Confessions

I have a confession to make.

I love gift bags.

Which probably doesn’t sound like much of a confession to make.  I mean,  I love crack, THAT’S a confession.  I love gift bags just doesn’t seem to compare. Except I kind of love gift bags as much as addicts love crack. Because I like to give gifts, I just hate to wrap gifts.

In fact, it’s a sure sign that you have been accepted to the upper echelon of Kimbo friends and family when I give you a gift and then ask for the gift bag back.

Yes, that’s right. I ask for it back. And even if I don’t ask for it back, I have no problem leading my nieces and nephews into a life of crime by suggesting they sneak across the room and STEAL it back.

Not because I want to reuse it and save the environment (though I do). And not because I’m a little, well, cheap (though I am). But because I have this great collection of gift bags and I love them and I actually just want the stinking thing back.

Having said all that, I have another confession:

When I come home after work and see this on the table

 

I’m not thinking ‘Oh, cool, Opie scored me a gift bag.’ I’m thinking “YAY! PRESENT FOR ME.”

Disappointment reigns in this house tonight, people, disappointment reigns.