A few new blogs that I’ve been reading have done this post where they take the contents of their purse, and artfully display what’s in it, and it’s actually very fascinating to me.
I’m like…wow. They’re so organized. Their purses are so cute. They carry around very little. Meanwhile, I’m walking around with so much stuff that I could get kidnapped and be fine for the next few days by the amount of stuff I carry around.
Their blogs are aptly titled: What’s in my bag: Vacation/School/Uni/Etc Edition.
So, after some hemming and hawing I decided to do my own post of this.
Mine will be aptly titled:
What’s in my bag: I’m a hoarder Edition
Or maybe: What’s in my bag: Why I have back problems edition.
This is what is in my purse in no particular order.
- Matching wallet — I’m particular. I like my bra to match my underwear. I like my wallet to match my purse.
- Random receipts — because a trash can is always too far away.
- #LettersFromLA — if I’m out shopping, or not shopping, or doing something that’s not shopping while I’m actually really shopping and see something kitschy that I want to mail to a pen pal, I’ll throw it in my purse to remind me to mail it. And then probably forget about it.
- Guitar picks — because the guitar just didn’t fit in the bag.
- Ticket Stubs — I always say that I’ll scrapbook things like this so I save them. Plus, they’re fun to mail off sometimes.
- Make up — when I say make up, I mean “lots of chapstick because I forget I already had one in my bag.”
- Sunglasses — Multiple pairs. See make up.
- Cameras — Multiple cameras, multiple medias.
- Hockey laces — just because.
- ALSO: snacks, a blue power ranger, my missing set of spare keys, mittens, my kid’s hat, passport pictures, and A DOLLAR, GUYS. I FOUND A DOLLAR.
I’d like to re-title this post. L.A. CLEANS OUT HER PURSE. MISSING PERSON FOUND AT THE BOTTOM.
*Yes, my uterus also applies, as I have had a small child basically growing** in my uterus.
**Full-on growing. Not basically growing. Growing babies is hard.
I drove to Target yesterday to pick up some food and things for the office. Coffee creamer, chicken pot pie, random stickers from the dollar section..you know.
I was driving through the parking lot, enjoying the end of the nice days, sunglasses on, windows down. Right as I was about to park, a car pulled out in one those really nice spots that make you feel really important and incredibly lazy.
“Rockstar parking,” I thought to myself. “Score. Lucky day. Winning. Etc.”
I was about to pull in when I saw another car. Creeping and the like.
I knew he saw me. The spot too.
We were about the same distance away. We met eyes and it was just like a scene out of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
“You can’t have my spot, you yellow banana car’d man,” I said to myself. “I saw it first.”
But then, the nice man in the yellow banana car smiled at me, holstered his imaginary shot gun, and mentioned to me to take the spot.
I parked and walked into the store. I was perusing the dollar section when Banana car man came up to me.
“Hey,” he says.
“Oh hey,” I respond. “Thanks for the spot.”
He grins at me. “No problem. Just so you know, in a month, I’ll run you over to get that spot.”
That reminded me. This is the last week of calm driving and normal traffic. The last of normal people not high strung from holiday music, stress, cocoa, and shopping deals. The last of polite lines in Target and not having to wait a half hour to buy a gallon of milk. The last of the rockstar parking.
I hate doing laundry. There’s this whole process where I have to bring my laundry basket to the basement then go all the way upstairs and hang out while I wait for it to finish then go all the way back downstairs to change it out and bring it back upstairs and fold it and put it away, etc etc.
I’m in the middle of this tedious process and at some point, I forget to close the basement door. Now. I have two little shit dogs, that due to their immense stupidity and my father’s asthma, are kept in two rooms of the house: the kitchen and the living room. We keep all other doors closed to pin them in.
The next day, I’m going to get dressed. My laundry had all been cleaned and put away in their specific drawers and compartments. I grab a pair of undies.
My panties are crotchless. Apparently, one of the damn dogs snuck into the basement when I left the door open. Not only that, he chewed out the crotch of my panties. I’m standing in a matching bra and homemade garter. Even the lingerie I buy isn’t this skanky.
Nearly ALL my underwear has been destroyed, with the exception of two black thongs and some white granny pants that are so old and ugly that I understand why the dogs didn’t go for them.
I’m reminded of those times in life where all your underwear are in the laundry basket. You have the choice: do you want to do laundry? Or do you want to spend some of your hard earned money on some new panties?
Victoria’s Secret is about some serious business from me.
Not that they haven’t before.