Dad and I had a lot of time to chat the other day. Normally, chatting with my father is an exercise in restraint, confusion, irritation, and not a little head-shaking. This mostly stems from our differences of opinion on the Internet...and Aprilaires. Oh, and that I don't consume a side of beef at dinner. Well, and that I call it "dinner" instead of "supper". Hmm...and that I prefer my vegetables completely unsullied by salt or butter. Oh, oh! And that, despite the 50% Norwegianism that I possess, I prefer coffee to crude oil in the morning.

Obviously, we have things we need to work through. Obviously...

But, we had a sort of kinship together in the waiting room...mainly because neither one of us made the coffee and he didn't have to pay for it...but also because we shared a love and a worry for the same woman. He was talking about his father, who passed away almost two years ago. He recounted a day, about a week after the funeral, when he took his mother to church. She left the building after service, and ran into an old friend. She stopped in the middle of the current of churchgoers making their exodus, and completely ignored my father as he sat in the van. It is an irritating personality quirk, but I wouldn't take her any other way.



So, Dad's waiting in the van for his mother. He's frustrated. He's mouthing epithets and waving hand gestures (one can only assume). All at once, a large cloud covered the sun and rain poured down out of nowhere. Grandma grabbed her head and rushed toward Dad in desperation. My father began laughing, looked at the sky, and replied, "Thanks, Dad."

She held me to her bosom, rocking me as I whimpered. Knees pressed to my chest and arms encircling my shins, I felt the chill of the outside world and howled my misery from this safe cocoon. "I HATE THIS TIME OF YEAR! I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE I—"

"There, there," Mother gentled. "We'll make it better. Shh...we'll fix it. It will be okay."

I hiccuped a sob and sniffed ladylike around the accumulation at my nose. "I must brush my teeth." I announced, and scrambled spiritedly from her lap. This activity always makes me happy. I've a fondness for minty, slippery teeth. I returned to sit on the floor at my mother's feet, legs folded in a pretzel and my back slumped in the telling curve of an orthopedics's horror film.

She looked at Debbie knowingly, and I knew a rescue was on the wings.

It proved to be a sleepy day. The sun did not shine, the neighbors did not stir, and for my part, I spent seven hours trying to compose a single email. I was pretty hyper the day before, as some may have observed, (*cough*—Mark—*cough*), and yesterday was to be my first day of cookie detox.

But I had a sort of relapse early-on. I moaned in satisfaction as my teeth sank into my pumpernickel toast, and I had good feelings about the return of the health food, the departure of the cavity conjurers. The good feelings faded gradually as I finished that spot of fudge, the cinnamon roll, and they were totally absent by the time I polished off the raspberry scone. It was with the resulting tummy ache that I carried on so.

I was sprawled upon my back last night, weak and bleary, when Debbie called down, "Do you want any cherry chip cake, or should I put it down the garbage disposal?"

"GET RID OF IT!" came my passionate call.

I heard her steps cross the kitchen floor and the sink begin to growl. She asked Brenda, "What about the date balls?"

—"Get rid of them!"

"The cookies—?"

—"Get rid of them!"

"The—?"

—"Get rid of them! Get rid of them! Get rid of them!"

The growling grew loud and fierce, and the slaughter of the caloric devilry continued well into the night. My lips trembled into a grateful smile, and I returned to my comatose repose knowing tomorrow would be better. The kitchen was now pure.

Well, let me preface by saying that I never went through a tomboy stage—and I've also never been a diva. That being said, I have always had a kinship with the delicate details befitting the fairer sex. Dorm life proved interesting with my best friend, Sarah, as a roommate. Sarah was not into "froufrou" things...so much so, that many of them offended her sensibilities. I remember one night in particular when we had a bunch of girls in our room to watch Friends—because watching Friends, come on, it was practically a cult—and I passed around my bottle of floral lotion.

I was massaging a dab of it between my hands when Amy expressed interest in the scent. Soon it was passed to Julie, then Angie, and so on and so forth, until the whole room smelled of daisies. Sarah was purple from the fumes...both those resonating from our bodies and those emanating from her stoked irritation glands. It wasn't pretty. The windows were whipped open and the door quivered about its hinge as she stalked off into the neutral air of the hallway. In all fairness, it was a very concentrated perimeter of fragrance, and I could see how someone sensitive to such things might be left less than amused.

As ever, I have veered away from the subject at hand.

Purses.



Well, I have had a nasty run of luck with them as of late. Really, the last year-complete has been difficult. My strong sense of dedication disallows me the freedom of bed-hopping from one handbag's boudoir to the next. I mean, I could do it...but who could live with the guilt? The dishonesty of it all? Not me, friends. I'm a one-purse kinda gal.

The purse dilemma increased tenfold as my hours spent in waiting rooms amplified. There's only so much time you can whittle away sipping cappuccino and reading a Good Housekeeping magazine from 1993—a truth one can only garner from the bittersweet nip of experience. I would come to require both whosits and whatnots to help the minutes along.

Surveys of my purse returned an address book, a pocketbook, my cell phone, and gum. Surely this could amuse even the likes of me! SURELY! You know, I poured my heart into entertaining myself, but to no avail. I flipped through the address book a few times. I counted the change in that zippered pocket. I leafed through the coffeehouse punch cards. I read the ingredients in the gum. I scrolled through my missed calls list on the cell. So, see? I really did invest effort.

And, after those two minutes were over, I has totally bored with the purse. But what to do? It did not possess the wherewithal to encase further belongings, lip balm notwithstanding, and it wasn't likely to any time in the near future. I would see all of these beautiful, perfect-sized purses on Anna's website—Anna-originals!—and at one time I mused, "I should just make my own purse!" HAH. Between my ever weakening fingers and my innate laziness, that was a farce before it was even conceived.

My multiplying discontent was embittering me against my inadequate but innocent purse. All at once, I decided that a severance would be quite beneficial to us both...my homicidal thoughts were mutually destructive, which I can see in hindsight. I wanted to buy a new bag. I did so last week, as a sort of impending-employment celebration...that's him photographed above. Yes, I buy accessories when I really want to "go all out". What of it?

I love the new guy. I often find myself distracted from the focus of my days—usually something intense like peanut M&M's or can openers—and have a need to blurt, "I LOVE MY NEW PURSE!"

...and the room reacts as though Norm just entered Cheers and cries, "Puuuuuurse!"

Yeah. Cheap thrills...I know.

A new futon was delivered here today. Brenda called down excitedly, "The delivery guy is very cute. You should come up and say hello."

I squinted in telling mental discomfort. "Um. No."

"You should really come up. Really." Then she was gone. I really had to use the bathroom, but there was no way I was going up there...no way no how. I haven't sunken so low that I need my aunts to scour the neighborhood for men, have I? There has to be some bit of mercy in this life. HAS TO BE.

So I waited anxiously at the base of the stairs until the male voice disappeared. Debbie pranced by shortly thereafter and sang on jaunty step, "Miiiiissed Opppppppportunnnnnnity!" I'll be groaning until doomsday.