot roast.
I’m slightly weird, but always normal. Mostly nice, but deceptively mean. I love children, especially ones over 18 years old. I subscribe to the magazine, WIRED, because I thought it was story about my life.
And I never fail to find the great deal.