hedge fund palaces

my friend erika calls saturday morning, "the manager at the hedge fund where I'm temping invited me to a dinner party. you have to come with me." "why me?" i ask. "because you are my fun friend who gets along with anybody."

so there i am, playing the geisha girl again.

so we meet in union square and go into a luxury building. we step into his huge one bedroom apartment and notice everyone is out on his 2,500 square foot patio. his private patio. atop of which there are bushes and trees and a canopied bed with pillows all over it. there is also a private chef hired for the evening and a bartender who was stocked up with veuve clicquot rose champagne which, as the fine ladies of leisure that we are, we drank all night. and also which left us with massive MASSIVE hangovers sunday morning.

oh hedge funders, how do i love thee?

rather, i'm not sure i would have wanted to date any of the guys at this party. men get dangerous when you put too much money in their hands. or just outright annoyingly egotistical. witness this exchange:
"oh, did erika tell you where i'm going tomorrow?"
"um, no," i reply (wondering why the hell erika would ever think that i needed to know her boss' travel schedule).
"erika! you didn't tell jasmine where i'm going tomorrow?!"
"oh, i must have forgotten!" erika says as she turns to give me a "what the fuck?" look.
"well, jasmine, i'm flying to l.a. tomorrow to be a guest at the "welcome home" party that tom cruise, katie holmes, will smith and jada pinkett are throwing for david and victoria beckham."

and because i know i'm supposed to act impressed. and also because i've imbibed about $150 worth of champagne and am appreciative, i "oooh" and "aaahhhh" and act girly and say things like, "ohmygod! that is amazing! how on earth does one manage to get invited to such an event?!" laying. it. on. thick. to say the least.

turns out that money does make the world go round. apparently the hedge fund dabbles in producing movies and so the host knows tom cruise personally.

as we floated away from the apartment at the end of the night, high on the euphoria of good champagne with even better food we bid adieu to the host. "don't come back a scientologist if you can help it!" i say to him, wishing him well on his journey. and we exit the building to return to the place where the normal people roam. rose-less and sans curtained canopy beds under starry skies...