I wanted to read about how you spent your bonus jetting off to Richard Branson’s island, where you cavorted with Rod Stewart’s former flames and compared the legal wording in your prenups detailing how much sex you have to give up in order to cash in. I hungered to learn about the $30,000 worth of Jean Yu lingerie you keep in your summerhouse armoire, labeled beach panties, or the Vacheron Constantin watch you bought just because it was Tuesday. I wanted choke a little on my Starbucks Lime Refresher after reading how, on bonus day, you and your group of bonus-ees bitched about the maid your best friend/arch nemesis Whitney had to fire because she caught her polishing the crown moulding with the Matouk washrags (well, I did choke a little where you insisted that you are a feminist, right after the part where you refer to your husband as your boss - so there's that). Instead you gave us Burberry? Tory Burch? Tiffany’s smallest possible engagement ring? That may have been your biggest, gaffe, Polly. How can we properly seethe with self-righteous judgment if you aren’t going to at least spend the equivalent of a split-level in Minneapolis on your engagement ring? The very least the Post could have done was get a profile from someone who was really, obscenely rich.
Here’s the thing, Pol. Can I call you Pol? I think I can. Like you, my husband is a top-level executive, who has bounced around One Percenter-Ville (or, more accurately, Lower Richistan) as a CEO or President. Also like you, we’ve lived in different countries and enjoyed the bloated paychecks that come from those cushy overseas executive positions. We’ve been in foreign places surrounded by expats just like you. You know, the kind who text friends wondering if anyone knows a good place to get the Louboutins re-soled.
And hey, Pol (fair's fair: you can call me Jen), I feel you. It probably stung when all those commenters blasted the hell out of you, calling you disgusting and shallow and obnoxious for your gleeful photo ops, for your callous shut the fuck up to Americans who can't put porcini-infused quinoa tartletts on the table. They just don't get it, amiright?
Here, I'll be an asshole for a minute. I'll tell you how my family lived when we were in India for our first cushy overseas executive position. First, my family of seven moved into a 1600 square-foot rental. Admittedly, our over-priced house was near the British Consulate, but we were even closer to a slum, which reminded us every single day how millions and millions of people on this planet live without running water, electricity, or enough food. We lived near people who would only find intrinsic value in a damn Birkin bag if they could eat it. And guess what, Pol? It forever changed us.
What did we do with our extra income while we were there? We gave it away. We spent time with a local orphanage and got to know the 35 children who had absolutely nothing, save for a bed to sleep on and a place to eat and get an education - an enormous step up from the slums from which many of them came. We played cricket with them, fed them, bought them art supplies and painted with kids who had never even held a paintbrush in their hand, much less taken an art class at The Trevor Day School. We made lasting human connections that stayed with us infinitely longer than the thrill of getting next season's "it" bag before anyone else (or at least before Alexandra, who is still on the wait-list, that bitch).
Maybe you don't care how your op-ed made you look. Maybe you just wanted a byline in a popular publication because you are also writing your memoir about the years you had to make due with a closet filled with Ann Taylor Loft dresses and it's going to be really, really good. Or maybe you just need to re-word your post-nup so that the next time you have an overseas move you will be required to live among children who have no choice but to take a shit in the streets.
I hear Tandoori bags are all the rage in Mumbai.