Because Apparently I Am Under the Impression that Money Grows on Trees

Ugh. I don't know where it all goes, but that loud whooshing you hear? That would be the sound of dollars being sucked - at high velocity - out of my checking account.

I've been searching for a nice black handbag, probably something high quality and, therefore, expensive. In an attempt to be somewhat fiscally responsible, I went to an outlet mall a couple of weeks ago. (You know you're old when your first stop is the Black & Decker store, and you walk in thinking, "Maybe I can get a good deal on a vacuum.")

I came home with thank you notes, Christmas wrapping paper, Valentine's Day gifts, new sunglasses and three black handbags. (Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!) Amazingly enough, no shoes were purchased on this trip (the Nine West store was closed for remodeling), but I did buy a handbag solely because...wait for it...it matches my sunglasses. (Whoosh!)


I used to wonder who, exactly, spends a couple hundred dollars on a handbag.


Ahem.

Apparently I've developed a little bit of an obsession with Coach handbags (whoosh!), the byproduct of which is that I feel the need to refer to them as "handbags" and not the more pedestrian "purses." But, all sixteen handbags/purses still have tags on them, awaiting approval from Accessory Queen Danielle, who is visiting this weekend, yay! The winners will stay; the losers will be returned on our expedition to the outlet mall.

This weekend is also the Official Ski Trip to Tahoe Weekend. Strapping myself to two little strips of fiberglass and hurtling down the side of a mountain? Yeah, that sounds like a good time. If you like death. We'll see how it goes.

And can I just tell you? Skiing is an expensive little hobby. Particularly when the only winter outerwear your own is intended to be worn over a suit. So, yes, there has been much purchasing of ski-related equipment lately. (Whoosh!) And lift tickets, ski lessons, lodging, etc. (Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!)

Do not confuse the sound of me hemorrhaging cash with the sound of me going down the ski hill. The latter will be something like, Whose (bump) stupid (thump) fucking (thud) idea (crunch) was (gaaaaaaaah) this? You know, anything other than Whoosh! But this means I will have satisfied one of the Fundamental Requirements of Living Out West and will forever be able to look down on those Eastern ski slopes with you-call-that-a-mountain? disdain. Hopefully I'll come back with some good stories (bruises), and maybe Danielle can capture my plight on film for you.

My goals for the Official Ski Trip to Tahoe are to (a) not die; (b) spend more time upright than lying sprawled out in the snow on the side of a mountain; and (c) meet a hot French guy, fall in love, get married and move to the Alps where we can ski our little hearts out. I think (a) and (c) are totally achievable. As for (b)? I'm not holding out much hope.