Dan and I have a difference of opinion on how many purses and pairs of sunglasses I actually need. He thinks I need one of each.
He couldn't be more wrong.
Everybody has their weaknesses, am I right? Dan, for instance, spends upwards of $5,000 a year on tools. I know this because every year during income tax time he is forced to acknowledge how much he has spent when he hands over his receipts to H & R Block. (Which is really strange because every time I ask him how much he has spent on tools lately, he replies, "I haven't bought any new tools in a while." It's a mystery, y'all.) Yes, he uses them for work, blah blah blah, and claims he needs each and every one of these tools and that if he didn't have every single one of them it would not be possible for him to make a living and we would all die from starvation and lack of shelter, but I'm pretty sure he's full of shit.
I, on the other hand, don't spend anywhere close to that amount on purses and sunglasses. NO WHERE CLOSE. (Not that I wouldn't, if I thought for one minute I could get away with it, but that's beside the point.) Dan firmly believes that since I can only carry one purse and wear one pair of sunglasses at a time, that I don't need more than that. He also points out things like "My tools are necessary for me to make a living and are a tax deduction. Purses and sunglasses are not. You only have one head and one pair of arms. Why do you need twelve pairs of sunglasses and 27 purses?"
To which I generally respond, quite maturely, I might add, "Oh yeah? Bite me, butthead."
Since opening that happy little box from Zappos is a sure-fire marriage ender in my house, I have developed the "What, this old thing?" Defense.
It goes like this:
I stay up late perusing my favorite designers. I then cross-reference the things I want with zappos.com (because the free overnight shipping just makes me so damn happy I can barely stand myself) to see if they have it. If they do, I decide it's a sign from God Himself telling me that I MUST. HAVE. IT. I place my order in the dark of night, looking over my shoulder to make sure that Dan is sleeping peacefully in the next room. Clickety-clickety-click-click-SEND! And then I wait. With baited breath.
A mere 48 hours later, the box is on my doorstep and the subterfuge begins.
I open said box, get super happy, say things like "Yayyy!" and "Oh my GAWD I loooove it!" I then quickly whisk the item out of the box, put it in the closet, dispose of the box and all the packaging, and wait a few days.
Then one day while Dan is at work, I unload my old purse and put allll the contents (including gum wrappers, receipts, etc.) into the new purse. I put it where my old purse is kept. I start carrying it. Dan eventually says, "When did you get that?" to which I reply...
"What? This old thing?"
Works. Like. A. Charm.
With sunglasses, I just put the case in my purse along with my other sunglasses and casually stick them on my head at some point when we're out together.
Again, he says, "When did you get those?"
Repeat after me:
"What? These old things?"
Since I rotate my purses and my sunglasses on a regular basis, it's never really obvious that I'm hauling around a new one. He just figures that it's been a while since I've carried that one and it was finally up for rotation again.
Crazy like a fox, I am.
(Yes, I realize this makes me sound like a 1950s house-wife who is plotting new ways to either get into her husband's show or buy a really fabulous new hat, but ya do whatcha gotta do, yo.)