Thank god it comes but once a year: the mass hysteria commonly known as Christmas is finally over, leaving us with presents to exchange, belated holiday cards to send, and a tree to drag down four flights of stairs. I truly hate this time of year, and I truly loved last week's New Yorker cover:
Subtly evil Santa looming over inconsequential, sheep-esque shoppers. Stomp, Santa! Stomp!
A bright moment in an otherwise gloomy season came in the form of this lovely Christmas present from the in-laws, chosen by me after many torturous hours trolling around Zappos. From the outside, a seemingly normal and reasonably fashionable purse:
Inside, a secret inner sanctum perfect for stowing subway knitting!
I can hardly wait to fill the other two compartments with wads of used tissues.