The Ketchup Incident
Prior to getting married I knew nothing about fashion. Zero. As in I thought fashion was wearing jeans with zippers on the bottom, together with penny loafers. Penny loafers that had real pennies in them.
And you thought I was kidding about being fashion-challenged.
Anyway, I no longer wear penny loafers or scrunchies or mini-backpacks in lieu of purses, thanks to my mother-in-law. It is only via her tutelage that I now understand why velvet backpacks should be reserved for another time called “never.”
My MIL bought me this beautiful white bag for my birthday earlier this year and since I carefully took the gift out of the safety of it’s box, I have made it my full-time job to keep the bag from getting dirty.
This is no easy feat when your kid uses you as her personal paper towel! But my purse somehow made it 8 months without so much as a fingerprint on it. Until last week that is, when Maya opened one of those little packets of ketchup and ….
It hurts too much to talk about it.
Call me shallow. Call me materialistic. I am both of those things and more. I can handle the name calling! What I can’t handle is a white bag with ketchup stains on it.
They say grief is a process and right now I am in the depths of mourning. But I’m well on my way to the next stage – anger.
I am currently writing a list of reasons not to give my child away. It’s a short list. A very short list.