I effing love Christmas. I love picking out gifts, making gifts, putting up 3.5 trees and too many ornaments. I love nutcrackers and angels and my Ry-guy making fun of me when my-face-lights-up-because-I-am-so-pumped-that-the-tree-lights-are-on-and-the-ceiling-lights-off.
And every year I know exactly what I want to get for my brothers and sister, and every freaking year they say that we shouldn't do gifts. Fine. I don't really listen to them but I do take it easy.
But then I just buy extra for Ryan because I love having permission to buy things.
So when he finds a box of newly delivered hot-item clothes and the most fab heels in my dressing room, clearly, they are not for him...and I guess that's not exactly OK with him.
I didn't do anything wrong. I warned him weeks ago that I had an awesome coupon that I would absolutely need to use. And, if I buy you something, doesn't that mean that I'm extra good? I set the stage, I was honest, I really did get an amazing deal, so don't you dare give me that look.
Then he says ..."Don't you want a new bathroom, more kitchen cabinets with a wine bar, a new couch and carpeting in the spare bedroom ... or would you rather have another fab pair of heels?"
Sucker.
I sent that shit back.
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