031906I used my hand to shield my closed eyes. Even with sunglasses on, I could feel the sun's intensity against my lids. I shifted in my chair, rolling slighty to the right on the blue and white striped towel. Maybe I could even out the color that way, I thought. I'd put on sunblock, but the area from my armpit to my hipbone was feeling tight and crispy, the way skin gets before it turns bright red and aches for two days. I knew I should go back inside the villa, but my body wouldn't budge. I had to squeeze out every second of pool time possible before the return of snow and frigid temperatures in a few days. Every so often, a breeze would waft past or a lone cloud that'd escaped its holding pen atop the mountains would block out the UV rays. I'd welcome the change, but it wouldn't take long before the shivering resumed. The difference between sun and shade was drastic, and I soon realized the burning orb, despite its high intensity, was my friend. I laid by the main pool with a Summer Hummer resting on the table next to me. Every sip stung my insides. Bruce the Bartender must have added an extra shot. I wasn't surprised, since the day of our arrival coincided with Michgan State's "March Madness" debut. It equaled my dad plunking into a seat at the outdoor bar for three hours and us being on a first-name basis with the hired help. He was 26, I'd learned, and originally from a place that got snow. Where? I missed that part of the conversation. The thermometer read 65 degrees, but it seemed infinitely hotter outside. 031806Hello from Palm Springs! Even though I'm no longer in college, I'm still allowed to go on Spring Break. The weather is beautiful. Our two rooms are amazing. I even got a little burned at the pool yesterday. No complaints here. Palm trees and green grass and 70 degree temps are ten times better than two feet of snow... 031106I�m broke. Like really broke. Since November, when my full-time job was yanked out from under me, I�ve been collecting unemployment checks. Every two weeks, I get $490 deposited into my checking account. Now, that may seem like a lot of money for watching �A Baby Story� and drinking coffee every morning, but when you factor in my costs of living, it translates into $0 after I pay rent and bills. Somehow, I�ve managed to scrape together funds to buy gas, make trips to Rainbow Foods and an occasional visit to Target. And thankfully, I�ve got a boyfriend who insists I�ll be rich and famous someday, so he picks up the bar tab knowing that I�ll �pay him back� in 10 years. But recently, I�ve been doing something that shows me just how much money I don�t have. I�ve been boutique shopping. Now hear me out. It�s not what you think. There�s this new magazine coming out in the Twin Cities. But it�s not your average newsstand publication: It�s a luxury lifestyle magazine. That means the readers have money. Lots of money. We�re talking Lake Minnetonka or Mt. Curve money. And me, being the new shopping writer, means I have to find things these wealthy socialites can spend their bucks on. Did you know there�s a store at 50th and France that has customers flying in from across the country to buy things like a $900 belt made completely out of semi-precious stones? I didn�t until a few days ago. And not only did I go in this store, but I had the owner throwing all her expensive goodies at me, hoping to get some press out of the deal. I�ve been to the Galleria three times in the past week, twice to Lake Street on Wayzata Bay and twice to 50th and France. I also spent 20 minutes in �Neiman�s� (that�s what my editor calls it�puke), then got charged $7 because my car had unknowingly been valet parked. Sure, it�s great fun to get paid to hit up all these stores and find the fanciest items I can. But really, it�s another way of showing me just how poor I am. And that sucks. I�ll never be able to afford a Dries Van Noten skirt or a pair of Dolce&Gabbana shoes or a vintage coral necklace from Tibet. I just won�t. So part of me secretly resents all the women I come across who are standing in the dressing room complaining that the pair of Rock and Republics they�re wearing are too big in the butt while two employees look on, ready to get another size or color or offer to tailor the item for free. The first day I went out shopping, I dressed up. I wore my cutest pair of pointy-toed heels and the trendiest sweater I owned and walked with my head held high like I owned the place. But you know what? It didn�t matter one bit. The owners could tell my jeans and my bag were both from GAP. They brushed me aside when a customer would walk through the door � me, a writer who�s trying to expose their store. I stood there wondering if I came in True Religion denim or maybe a pair of 7 For All Mankind, would it be any different? No. The denim doesn�t dictate the girl. The past two days I�ve been out and about, I�ve worn a hoodie and flip flops. And my $70 GAP jeans that took a lot of debating in the dressing room before I �splurged� on them. Take that, rich bitches!
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