Post 129

How Not to Purchase a Purse

I’m not very happy.

I just spent more than an hour writing about purses and then I lost what I wrote.


Where was I?

I begin again.

It’s not easy because after I write stuff, it’s almost 100% gone. I don’t recall what I wrote. For that reason, I sometimes re-read my own blog. It looks new to me. I see new meanings and new rhymes that I didn’t see at the time.

Someone once joked with me about that. “Don’t remember what you said; don’t remember what you wrote.” Something like that. I laughed too. Because it was true. And funny. Funny ha-ha and funny strange. Funny Fenomenon. Phunny phenomenonenon-neon.

(But in my defence, I do remember, often and quite accurately, what others have written and said.)

But anyway, now I understand better.

Maybe this don’t-remember-stuff way is how it goes when you’re inspired. You don’t quite know everything you’re saying because you’re just eager to get it all out. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

Maybe that’s how it goes when your mind is going going gone.

Either way, what I know

Is that it’s gone

My post, that is.


Okay, so as I was saying – to myself as it turns out – I don’t think you should care that much about your purse. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth the time to be shopping for it and thinking about it and so on and so forth.

(I said it better before
in the post that’s no more.)

I do remember the swear words though

If you’re into that kind of thing.

‘Twas some rant kinda like this: hey girl get out of that shit-and-glitz store you don’t need to adorn yourself more

Something like that.

And speaking of swearing,

I do find it rather Odd that some Catholics and ‘religious’ folk have added an Eleventh Commandment to the first set of ten. I think it’s something like, “Thou shalt not cuss.”

They are scandalized, shocked and 100% convinced that Anyone who Uses – or Hints at – the F word is Bad and Confused About Morality and the Catechism

And they raise their noses high in the air

As they go wash their hands with Lavender Soap.

Those are the same kind of people who never understood Chesterton

When he was alive.

(Who had the gall to blame his death on his entirely orthodox and Catholic views about liquor and food)

Pisses me off.


There I go


You see, God has a large


Larger than you’d think.

And he doesn’t actually mind

When we use English

(All of it)

Provided that we’re using it to truly and really show

What we actually think

We’re not using these words to impress anybody or show that we’s tough (as if swearing proves that).


The words are doing a job. They convey an idea and a sentiment. God’s point, if I may be so bold as to say so, is that if you, the ordinary person, can feel it, he can get it. God understands you, no matter what range of the millennium you happen to fall on, no matter which set of words you tend to use, God is already there, waiting for you.

He’s not always on the side of the Lavender Soap Folks.


So let’s not be distracted. The style of the words are important, but they are the containers.

In the same way, a purse is just a place to put stuff.

Some ladies carry a lot and some ladies carry a little.
(To each her own.)

It’s all fine and dandy. Size doesn’t matter, as they say. (Wouldn’t know, myself. Seems that’d involve comparing)

So, go buy a purse.

If you want, get a few. Whatever.

The thing is
My beef is

Those labels

Those Look-what-I-bought Look-what-I-own



Hey fellas, did you know that when ladies compete with each other
They don’t use the big things?

You have your big toys your big machines

But we women – call it efficiency or frugality or practicality – we have tiny things

You men can barely see

(Trust me, men, I’m not blaming you here)

You’re sitting at that stop-light with your car or your bike but the ladies are warring with each other checking out each other at the grocery store or the coffee-joint

Comparing hair
Comparing diamond rings
Comparing fingernails


Uh, yeah.

You don’t even know what I mean.

As in, they go to these places to get their nails “done” and they get plastic fake nails industrially glued to their bodies and then they walk out all proud and they can barely drive because they’re so busy staring at their new fingernail job


It’s true

I KNOW you didn’t notice.

I know!

Let’s tell these poor ladies now. (And you should see how they get ripped off too.)

You tell them.


Okay, I will.

Here I go


The guys – well, they aren’t checking out your nails – not your fingernails or your toenails.

In other words, if they notice you, it’s not ’cause of yo’ nails, honey.

Don’t waste yo’ money.

(A $12.99 skirt that’s pretty will do the job sooner.)

Show me a guy who notices the designs on your nails and I’ll show you a man who has been inhaling the fumes in that nail-painting place a little too long.


Average guy: he’s thinking about how the girls will be impressed with his car

or his bike

maybe his pecs

It wouldn’t occur to him to look at your Peaches and Cream Nail Polish with Glue-Sticked Diamonds and Stars


He’s not thinking about that

And he’s not thinking about your haute-couture scarf purse or wallet.

(Hats off to the marketing team that has convinced so many ladies that they look good in that high-status scarf – I just can’t figure out how you did it. That mix – that combination – of black brown and white with little red stripe drains nearly every complexion, especially the Asian. Brrr! Burr! Berry bad look indeed.)


The only guys who care about the label on your purse are the guys on the street-corners hawking purses themselves. No – let me correct. There are also those fellows who prowl the airports and hotels deciding which purses and luggage to ‘re-direct.’

So, my point is, don’t bother.

You look nice enough already. Looking feminine looking nice has never depended on the label. If you need a purse, buy one. But please, never mind the brand. Think about what works for you. Do you like a zipper or a clasp? One interior pocket or more? Long strap or short? Colour? Shape? That’s enough.

A purse shouldn’t be a status symbol, something you wave like some flag. Look at me! Look what I can afford! That’s stupid. The guys aren’t noticing and the girls, well, they’re going to be jealous. If they notice.

As for me, I won’t notice.

Carry your Fendeee your Goo-chee-goo your coo-coo-Coco your Louis-Louis-who and I won’t envy you.


But I might pity you.

I’ll pity you for caring and for shopping and spending and otherwise being convinced that Glamourous You needed or wanted a new status thing.

Status. Bling.

What a joke.

If you can’t impress me with who you are as a person, then seeing that you got a purse won’t make it better; it might make it worse.

Friends don’t compete with friends.

That’s not a friend; that’s a “friend.” (Punctuation is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?)

Don’t compare, don’t compete, don’t and just don’t.

Unless it’s funny to both of you

And agreed upon

Ahead of time.

That’s fair.

Once upon a time, I challenged a friend. We were in a busy food court. We were both really hungry. We got ourselves hot dogs. We sat down to eat. I said, Hey, let’s see who can finish their hot dog first.

It was funny.

But we tried not to laugh.

(You wouldn’t want to choke.)

(And fall down dead.)

(In the food court.)

(Autopsy Report.)

(Cause of Death:)

(Stuffing her Face)

(Too fast)

(Too bad)

(She’s dead)

(She’s gone)


Not a good ending.

Oh well.

Don’t cry for me, Argentina.
The truth is, you never loved me.

Isn’t that how it goes?

I digress.

(News flash.

She’s gone off topic.


My point is, that wouldn’t be like,

the IDEAL death.

Mind you, if you and your buddy both keeled over at the same time in the same food court for the same reason, then that would be so hilarious that it would almost be worth it.

And if you had a few buddies dying at the same time, it would be nothing short of Shakespearean. (The tragedies end with everyone dying at the end; it’s supposed to be good Greek-style art.)

People would sigh.

You could be buried

Side by side

With your buddy

And the tombstone would say

“They competed

To the death”

And the Unknowing would think

You competed in some Coliseum some Athenian game some trip to the moon

But you and I

Would know

It was the piece of onion that did you both in

(In case you retain in your brain and know how this sub-sub-topic started, I’ll admit here and now I can’t remember who won; I think it was too close to call.)

Speaking of choking

Guess what’s embarrassing?

I went to Mass last Sunday

(Good Catholic

as you know

That’s where I go on Sundays

Swear Monday to Saturdays

Publicly on this blog

And then wear ribbons to church

All nicety-nice on Sundays

And I don’t go to confession to say that I used a bad word

On my blog

Because it’s not a sin

Neither mortal nor venial

Not on my conscience.)

As I was saying,

I went to Mass on Sunday

And I ate Christ’s Body

and Blood

= The Eucharist

But it went

‘Down the wrong pipe’

As my dad used to say

Started coughing and hacking as if

Making a statement

About that good Mass



But rather funny

In the ha-ha-ha way

I laughed

At the reminder – such mortals we are!

Eat the Body
Eat the Blood

But we hold these treasures in earthen vessels
As they say

(Or at least, we try to! Cough cough!


So, speaking of vessels,
The purse is a vessel
For carrying stuff

Don’t worry too much about the container itself

It’s not you
It doesn’t prove anything about you
Not really

You don’t need a name on some bag to brag about you
You can brag without spending a dime on a label

Bragging only takes a little motivation
In the wrong direction

Like so:

I could tell you about the time I was in a little cute shop in Italy just the other day as a matter of fact some little neat trip with some spare cash I had lying around oh you should go, girlfriend! Some little town and the salesman was sweet and wouldn’t you know he was the owner to boot – so cute! [Actually, I can’t remember how he looked, but I knew he was young 26? because I actually asked] But listen girlfriend to the very best part about how MY purse is better than YOUR purse: he hand-sewed them all and I heard him tell me the tale oh yes best Umbrian leather soft as can be in any new colour in any new style mmm-hmm yes honey, my purse is better than your purse beat that ’cause mine comes with a story but let me continue I decided to buy the one that was avocado green though of course – tee hee – I could have bought three as you know I could have bought four maybe more tee hee … hate me yet?


I gave away the purse soon after getting home.

Green with a yellowish undertone has never worked for me, but it looks excellent on some, I’m sure.

And though I did like the store, and though I did like the artisan-in-person feudal-time feeling (complete with sewing machine), I can still remember it as just a nice place without having the purse.

And when it comes to these haute couture places, it’s even more the case. If you have to be near them, then consider them from the outside – quiet, nicely lit, arranged precisely, et cetera and so on. I can appreciate (until they disappear).

It’s just that you won’t catch me shopping and buying in these snobby haute couture places. (O, you won’t catch ME scolding the salesman who didn’t realize I was Entirely Special.) Why would anyone? The normal mentally-healthy men don’t notice the purses, the wallets, the suitcases and as for the ladies, well, the ones who notice are going to be jealous. I don’t see the point.

And if you tell me that the quality is better and this that and the other, I won’t believe you. I won’t believe that’s why you’re buying ‘haute couture.’ Won’t believe that’s your first reason for shopping in that store.

I think if they changed the name on the outside of that store to “Handbags ‘n’ Stuff” then you’d be mortified and you’d flee like a refugee leaving a sinking boat.


Speaking of boats, ‘haute couture’ is one I’d like to sink.

I’d sink it if I could.

Who needs that stuff?

It’s just another divider splitting us up. These objects, these things, they’re taking up space and they’re adding fuel to the fire of competition that already burns far too bright in too many hearts.

If a person could read souls, that’s what they would see.

Competition. Everywhere. About everything.


And sickening.


But anyway, since you ask, my purse is called “Coach.” It felt expensive at the time but I really couldn’t find anything that matched the image in my mind of what would be nice. I tried, but walking everywhere in the department store section didn’t broaden the selection. I liked that colour, I liked that style and I liked the feel. As for the label, well, it’s only on one side. I don’t know if it impresses anyone anyhow. But just in case it does, I take a precaution. When I sit in my pew and I put in on the shelf, I sometimes turn the purse to hide the little golden horses pulling the little golden carriage. (Hey? Is that Cinderella?) You never know. It might matter to someone, so let’s just take it out of the equation.

Mind you, I won’t be thinking about my purse when I go back to Mass. I’ll be thinking about Christ, his Body and Blood and I’ll be thinking, maybe, okay Mena, let’s take it slow. One little sip. You can do this. And by the way, watch where you’re going – don’t stumble and don’t –


(Oh so funny – Don’t worry if you miss it; maybe someone would catch such a thing and post it on YouTube).

Watch out!

Mortal coming through!