How do spoiled brats do it?

I must be the only chick in the world that people have to scam into accepting gifts.

Don’t get me wrong: I like stuff, especially nice stuff. But there’s something about expensive presents that makes me want to give them back and tell people to save their money for the inevitable apocalypse, when the cost of sulfur-proof umbrellas will skyrocket. This isn’t a “problem” I can share with people. “Oh, your birth mother gave you a thousand dollars with instructions to spend it on something diamond-y? You poor thing. How ever will you cope?” No, people are more likely to be all, “Go die in a fire, skank.”

So the super-awesome pearl necklace I got over the weekend is a result of Devon expertly timing whipping out his credit card as I looked through my bag. He’s a gift ninja.

He objected to me spending only a fraction of the money Maureen gave me, so now I “have” to go buy something shiny. Maybe shiny new ironic quotation marks, since I’ve clearly blown through my share in this post.

My necklace is pretty sweet. I fantasize that I am Audrey Hepburn*, navigating through a sepia world where people do things like dress up for the theater and sacrifice true love so Czech resistance leaders can save their country. In reality, I spent Sunday playing World of Warcraft in shorts, a t-shirt and pearls.

Close enough.

*Ingrid Bergman co-starred in Casablanca, but Audrey Hepburn rocked pearls like no one else.