My son, during a rare internet phone chat to a buddy at the Mount while travelling, started telling his mate what he had acquired overseas. I suggested Master 11 ask after his friend, instead. I think the friend offered his own recitation of Christmas acquisitions, some of them likely name-brand.
I'm no label hound. More of a discount slut.
My friend, Paula, calls it "spaving" - spending to save. Combine shopping with a few days' skiing, which required heavy coats, gloves, hats, balaclavas, and we were seriously overweight at trip's end.
I'm not talking about just our eating habits (we played opportunists in the Land of Super-Sized food). My husband also sweet-talked an airline employee into getting my monster case through baggage check without penalties on our return flight. I'm embarrassed to reveal how much it weighed; let's say a couple of kilos over 55.
We spent our last few hours stateside in Los Angeles, where a good friend rescued us from the airport for several hours.
Stuff nearly kept us apart. LAX has no onsite baggage storage, and the airline counter where we could ditch our big suitcases wouldn't open for several hours.
My friend arrived in a Honda Accord. We laughed, saying, "Maybe we need to call an Uber?" Somehow, L and my husband crammed two, 50+ kilogramme bags, plus three carry-ons, four smaller bags, two pillow pets and two teddy bears into one small car. We were away.
The kids jumped at a trampoline park while the three adults went to exchange a faulty Christmas present Hubby had gotten from Walmart. Just as I was resolving to pare down and travel lighter next time, my friend asked whether I'd like to try on (yet another) pair of running tights. "I have these, and they're great!" she said. And, at $15, think of all the money I'd spave.
I bought the tights, plus a warm-up jacket and shorts. Fast shopper/slow learner.
The best money I spent that day wasn't on sportswear. It was on a carnitas (pork) tostada; football-sized burrito; soft tacos and margaritas at Zacatecas, a small, family-friendly Mexican restaurant minutes from LAX.
Not only were the food and drink delectable and inexpensive, the break allowed us to share stories. The best souvenirs weigh zilch, require no customs declaration and won't inflate your credit card balance.
There's a saying about the secret to well-being: possessing nothing is having everything. Holding tightly to stuff means stuff owns us.
My friend, P, a 60-something sociology professor, cancer patient and raconteur, met me for coffee in Spokane, Washington. She brought a bag of goodies including a stone turtle-shaped necklace, champagne mustard, stone cross and chocolate bourbon balls.
Guys at the next table surveyed the gaggle of gifts and asked if it was my birthday. P said, "Yes, she's 70! Can you believe it?" They did several double takes before I told them I'm more than a couple of decades shy of 7-0.
After the bourbon balls are devoured or melted; after the necklace is lost or forgotten, I'll still have the story of my fake facelift, along with another gem P recounted about why she has a small, fluffy dog.
She and her late husband invited his mother to live with them because MIL was widowed, ill and feared she was months from death. Within weeks of moving in, MIL regained her health and stopped using a walking frame.
Towards the end of her 10 years living with my friend and her husband, MIL insisted the couple buy her a dog. "Not just any shelter dog; she had to have a puppy," explained P.
She bought an $800 bichon frise, and MIL died shortly thereafter.
P still has the dog. I still have her necklace. And two suitcases full of old and new stuff to unpack. More importantly, I have stories.
Maybe someday I'll cull the overseas shopping to make room for more of what matters - sharing truths, tales and laughs.
Meanwhile, check out my new running tights. They sure did spave me a lot.
• Dawn Picken is from the US and has lived in New Zealand for six years. She has two children, aged 11 and nearly 13, and lives with her Scots-Kiwi husband, kids, and a dog named Ally in Papamoa.
