Old money.

Wikipedia defines it as this:

"Old money is 'the inherited wealth of established upper-class families' or 'a person, family, or lineage possessing inherited wealth'. The term typically describes a class of the rich who have been able to maintain their wealth over multiple generations, often referring to perceived members of the de facto aristocracy in societies that historically lack an officially established aristocratic class (such as the US)."

But what Wikipedia doesn't tell you is that, coming from old money is not a choice. It's a birthright. And with that comes an unspoken set of rules, rules ingrained since infancy.

Rule #1- NEVER openly discuss money with anyone outside of a boardroom or your lawyer's office. (It's just bad taste)

Rule #2- NEVER brag. (You're secure in your financial status. Leave the bragging to 'new money')

Rule #3- Give to at least several charities. (Especially for tax and image purposes. Think hospital wings and universities)

Rule #4- Keep it in the family. (This includes companies, properties, secrets)

Rule #5- Buy quality not quantity and nothing too flashy. (This encompasses homes, clothing, cars, etc.)

Which brings us to the sixth rule...

Rule #6- NEVER marry an outsider. (Even with an ironclad prenup, stick to the notion that 'outsider' should equal 'outside with her')

So there you have it! The six classic rules of a non-existent aristocracy.

And it's all hogwash, if you ask me. Which, of course, no one did, because I'm neither 'old money' nor 'new money'.

I'm what some might call 'classically broke'.
As in, 'Yum, Ramen noodles again for dinner!' And 'who needs to buy drinks, when we have perfectly good tap water?'

Don't get me wrong, I'm not bitter about being poor, rather, I'm proud of my thrifty ways. But, if I'm being honest (and I almost always am), I do fantasize about how neat it would be to go to the dentist and not worry about having to tell him 'No thank you Dr. Green. I've grown quite fond of my two cavities and don't want to part with them', merely because I don't have an extra $200 bucks to spare.

When people ask me what part of New York I live in, I love the dropped jaws they give when I proudly say 'SoHo'.

Obviously, the neighborhood is a tad above my pay grade. And if not for my eighty-two year old Grandma Faye, who's lived in this one-bedroom apartment since dinosaurs roamed the earth, and her refusal to 'sell-out' to any man with a checkbook, I would never have such a prestigious address.

But between Grandma Faye's social-security check and my meager barista's salary, there's not much left over for everyday expenses. Hence, why I'm walking into this monstrosity of a building, wearing my swankiest Ann Taylor pencil skirt (I offer many thanks to my generous benefactor, for supporting their local goodwill) and my favorite black blouse.

Sorry no high-heels. (This is still New York after-all, wouldn't want to look like a tourist)

The front desk man prints me a temporary badge that is required to pass through security, the badge making me feel super special and slightly James Bondish. That is, until I look at the DMV quality photo of myself plastered on the front of the badge. I look more like a Bond villain.

I always tell people how un-photogenic I am, and usually I receive some version of this disbelieving response, 'but you're so beautiful Emmy. there's no way you could take a bad picture!' I make a mental note to save this hideous badge, in order to thoroughly prove my point.

My palms are beginning to sweat as I share an elevator with three suit-clad men. Do you ever get the feeling that people are staring at you, when really it just stems from your own discomfort, and they honestly couldn't care less about your existence? Yeah, I think I'm having one of those moments.

Two of the gentleman step off the elevator, leaving me alone with the third. The only button lit up is the number 23. So either he's forgotten to hit his floor, or we're headed to the same place.

When I hear the 'ding' and the elevator doors glide open, gentleman number 3 motions for me to precede him. (Don't mind if I do, possible future coworker!)

I glance at my phone as I step into the spacious area. Woohoo! 9:55am, a whole five minutes early for my interview.

I approach the reception desk where a pretty blonde girl, rocking a bubblegum pink cardigan, is sitting. She's obviously not from around here, but then again, neither am I. I'm guessing 'the south'. And good for her, not falling victim to the all-black New Yorker dress code. You do you, boo!

Third elevator guy walks right on past me, giving a slight wave to the sweet looking Mattel creation before me. She waves back to him, and mouths 'I'm sorry' to me, while holding up a one-second finger.

I don't care to wait. For one, I'm a patient person, and two, Grandma Faye's caretaker is scheduled until 6pm tonight. (4 o'clock late lunch/geriatric dinner with my best friend, here I come)

The cute blonde says a professional goodbye to the person on the line, and smiles sweetly at me, greeting, "Good mornin' darlin', you must be Emeline Adkins." She said it with all the sugary sweetness, that only a true southerner possesses. Boom! Right again! I should do a 'guess their home region of the US' game at carnivals or something.

"Yes, ma'am. That's me," I respond. I don't normally have a strong southern accent, but when I speak to someone else who does I suddenly become Dolly Parton's long-lost twin.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you Emeline. I'm Lizzy," she said.

Lizzy stood to shake my hand, and holy pregnant Barbie! She looked ready to pop. Looks like Ken's going to be a proud papa.

"Wow," is all I managed to say, eyeing her baby bump. (Eloquent, I know)

She grabbed her stomach, the last four buttons of her cardigan clearly undone. "I know, I know. I'm huge," she acknowledged. "This little boy is fixin' to come out any day."

"Well, congratulations!" I beamed. I hope to look even a fourth as cute as she does when I'm prego. Unlikely, but here's to dreaming.

"So now you can see why it's so important that I find my replacement."

Clearly. This lady would not be able to work much longer. And, I have to applaud her for still working as it is. If it were up to me, maternity leave would begin the moment you find out your pregnant, because that jazz looks tough. Growing a human is work enough for me.

I had found out about this job opening through my best friend, Becca. She knew I was looking to be more gainfully employed, and had heard about this position through a work friend.

Becca works at a large finance company, because she is a whiz with numbers. I'm still a tad confused what 'Branault-White Group, Inc.' does exactly. But, considering I'm applying for the receptionist position, and I super need a new job, I figured it didn't matter all that much. Although I was clueless, my forced security badge screamed 'big important company'.

"Yes, I imagine finding yourself a replacement is pretty high on the to-do list, right after you buy diapers, and double-check effectiveness of epidurals," I joked.

"You're funny!" she complimented. "Mr. Branault will appreciate that. You'll fit right in."

One, she was speaking like the job was already mine. Yay! And two, Mr. Branault? As in the company's namesake? Not sure if my receptionist skills will cut the mustard on assisting the owner of the WHOLE company. Poop...

I have to ask the question, even though I dread the answer. "So what exactly is your job title, Lizzy?"

"I'm the private assistant to Mr. Charles Branault," the prego southern belle stated nonchalantly. "And I have officially banned him from denying any more applicants, so consider yourself hired Miss Emeline Adkins!" She held out her dainty pink finger-nailed hand for me to shake. Wait, what? That was the interview?

I distractedly shook her hand. "Um...I don't want to look a gift-horse in the mouth or anything," I awkwardly began. "But are you sure you want to hire me without first asking a couple questions...you know, 'what skills do you have', 'are you a serial killer', that sort of thing? Also, are you positive it's a good idea to hire me without approval from the man I'll be working for?"

"Okay, do ya need money Emeline?" Lizzy asks me without explanation.

I hesitantly nod, not sure if this was a legitimate question. Doesn't everyone need money? You know, to do important things like have a place to live or food to eat.

"Good. This job pays generously, so you're perfect for it darlin'. Interview done. Welcome to Branault-White Group!" she cheerfully finished, batting her long lashes.

"Um thanks for having me," I stupidly mumbled. Great! One minute into my new job, and I already sound like an awkward teenager at a summer internship.

"Now, I'll start trainin' ya in the morning. But just so you know, the dress here is business casual." She pointed to my thrift-store finds, saying, "Whatcha got on today is just fine. Oh! And I'll call down to security and have em' make ya a permanent badge. You can pick it up at their desk when ya get here in the mornin'. Try to be here by 8:45 sharp. Charles is a real stickler for tardiness...hmmm I feel like I'm forgetting somethin'....oh yes! There's a cafeteria downstairs, so no need to bring a lunch unless you're just wantin' to. I think that's about it! Oh, wait! Here's your paperwork to fill out." She handed me a blue folder filled with papers. "It's just for tax stuff, insurance, and whatnot."

Man, could Lizzy talk fast!

"Elizabethhhh," A deep voice called out from down the hallway. "I need you to call Bernstein back, and tell him to forget about it."

And oh no! Double poop sticks! Please don't let this be my new boss, because I'm going to need a spit-bucket for all the drooling I'll be doing. He's like if young Brad Pitt had a baby with Henry Cavill. It might sound weird, but trust me, it's not...not weird at all. Light brown waves, check. Beautiful blue eyes, double check. Chiseled jawline...check. Need I go on? Nope, I believe you get the perfectly proportioned picture.

He was the kind of beautiful that made even pretty people question their good looks. And, yep! That's exactly what I started doing. Suddenly my goodwill outfit was less 'good' and more 'will' you throw me away already?

"I'll call Bernstein back in ten minutes," Lizzy politely responded, the word 'ten' sounding more like 'tin', because in the south it's apparently the same word. "Charles, this is Emeline Adkins," she introduced me.

I hoped he wouldn't try to reach out and shake my hand because my palms were sweatier than a mob informant before testifying. Should I wipe them on my skirt first, or would that be too gross and obvious? Excellent! He decided on a cool and classic nod and wave. No sweaty hands needed.

I tried to duplicate the cool nod and wave. Pretty sure I failed but judging by his unaffected expression, he's either a gentleman or too busy to notice my lack of normal social behaviors.

"Emeline is my replacement," Lizzy stated. And I watched as his polite face took a u-turn.

"My office now, Elizabeth!" his deep voice boomed, before turning on his heels heading back down the hallway.

"Don't you worry about him darlin'," she soothed. "He's just not a fan of change. Offered me money to give my baby up for adoption. He was just jokin', of course. At least, I think he was...Anywho, he'll come around. But I better go soothe the angry bear. I'll see ya first thing in the mornin." Lizzy gave me a quick pageant wave and then she was gone.

That was my first encounter with the poster-child of old money', Mr. Charles Branault. (A little disappointed his name doesn't have a roman numeral after it? Yep, me too. Mr. Charles Branault III, sounds so much ritzier)

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This is my first contemporary romance. Eek! Comment and let me know what you think! Is it funny? Cool? Should I hit delete and pretend it never existed?

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