Salon Money | Money talks

T A B L E__T A L K
Too much debt? Discuss ways to get back in the black in Table Talk's Business and Personal Finance area

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Looking for books about social class? Check out barnesandnoble.com!
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R E C E N T L Y

God rest ye merry, shoppers
By Fiona Morgan
Author Bill McKibben preaches a "Hundred Dollar Holiday"
(12/11/98)
Exxon-Mobil: Bigger than Monica?
By Heather Chaplin
While the media and Congress blather about the Clinton sex scandal, these former competitors just created the biggest corporation in the world
(12/04/98)
The last hurrah for West Coast finance
By Kevin Kelleher
The departure of the last of the titans from San Francisco's biggest investment bank was marked by a disastrous frat party that time forgot
(11/25/98)
My guilty secret
By Heather Chaplin
Some people buy porn; I like to buy make-up -- in private
(11/20/98)
Halloween's hollow spree
By Heather Chaplin
How the season of candy-eating kiddies has become monstrously lucrative
(11/06/98)
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[ T H E_.R E L U C T A N T_.C A P I T A L I S T ]________
Money image
_____money talks
_____IF YOU WANT TO KNOW IF A WOMAN IS
_____WEALTHY, CHECK HER PORES, NOT HER PEARLS

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BY HEATHER CHAPLIN
I have a friend who, after a few drinks, likes to ask new acquaintances how many sexual partners they've had. He's not a pervert, and he's not vicious. He's just fascinated by discovering that the man waiting in line with him for the bathroom has slept with 21 women, or that the hostess who needs his help reaching glasses atop her fridge has been with 13 men. Gathering tidbits of sexual history makes people who would otherwise remain strangers seem more accessible.
That's not my particular kink -- unless the hostess had an affair with Frank Sinatra or is sleeping with an ex-boyfriend of mine. Otherwise, I am much more interested in finding out what her salary is, if her family has a house in the Hamptons and whether those diamond studs glittering in her ears are real. Like my sexually inquisitive friend, I am insatiably curious about people, but my nosiness leads me not to their bedrooms, but to their wallets.
These days, when heiresses wear running shoes, movie stars thrift-shop and gold cards are distributed to the masses, it's not always easy to tell who's loaded and who's not. If she's wearing head-to-toe Gucci and her limo is waiting outside pumping exhaust into the air, you may be able to draw a few conclusions. But for those of us who don't run in circles featured in the opening pages of Vogue, social gatherings are more often than not a hodgepodge of people from vastly different financial backgrounds. I have friends who are or will be millionaires, and I have friends who barely pull it together month to month. I've gone to parties hosted in 3,000-square-foot renovated lofts and to fetes where you have to step over crack dealers to get up the front stairs. And I'm still not sure which host was more or less affluent.
Some of the barriers that separated the haves from the have-nots a generation ago have disintegrated, as have some of the signposts that traditionally indicate one or the other. Even the richest women I know tend to steer clear of pearls, matching luggage or Park Avenue addresses. Of course there are different indicators now, but one has to look closer and take into consideration more subtle factors to recognize them.
Take the hostess with 13 notches on her bedpost. I would die before I'd ask her about her sex life, but before I could help myself, I'd be examining the cut of her clothes, the quality of her leather shoes, the setting of her earrings, the label on her pocketbook, the tone of her skin. These are the details that matter. Ask yourself: Is that poreless, glowing skin a happy genetic accident or the careful work of a facialist plying her with acid peels, oxygen creams and Accutane? Ask her casually: Where'dja get that shirt, and listen carefully to the answer. If she says Barney's too eagerly, she may have bought it on sale and consider it her prize possession, which is fine -- I do the same thing myself -- but it doesn't point to her being a Rockefeller. Likewise, if she says WalMart with too much of a glint in her eye, she may be slumming.
Listen for blasé suggestions of having been unemployed for long periods of time coupled with talk of extended travel in Europe. Keep an eye open for studied sloppiness coupled with a fearlessly confident demeanor.
It's mostly curiosity, the thrill of detective work, the drive to discover as much as possible about a person in a limited time frame. My friend uses the topic of sex to satisfy the same urge. Perhaps I don't know how to put the clues together, but I find discussing sex with strangers generally sheds more light on what kind of neuroses they have than anything else. So my hostess has slept with 13 people. Big deal. But if I learn she's just back from a month on the Riviera with her parents or, conversely, from visiting her father laid up after an accident at the canning factory, sparks of interest start to fly. A network of relationships and experiences is suddenly visible around her, the way a web around a spider flickers into view in the right light. Oh, the trip to the Riviera is an annual event? Now, she's shifting into color. Oh, you're the first in your family to go to college? Now, she's on this side of the wall of unfamiliarity.
Of course, my fascination with others' financial status is undoubtedly also tied up with my own competitiveness, insecurity and prejudice. Money is a loaded subject and I certainly carry as much baggage as anyone. I get resentful of peers who I imagine have had advantages I haven't. I feel left out in a room of women with Prada bags slung over their shoulders. And I've been known to act with downright hostility toward trust-fund babies masquerading as working schlubs.
When the strain of lugging my baggage isn't making me cranky, however, I'm conscious I don't actually know my hypothetical hostess or have the right to make judgments about her. Like a kid faced with a giant jigsaw puzzle, I just can't help trying to put a few pieces together. I know it's only a flat image that looks three-dimensional, but I delight in seeing it emerge anyway.
SALON | Dec. 18, 1998
Heather Chaplin's Reluctant Capitalist column appears every other Friday in Salon.




T A B L E__T A L K Too much debt? Discuss ways to get back in the black in Table Talk's Business and Personal Finance area ___________________ Looking for books about social class? Check out barnesandnoble.com! ___________________ R E C E N T L Y God rest ye merry, shoppers By Fiona Morgan Author Bill McKibben preaches a "Hundred Dollar Holiday" (12/11/98) Exxon-Mobil: Bigger than Monica? By Heather Chaplin While the media and Congress blather about the Clinton sex scandal, these former competitors just created the biggest corporation in the world (12/04/98) The last hurrah for West Coast finance By Kevin Kelleher The departure of the last of the titans from San Francisco's biggest investment bank was marked by a disastrous frat party that time forgot (11/25/98) My guilty secret By Heather Chaplin Some people buy porn; I like to buy make-up -- in private (11/20/98) Halloween's hollow spree By Heather Chaplin How the season of candy-eating kiddies has become monstrously lucrative (11/06/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Reluctant Capitalist archives - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Salon Columnists		[ T H E_.R E L U C T A N T_.C A P I T A L I S T ]________ _____money talks _____IF YOU WANT TO KNOW IF A WOMAN IS _____WEALTHY, CHECK HER PORES, NOT HER PEARLS - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY HEATHER CHAPLIN I have a friend who, after a few drinks, likes to ask new acquaintances how many sexual partners they've had. He's not a pervert, and he's not vicious. He's just fascinated by discovering that the man waiting in line with him for the bathroom has slept with 21 women, or that the hostess who needs his help reaching glasses atop her fridge has been with 13 men. Gathering tidbits of sexual history makes people who would otherwise remain strangers seem more accessible. That's not my particular kink -- unless the hostess had an affair with Frank Sinatra or is sleeping with an ex-boyfriend of mine. Otherwise, I am much more interested in finding out what her salary is, if her family has a house in the Hamptons and whether those diamond studs glittering in her ears are real. Like my sexually inquisitive friend, I am insatiably curious about people, but my nosiness leads me not to their bedrooms, but to their wallets. These days, when heiresses wear running shoes, movie stars thrift-shop and gold cards are distributed to the masses, it's not always easy to tell who's loaded and who's not. If she's wearing head-to-toe Gucci and her limo is waiting outside pumping exhaust into the air, you may be able to draw a few conclusions. But for those of us who don't run in circles featured in the opening pages of Vogue, social gatherings are more often than not a hodgepodge of people from vastly different financial backgrounds. I have friends who are or will be millionaires, and I have friends who barely pull it together month to month. I've gone to parties hosted in 3,000-square-foot renovated lofts and to fetes where you have to step over crack dealers to get up the front stairs. And I'm still not sure which host was more or less affluent. Some of the barriers that separated the haves from the have-nots a generation ago have disintegrated, as have some of the signposts that traditionally indicate one or the other. Even the richest women I know tend to steer clear of pearls, matching luggage or Park Avenue addresses. Of course there are different indicators now, but one has to look closer and take into consideration more subtle factors to recognize them. Take the hostess with 13 notches on her bedpost. I would die before I'd ask her about her sex life, but before I could help myself, I'd be examining the cut of her clothes, the quality of her leather shoes, the setting of her earrings, the label on her pocketbook, the tone of her skin. These are the details that matter. Ask yourself: Is that poreless, glowing skin a happy genetic accident or the careful work of a facialist plying her with acid peels, oxygen creams and Accutane? Ask her casually: Where'dja get that shirt, and listen carefully to the answer. If she says Barney's too eagerly, she may have bought it on sale and consider it her prize possession, which is fine -- I do the same thing myself -- but it doesn't point to her being a Rockefeller. Likewise, if she says WalMart with too much of a glint in her eye, she may be slumming. Listen for blasé suggestions of having been unemployed for long periods of time coupled with talk of extended travel in Europe. Keep an eye open for studied sloppiness coupled with a fearlessly confident demeanor. It's mostly curiosity, the thrill of detective work, the drive to discover as much as possible about a person in a limited time frame. My friend uses the topic of sex to satisfy the same urge. Perhaps I don't know how to put the clues together, but I find discussing sex with strangers generally sheds more light on what kind of neuroses they have than anything else. So my hostess has slept with 13 people. Big deal. But if I learn she's just back from a month on the Riviera with her parents or, conversely, from visiting her father laid up after an accident at the canning factory, sparks of interest start to fly. A network of relationships and experiences is suddenly visible around her, the way a web around a spider flickers into view in the right light. Oh, the trip to the Riviera is an annual event? Now, she's shifting into color. Oh, you're the first in your family to go to college? Now, she's on this side of the wall of unfamiliarity. Of course, my fascination with others' financial status is undoubtedly also tied up with my own competitiveness, insecurity and prejudice. Money is a loaded subject and I certainly carry as much baggage as anyone. I get resentful of peers who I imagine have had advantages I haven't. I feel left out in a room of women with Prada bags slung over their shoulders. And I've been known to act with downright hostility toward trust-fund babies masquerading as working schlubs. When the strain of lugging my baggage isn't making me cranky, however, I'm conscious I don't actually know my hypothetical hostess or have the right to make judgments about her. Like a kid faced with a giant jigsaw puzzle, I just can't help trying to put a few pieces together. I know it's only a flat image that looks three-dimensional, but I delight in seeing it emerge anyway. SALON \| Dec. 18, 1998 Heather Chaplin's Reluctant Capitalist column appears every other Friday in Salon.