Hello Betsey

I blame twitter. And the BlogHer ads on my sidebar.

The iPhone app was just the last straw before my resolve broke.

The first delivery was totally my gateway drug. I don't even know what it was because shipping is so delayed that shit shows up three weeks after I hit submit on the cart. I just know I opened the box and found Nirvana.

I stare at the bright screen in my hand and marvel at the Gucci "sale" because I'm never going to be rich enough to consider a $2,000 purse. Mainly because The Husband is The Sensible One in our relationship and he'd kill me for even Thinking about Thinking About It, even if I was dripping in diamonds and champagne. But the rest? Like a pair of work shoes for The Husband and the cowboy boots for kiddo's pony lessons and the Betsey Johnson's that The BFF insisted would look amazing on me even though I thought she was high? Yeah, it's all been filed under "Must Buy Now Or Kick Self in Ass Later."

Don't tell anyone, but The Husband might need to join my 12-Step program, too.

He's got my password. Which is why he knows that my sunglasses were Normal People priced and my one chance for instant Rock Star.

Just add Russian Red lipstick & Betsey Johnson.

 

Not so fine print: No this is not a sponsored post. I'm too busy to write paid reviews and too brain-fogged to coordinate anything more complicated than my outfit. If I want to write about something, I write it. If I don't, you can buy an ad because I sound like a used car salesman, otherwise.

Slightly smaller print: Unless I'm telling you about things that rhyme with Crack-Like Zulilly Addictions.