Handbag Confessions of a Dazzling Urbanite

My husband has purse envy, but he just can’t own up to it. He complains whenever we’re late for some function, and I’m running crazy through the house like a lunatic, desperate to find my handbag. He gripes about the size of it, my need for it, and how much I paid for it, (especially “the one with the little duck on the clasp”). He blames it for my back problems, and he hates having to hold it while I try on clothes at the mall because he thinks it’s emasculating, but who does he turn to when his pockets are full? Me. “Here. Put this in your purse,” he says, flatly. Though I’m quietly perturbed, I oblige.

Nobody goes through my purse but me, not even my hubby, probably because the last person who did so without asking is a purse-snatcher doing time in prison. Like most women, I have more than one handbag; an army of little ones, some silky beaded and be-jeweled clutches for formal occasions, a slotted one for credit cards and cash, and several big leather totes for errand days, just to catch the overflow of chick-stuff moms carry. My bag is a deep as an ocean, in fact, it’s an abyss. Once, when I was digging for my car keys, I dumped my bag out on the floor and the fuzzy remains of a Lifesaver mint rolled out. He was astounded. “Why do you need all that crap?”

“Because you never know when someone might need super-glue, nail clippers, a sippy cup, a binky, a happy-meal action figure minus a limb, three lipsticks, a roll of Scotch tape, reading glasses, pens, a cell phone, a safety pin, bobby-pin, a wee bag of unopened oyster cracker-dust, ketchup, a baggie of Cheerios to keep the baby quiet at church, or a moist towelette. Oh, I almost forgot, honey — your roll of duct tape.”