I Don’t Dance Now, I Make Money Moves

Let it be known that I loved Cardi B before anyone (except devout followers of Love & Hip Hop New York) even knew who she was.

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Also, for the record, I’ve never danced. My mama knows I don’t got the talent for it and once called me out that I would never make it as a video girl and might as well pursue higher education. I was, however, recently mistaken for being a reformed prostitute, so, close enough.


This blog—my labor of shameless love and excessive misery—is now four years old. Truly, the miracle to be celebrated here is that I am neither dead nor imprisoned, impoverished, or running an underground Bejeweled gambling ring. I’m sure the burning question, then, is what I have to show for it.

Long story short I’m still broke, and, as from the beginning, for reasons of my own doing. After four years, I continue to choose to live in one of the most expensive boroughs in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I still spend a sizable portion of my annual income on paying off unnecessary debt, advancing my wearable arsenal against ruthless East Coast winters, and self-soothing after a full workday of verbal whiplash from my boss with a cheap bottle of wine from Trader Joe’s (or a single, $14 cocktail in Manhattan, or several cheap cocktails at Happy Hour—”several” meaning enough to cancel out the discount).

But, as Ian Malcolm (aka Jeff Goldblum) notoriously said, “Life finds a way.” Even I—the invertebrate societal urchin with zero social graces, weak wrists and a formidable liver—have learned to evolve to my environment.

Since my last post, I left the temp-to-perm job I started at the end of spring because it was a glorified papier-mâché castle of white liberalism that—quite literally—manufactured “wokeness” as its product. Not only was I one of a handful of minorities there, but I also had a boss who had less than half my experience and yet made 2.6x my salary. To add a cherry on top of this shitcake, at the end of my temp period, when they offered me a full-time position two days before my contract was to expire, they also sneakily tried to slash my salary by $10,000. So, I turned down the offer, and three hours later, I was extended an offer for the job I have now. They offered me (fractionally) more, and my boss has over 20 years of experience. It’s moments like this when I feel like I’m either a magician or a dumb-luck magnet. Either way, #blessed.

Of course, I’m still someone’s bitch. I am again a minion, a lackey, a Short Round to someone’s Indiana Jones. Again, I must “pay my dues,” this time to a new industry, a new line of work, and a new pair of oversized breeches to fill. But this time, thankfully, I’m making beaucoups bucks for it. The difference between Big City neophyte Frances and too-old-for-this-shit official New Yorker Frances is approximately $30,000 (and maybe 10 lbs due to muscle loss). Sure, the office dynamics are near identical to my first job, but I make livable money and I enjoy what I’m doing. How the hell did that happen?

I have not—and likely will never—graduate out of the income bracket where I die a little inside every time I make a purchase above $40. It just hurts, and I fear that it will always hurt. But it hurts a little less as I make inroads into adulthood. Did I tell you guys that I have a Dyson now? I also know how to confidently use an oven (just in time to fuck up Thanksgiving), I own trendy houseplants, I don’t flinch anymore when buying hardcover books, and I suspect that, someday very soon, I’ll stop buying secondhand furniture. And maybe soon after that, I’ll actually learn how to wear heels to work without looking like a drunk newborn Bambi.

The future is bright—if still cost-conscious—for this Broke Bitch.

Thank you for faithfully reading all my bullshit.

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