Fantasy Island

/

If you were thinking this was going to be a post about a tv show from the 70's, ("de plane! de plane!") I'm sorry to disappoint.

What happened was that Eric went to see our accountant yesterday and got the really, really bad news that we owe the IRS....well...a lot.

(Our accountant just so happens to have his office in Newport Beach, which boasts one of the highest per capita bizzillionaire populations in So Cal - it makes you wonder if maybe we're helping to support him in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed, but that's not important right now.)

So, Eric left the accountant's office DEPRESSED and started texting me:

  • Depressed. Going to comfort myself with food.

He finds he's close to Fashion Island - which has a number of high priced shops and upscale eateries. (I just wanted to use the phrase "upscale eateries." =D)

  • Hey! Let's move INTO Fashion Island. You feel so good here. LOL.

As his let's-move-into-Fashion-Island fantasy unravels, he starts sending pictures with captions:

  • My library:

My library

  • My koi pond:

My koi pond

  • Your new Kate Spade bag:

Your new kate spade bag

  • Your new sapphires:

Your new sapphires

  • My chess set:

My chess set

  • My Porsche:

My porsche

  • My other Porsche:

My other porsche

It was after the second Porsche that I voted him off "the island" and asked him to please come home.

We still owe the IRS a lot, but at least they can't take our sense of humor.  ;-)