Well, I've really been dragging my feet ever since Maria of Mother of Three Seeks Sanity tagged me on What's In Your Bag. I guess I didn't want to admit that I'm stupid enough to carry a purse that costs as much as a small Caribbean island. Nor did I want to admit that I'm stupid enough to carry a purse that one of my children could actually hop inside if they need to, but that by itself can easily dislocate my shoulder. But here I am, finally, shame-faced, with my purse, the Louis Vuitton Galleria Bag, which I love.
I think I've written before about my little teensy, weensy shopaholic problem, right? Also, about how, being raised by the Holocaust Survivor immigrants, who wouldn't pay for anything but food or shelter, I then ended up, after my dad's death, a member of probably the only Jewish family in Scottsdale receiving food stamps? These things have quite an impact on the heart of a girl. Once I had a little bit of money, I always had a decent purse, and a matching wallet and planner. And eyeglass case. And key chain. And then another purse when I got sick of the first purse. (About this time, people start feeling really sorry for Husband. I know.)
Now for the inside. Here's what came out when I dumped it: