Well, we may have survived the Mayans’ prediction, but this holiday season still brought forth The Darkness.
Before I go any further, let me say that there’s no gift better than a homemade one. My mother, Babs, makes the most extraordinary gifts.
Peppermeister’s aunt cross-stitches intricate, beautiful ornaments.
Then, too, are the thoughtful gifts. The funny ones. The ones that say, I get you.
I absolutely adore these gifts.
Deep down, I’m sentimental and romantic to a fault. I can’t write a serious card to save my life, but I treasure heartfelt words, and sometimes even carry letters in my wallet for good luck.
But.
Then.
Well.
On Christmas Eve, this happened:
I got a Kate Spade bag. From my brother’s girlfriend. She totally forsook the Secret Santa price cap. (For anyone not gasping, this is sort of like the Mercedes of purses.)
I’m not proud of this picture. Look at it. Eyes that might roll right onto the tissue paper-littered floor. A smile that could crack marble. Pure, unabashed joy. I don’t even remember it being taken.
“You said you didn’t care about designer labels,” Peppermeister (Husband #1-Who-Didn’t-Buy-Me-This-Amazing-Present) teased once he saw this up on Facebook. “I’ve never seen you this happy.”
At least I think that’s what he said. I was too busy staring at my new purse, planning our future together.
What’s the overly indulgent gift you’re a little embarrassed to admit you want[ed]?
Go Jules Go 