June 8, 2010


If the inside of a woman's purse is the window to her soul, then I am very much screwed.

It dawned on me the other day as I reached down into my once beautiful Marc by Marc Jacobs bag, that my purse has now become a laboratory for filth... an endless abyss of coins (not the kind that help at a meter), leaky pens, tampons (that scream toxic shock), and crumbs from snacks that look like they've gone through the food processor.... I'm scared to reach inside. I'm scared of my own purse.

I don't quite know how I have become LITERALLY a crazy bag lady.... But I have. Want a broken bangle? I'm your gal! Need seventeen health insurance cards... from 2004? Hello! Looking for a lip gloss that you'd have to smash open to get the last drop of color from? Look no further!

Friends, my purse is a danger zone. Stick your hand inside and it's MANICURE SUICIDE.

But what can I do? The state of my purse is a direct reflection of my life and right now I'm on over drive and in auto pilot... I've got A LOT on my plate... A lot of messy, scattered, and unorganized things going on......

Fortunately, it's the little things in life right now like Baby-Ko's obsession with Lady Gaga (aka Goo-Goo Ga-Ga) that helps the state of affairs feel a little less frantic. That is... when I don't have a headache from listening to it on a loop. Of course, I shouldn't complain. My purse IS chock full of ibuprofen packets should I need some....