Douchebags and Gold Diggers

Oh, New York Times, how you never seek to disappoint me. Look, I get it: meeting guys and/or girls in the City is very difficult. You want some standards and, frankly, there is nothing wrong with that. Girls want guys with money and guys want trophy wives. However, methinks that this event is attracting the D-side of the Manhattan social set (yes, D-side. This does not even warrant a B-side call out). Getting the heavy-set guy who works in back office at Jefferies matched up with the anorexic assistant at Laura Ashley is not exactly translatable into getting a shoutout in Weddings & Celebrations in the Sunday Styles.

1. Does anyone notice that all the ‘men’ interviewed here are between the ages of 24 and 26? They are all analysts and MAYBE 1st year associates (in private equity or otherwise) at the most. What possible sort of ‘banker bombs’ could you be dropping right now? Last I checked, 1st years were just shy of the 6-figure mark.

2. Who are these ‘girls in fashion’? Why do they work for brands that only my grandmother would wear?

3. Ms. Lesya Yanush: In case you haven’t heard, the 30 and over age set is a bit too geriatric for the tastes of these finance guys. Especially when you’re dealing with the rainmaking 1st/2nd/3rd year analysts.

“From my experience, I’ve dated lawyers and doctors and they’re nice; I just prefer finance,” Ms. Yanush said, before applying a fresh gloss of candy-apple-red lipstick in the ladies room. “My girlfriends who are in long-term relationships with finance guys are very happy.”

I think the stumbling block lies in the fact Ms. Yanush still thinks that she’s a 15-year old girl with her BonneBell lipgloss. How much of your friends’ happiness is measured by money?

As for the coveted guest list of said party, I refer my loyal readers to all things Dealbreaker on the matter. Some very interesting discoveries and snarky commentary that should brighten up everyone’s Monday.

The Aftermath

The attempts of Hot VP to allay our concerns were feeble, to say the least. The group left his cramped office dejected, everyone worried for his/her own well-being. Not a moment after, Evil Incarnate and Douchebag Associate disappeared. Smelly Homeless Kid and I gave each other a look. What could we do? No head hunter would take us with so little experience. We were sitting ducks. (If FML had existed back then..this would be one of those moments). Whipping open my rolodex of contacts at Investment-Bank-Formerly-in-Existence, I quickly shot off an e-mail to one of my sorority sisters who was finishing up her analyst years in another group. She was the perfect advice giver: smart, already secured a job in PE and one of the nicest people I’ve met. Yes, even cold-hearted bitches need friends. My note was cryptic and straight to the point:

—–Original Message—–
From: Fashion Financier(e)
Sent: Thursday, January 25, 2008 2:32 PM
To: Confidante
Subject:

Hey,
How’s it going? Do you have time to grab coffee sometime either today or tomorrow? I wanted to ask you a few ‘life’ questions…

- Fashion Financier(e)

The response was immediate and I was on my way to coffee. Meeting in our expansive lobby, we sidled down the block to the nearest Starbucks. I explained the situation thoroughly, including my displeasure with both the office politics of my group and the whole cloak and dagger nature of the situation.

“Well. That sucks.” She responded sagely.

“Thanks friend. Helpful.” I sarcastically remarked to her.

“I think you need to stick it out for at least a year. No headhunter will be able to market you otherwise. Former Investment Bank is not in the business of laying off first years (famous last words!). Just keep your head down, start reaching out to people, update your resume and you’ll be fine.” It was very easy for Confidante to muster such advice. She had been at the bank for the golden years when the pockets of bankers brimmed with Benjamins and nights at Nobu and Del Posto were a normal affair. Everyone turned out fine because everyone made enough money to hold them over. The worst position you could be in, especially a year out of college, is jobless and covering exorbitantly high rent. Many of my former colleagues found this out the hard way and subsequently moved back home as merely another victim which the City chewed up and spit out. Thankfully, the family is already from the City. I was more concerned about falling behind on the race (race for what, and to where? who knows).

I heeded her advice and began drafting a list of things I needed to do in terms of preparing myself. In my own psyche, it felt like some sort of guerrilla trench warfare. Returning to my cube, I flipped open my trusty Black n’ Red and listed out action items. It sort of looked like this:
- Revise resume
- Find a new job
- Stalk alums

Smelly Homeless Kid had disappeared again, to the gym probably. The flashing window popped up quickly on my screen as I went from idle to active.

Mr. Burrito (15:11:42 pm): This is ridiculous.
Fashion Financier (15:12:01 pm): What?
Mr. Burrito (15:12:15 pm): Douchebag Associate just told me that the Evil Incarnate has been running around to all the people we work with in other groups. The whole fucking world knows about our ‘situation’.
Fashion Financier (15:12:30 pm): Er…why?
Mr. Burrito (15:13:04 pm): Because she wants to switch groups. She’s trying to worm her way into one of the coverage groups or another product group.

At least I wasn’t the only paranoid one who jumped the gun. My hatred of the Evil Incarnate boiled up again. I was convinced that slapping her was the only way I could feel better.

The next few days were slow. Sure, I had plenty of Project California work to do. The rating agencies came back with a preliminary BB-/Ba3 rating which meant they were high-yield. Apathetic Associate and I were to work on a Commitment Committee memo while concurrently taking on credit agreement editing duties. Mind you, I had no idea regarding the latter. That’s what lawyers were for. During my first year, I had one of the greatest revelations: no matter how bad you had it, there was always some poor corporate law associate drafting and editing inane language pertaining to covenant trips, equity cures, events of default and blah blah blah.

In the early evenings, when the rest of my crack group left, I pulled up my resume. My credentials still reeked of college and I needed to adultify and bankerize it. While I tapped away one night, Michael Kors called over. “Come over. Our order’s here.” Seamless Web has a nifty function in which you can pool your allocated dinner money and order with a group. I shuffled 5 feet over and rolled up a chair to sit between Mom Jeans, the Raccoon and Michael Kors. Debt Debt and the Hillbilly were nowhere to be found.

“What gives?” I asked, motioning to their empty cubes.

“They’re at a Women in Business-sponsored wine tasting. In the cafeteria.” The Raccoon began to open all the bags and took out the plastic containers one by one.

“What? Why wasn’t I invited?” I responded, feigning indignation.

“Pft. Cause you’re not a girl.” Michael Kors snorted. Mom Jeans and the Raccoon burst out laughing. We sat down, picking at our assortment of salads and pastas. I updated them on the gossip in my group, my rising disdain for Evil Associate and Smelly Homeless Kid, and other juicy tidbits I heard here and there. We had moved onto dessert by the time Debt Debt and the Hillbilly came back. The Hillbilly was clearly inebriated as she giggled effortlessly at our not-so-funny conversation on business school. Michael Kors and I gave each other a look that said ‘she’s WASTED’.

“Well. I think the best thing about some business schools…is..the fact that you could go with like a boyfriend or girlfriend or spouse…” She looked over to Michael Kors. “…or partner.” She awkwardly finished her statement, trailing off. Mystery Solved! We all had an inkling but no evidence. A silent hush fell over the cube row. Outing your coworker in front of his/her colleagues is a definite no-no in your first year. Glancing over to Michael Kors, his facial expression changed from bright to anger.

“Thanks for that.” Michael Kors sarcastically responded. I watched as the Hillbilly slinked back into her cube and dropped her stuff.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.” She mumbled.

“No. Of course you don’t understand the big deal. You don’t get it.” Michael Kors furiously retorted. The Hillbilly came back out of her cube into our sight lines.

“I mean, it’s who you are. There’s no reason you’d need to hide it.”

“It’s not about hiding it or denying it or anything! God. It’s just not other people’s business and it’s not your place to tell people!” His voice rose exponentially with every word.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry.” The Hillbilly’s voice rose to match his.

“You…are SUCH a hillbilly! You have no regard for things that people tell you in confidence. You can’t even fathom the slightest notion of social etiquette or corporate behavior! It’s hard for me to even wonder why you can’t grasp what I’m telling you.” Michael Kors stood up, wildly gesticulating to hammer his points home. At this point, the awkwardness of the situation was palpable. Unfortunately, I was stuck and the only pathway out of the cube row was between the Hillbilly and Michael Kors who were both now at arms. I shifted over into the Raccoon’s cube space so I could continue to watch this trainwreck of a confrontation without being too ‘in the way’.

Who said there are no good soap operas at night?