Everyone is on their best behavior during a first date—well, at least they should be. Even through the second date charade we only show our best selves, but it’s also a time to offer a tiny glimpse of who we really are. Back in 2004, I’d just had a fantastic first with a girl named Jenn. She looked exactly like, say, a backup singer for Enrique Iglesias would—maybe because she was.

We’d gone to a margarita-infused dinner in Nolita on a blind date and the night ended with a kiss on the cheek. So I called Jenn to see if she might want to come over to my place for a followup. She said yes.

It was a bitterly cold Saturday night in February. The fireplace was crackling in my 2,700 square-foot triplex apartment in TriBeCa. Okay, so maybe I had a leg up. But the setting doesn’t impact this story, promise. The plan was simple: Jenn would come over; we’d hang out and drink some wine, order Italian food (her favorite, which also proved I was listening on the first date), and then cozy up on the couch and watch a movie. And it was all working. The Duraflame went against my Maine upbringing but perfectly set the mood, the food and wine were exquisite, and the conversation was effortless. I was thinking, “I’m the man!”

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The best excuse I ever heard for calling in sick went something like this: “I can’t come in today. The hooker I called last night fell off the kitchen counter and broke her arm this morning. I have to take her to the hospital.” I’m not sure how much of a demand there is for casted escorts, so I felt bad for the woman. But for the guy who made the call—well, he gets big marks for creativity.

Let’s face it: Any boss who hasn’t heard the entire list of phony I’m-too-sick-to-work excuses isn’t much of a boss. In today’s marketplace, you need to be creative, with a healthy dose of plausible deniability. Those little coughs and sniffles you fake on the other end of the phone? They aren’t helping. Announcing you don’t feel very well on the Thursday afternoon of a holiday weekend? That’s as worn as saying, “My aunt died.” And if you’re a big drinker, using the old, “It must have been something I ate” excuse just won’t fly.

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 It was a perfect summer flashback kind of day in mid-October. The staff wore admiral’s hats, and handed a flute of champagne to each guest as he or she stepped off the gangplank onto the boat. I wanted everything to look authentically nautical—well, at least as authentically nautical as a brunch for 150 RSVP’d people on a luxury yacht circling Manhattan could be. As we shoved off, the DJ started spinning slow jams to warm up the crowd before the band started its first set.

This was going to be a fun day—my daughter’s best birthday ever. I weaved my way in and out of guests above and below deck, always with tequila on the rocks in hand. I of course knew most of the guests, but there were a few here and there I had to introduce myself to. With so many friends and family on board, it was difficult to keep any conversation going past the response to “How are you?”

As the band kicked up some 70s and 80s cover songs, people hit the dance floor. The New York City skyline and the Statue of Liberty provided the backdrop. About three hours into the four-hour excursion, just after brunch, cake and more champagne were served. The lead singer crooned “Happy Birthday to You” to my daughter, and everyone joined in. That’s when the tears started to flow.

My daughter didn’t like how loud it was or that everyone seemed to be looking at her.

After all, she was only one year old.

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 We hear a lot about the 1 percent in America, and we all have our own ideas of who they are. If we go strictly by the numbers, they might be the people who have household incomes north of $500,000, and a net worth of at least $1.5 million.

Sometimes it’s not so clear, however. Maybe your assets are illiquid or even hidden, and you’re not quite sure where you fit in the socioeconomic strata. You’re left figuring out how many phony friends you have and counting the number of charities you’re associated with but don’t care about.

You find yourself trying to remember how many housekeepers you know, and quantify how badly you mispronounce their names. But if you still aren’t quite sure, here’s a handy guide.

You might be part of the1 percent if…

1. Instead of going to therapy, on at least one occasion you’ve sent your personal assistant on your behalf.

2. You’ve thought it might be cool to audition for Survivor, but even if you won, you couldn’t take the pay cut.

3. Your dog walker drives a BMW.

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 In the 1990s, I lived with a couple of roommates in a doorman building on the Upper West Side. Every December conversation would invariably come around to how much we should tip the doormen and handymen. My roommates would try and think back to who had been most helpful over the previous year. I’d just shake my head. Tipping doormen isn’t about who signed for your packages or hailed your cabs. Instead, the doorman is your first line of defense. That’s why you tip him.

Here’s an example. One Saturday afternoon I was on my couch, licking my wounds from the night before. The buzzer rang, and I limped over to the receiver and said hello.

“I’m not sure if Turney is up there, but he has a guest,” said Paul the doorman, on the line. For a moment this seemed strange because Paul knew my voice. “A woman named Ann is here to see him. Should I let her up?”

“Actually … Turney isn’t here right now,” I replied, suddenly understanding.

Paul knew my backstory with Ann, and as a result he also knew that if I had a bunny, Ann would try to boil it. He saved me. Why? It probably had something to do with the fact that  I’d realized the previous December that Paul was the doorman we needed to tip the most, since he always worked the weekend shift. And things can get a little sticky on the weekends.

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