Even our favorite flack has to listen to the tax man. This week, she deals with the trauma head-first…into a bag of Stacy’s Pita Chips.
Typically, I use the Flack Files to target the absurdity of the fashion flock, but given the proximity to April 15, I dedicate this column exclusively to you, old friend. Thanks to your soul-crushing email last night, I spent the better part of this morning toothbrushing red wine stains off my face. Funny: Last evening as I was snapping a slew of selfies at the bar, I thought my lip coloration looked like the new Glossier stain that everyone is blathering about. But this morning told a slightly different story when those selfies confirmed that I actually looked more like the missing Belushi brother.
Anyway! As I attempt to fasten my skinny jeans around an even larger-than-usual muffin top, I have only you to blame. What choice did I have but to eat my feelings in pasta and late-night Stacy’s Pita Chips? Before I write the checks that will put me on a diet of solely White Rose products (au revoir, Sakara!), can you please explain to me one more time why I can’t write-off all of my Manolo purchases from 2015? I HAVE TO LOOK GOOD TO DO WHAT I DO. THIS IS FASHION PR! And if you scoff at me one more time for the fact that I listed Paintbox and DreamDry as justifiable business expenses, I’m going to throw my Hermès planner at your face. (And yes, you’ll find that planner purchase coded under “Office Supplies.”)
I’m not sure how you think I have a casual extra gazillion dollars socked away in some hidden bank account to pay this mockery of a tax return? You’ve seen my bank statements. I am shedding fashion tears and feeling more disoriented than Anna in the basement of MSG. Anywho, I’ll Tim Gunn it and make it work—I always do. As evidenced by the fact I took an Uber Pool home last night. Cheers to being Flacking broke!
Your less-than-flush friend,