A Noble Persuasion

The traveling handbag strikes again!


Awhile ago I posted a little post about a cute purse I was carrying that my friend admired, which I gave to her. She subsequently gave it away as well--and then that person also gave it away. Here is the purse, along with one of its temporary friends:

I recently learned that the traveling purse had been donated to the Denver Dress for Success affiliate, whose mission is to "promote the economic independence of disadvantaged women by providing professional attire, a network of support and the career development tools to help women thrive in work and in life."

How brilliant and beautiful!

Here's what DenverJ had to say about the purse and its journey:

I just got a call from Donna, the Denver Director of Dress for Success, who spoke at the meeting I attended. She was really touched by our story and wanted me to know that she has shared it with about 50 people so far, including her director. She reads it to new volunteers when they come in. So, the blessings of the purse continue!

I hope to get another email soon about the purse going on a job interview, and a DfS client getting a job and starting a whole new chapter of her life.

Meanwhile, I have started another purse on its own journey. I bought it for $1.50 at the same resale shop where I bought the original Traveling Purse, thinking that it would be perfect as a summery tote to carry my lunch and stuff to work.

One day, my tote and I were minding our own business in my cubicle when my colleague Rosaduñas stopped by to show off her beautifully pedicured toenails. They were a smooth, summery, bubblegum pink. They looked smart and tantalizing against her sun-tanned toesies--and then we noticed that they were the EXACT SAME COLOR as the pink tote purse stashed on my messy desktop.

I had just told Rosaduñas the story of the Traveling Purse that very morning, and when we held the purse up next to her polished toenails (well, down, really), we both knew that the purse would be going home with her that night.

I don't have any expectations about this new traveling purse. It might be a staying-home purse this time, sticking with Rosaduñas until it falls apart or she leaves it at the beach by accident.

But I like to dwell on the freedom that traveling purses represent: freedom from a shallow attachment to a material possession.

Of course this noble persuasion only applies to purses bought at a second-hand store, not for example, purses special ordered by one's husband for one's 50th birthday and hand-made from a copy of one's favorite writing reference book.

Ahem. Can you sense another purse-related blog post coming?

Sisterhood of the Traveling Purse

A few years ago I bought a cute purse at a resale shop.  It was sort of blue-jean blue, with gold threads interwoven throughout the fabric.  I paid about $10 for it, or maybe $12.

I brought the purse to a gathering of a few friends; and one friend in particular, BrokeGirl, admired it a great deal.

 

"Here, have it," I said spontaneously, dumping out the contents and handing it to her.  "I'll just put my stuff in a plastic bag until I get home."  It didn't feel like a big deal to me, but she was touched, which in turn gave me warm fuzzies.  As Friend Phoebe figured out, there is no such thing as a selfless good deed:

---

Phoebe: [on phone] I have found a selfless good deed. I went to the park and let a bee sting me.
Joey Tribbiani: How is that a selfless good deed?
Phoebe: It makes the bee look tough in front of his bee friends. The bee's happy and I am definitely not.
Joey Tribbiani: Uh, Pheebs, you know the bee probably died after it stung you?
Phoebe: [stares blankly] ...Dammit.
[hangs up]

The story doesn't end with BrokeGirl.  Many months later, BrokeGirl was visiting with our mutual friend Catosa, and Catosa admired the purse.  BrokeGirl decided that the well-loved purse should continue her soon-to-be-epic journey, so she dumped out the contents and gave it to Catosa.

Subsequently, Catosa, who lives in Estes Park, Colorado, gave it to C-Rey, who held onto it for several months before giving it to a "darling, sweet woman" from her church, JaMo.  At the moment, the Traveling Purse is living happily with JaMo in Denver, Colorado--as far as I know. 

I feel sort of proud to be the first donor of the traveling purse.  If I had any inclination that the purse would become such a symbol of friendship and generosity, I would have taken a photo of it hanging over BrokeGirl's shoulder--but alas.  I had no prescience, no foreknowledge, no psychic abilities.

But if you admire a cute blue fabric purse, and its owner says, here, have it!--please send me a photo, and let me know how long you hang on to it before you feel compelled to give it to another admirer.

Going Home Again

Last week I visited my parents (and sister) for the first time in over a year. (Bad daughter!) My trip was a medley of hilarity, sweetness, deliciousness, shopping, and napping. Here are the highlights:

• Shopping with my mama for a snow-white purse with two outside pockets with snaps, not too big, not too small, that doesn't requires the use of a paper clip to close the zipper.
  
• My BIL sitting on the couch eating frosting from a can, while we watched a Jeff Beck concert on cable and speculated about the age and origins of the bass player, Tal Wilkenfeld. (Photo credit: www.gibson.com)
  
• Raising eyebrows with the story of my stalker former boyfriend.
• Eating a Franconi's authentic Philadelphia cheesesteak. If you haven't sunk your dentures into one of these, you haven't lived. Culinarily, that is. (Photo credit: www.nymag.com)
  
• Shopping unsuccessfully for a rectangular pre-planted window planter to hang from mom and dad's patio railing. We went to four stores, with no luck. Finally, we went to Lowe's, bought the ingredients, and planted red and white petunias right there in the store's garden center.

"How are you going to plant flowers without a trowel?" asked my in-the-box daddy.

"I'll use my hands, Dad," I said.

"But you'll get all dirty!" mom worried.

"Yes," I replied. "And?" Have they ever met me? Dirt and I go way back.

• Shopping (again!) for button fly/button waistband PJ shorts for dad. Guess what? They don't exist. Every single pair of men's PJ shorts in captivity has an elastic waistband. But my dad remembers the PJs that mom bought him for their honeymoon 61 YEARS AGO and wants exactly the same thing. Which is sweet, but deluded.
• Visiting with my beautiful niece, her crazy husband, and my handsome nephew. Sadly, it appears that my sister's kids both chose spouses with personality disorders similar to their father: controlling, manipulative, and narcissistic. My nephew was visiting for less than two hours, and his wife called him four times to find out where he was and when he'd be home. Four times.
• Avoiding conflict with my opinionated parents. This was my personal favorite of all the highlights.

I asked my therapist for a script that I could use when my parents said something provocative, because in 48 years I have not yet learned how NOT to take the bait. He said, "Why don't you try saying, 'Uh-huh' or 'Hmmm.'"

So I tried it. My dad said something politically charged--I can't even remember what it was, but it was probably something about Barack Obama being personally responsible for millions of babies being killed--and I said, "Hmmm." He said something else along the same lines, and I said, "Uh-huh," and then I changed the subject to books.

It worked! I experienced a minor miracle first-hand. Essentially, I paid $150 for two words--and they weren't even words, just sounds! But as my friend Q said, that was the best $150 I ever spent. Hooray for therapy. (But seriously, why could I not come up with those responses on my own? That is messed up.)

The moral of the story: You can't go home again, but I guess you can shop there.

(Bonus points if you identify the source of the quote without googling it.)

Chemo Update: Inspiring Nausea

Taped to the inside of the bathroom door at the chemotherapy clinic is an "inspiring" anecdote entitled "Attitude is Everything." It goes something like this:

A woman looks in the mirror, sees that she only has three hairs, smiles like a maniac, and says, "I think I'll braid my hair today!" And she had a Fabutastic Day.

The next day, she looks in the mirror, sees that she only has two hairs, smiles like a freakshow, and says, "I think I'll part my hair in the middle today!" And she had a Wonderific Day!

The next day, she looks in the mirror, sees that she only has one hair, smiles like a chimp on acid, and says, "I think I'll wear my hair in a ponytail today!" And she had a Lovely, Lovely Day!

The next day, she looks in the mirror, sees that she doesn't have any hair, smiles like Hannibal Lecter, and says, "Oh, goody, I don't have to fix my hair today!" And she had a Super Amazing Day.

Attitude is Everything!!!

I call bullshit. Attitude is not everything--and don't tell my sister how to feel. Or me, for that matter, about my sister's suffering. If she wants to not feel happy or optimistic, she gets to.

The person who wrote that little piece of drivel probably doesn't have cancer, or isn't watching her sister cope with the several huge and many small challenges that come with cancer and chemo. Or else she's in denial herself--one of those people that force optimism on herself and others like a parent force-feeding broccoli to a recalcitrant toddler.

Chemo Update: Putting the Hat in Hatboro

My sister Uppie has started losing her beautiful strawberry blonde hair. She's got it cut in a cute, short boy-cut so that when the serious hair loss starts to happen it won't be such a drastic change.

I've been trying to imagine what that feels like, to lose something that's been such an important element in your appearance for your whole life. It must be a little like an amputation. I imagine that she might reach up to push her hair out of her eyes, and suddenly realize it's not there anymore.

One time, a super-long time ago, I gave Uppie a really bad home perm. Why she ever let me get near her hair with harsh chemicals, I will never know. But she did, and the results were, well, freakish.

That's not what I said at the time, of course. I lied like the devil and told her the curl was youthful and springy, and that it would relax after a couple of washings, when really, it was more like a white girl's afro: brittle, damaged, and more tightly wound than a control freak at a slob convention. Poor, unsuspecting Uppie. Never trust an enthusiastic but inexperienced kid sister when it comes to your hair.

But back to the present. Today Uppie and I went shopping for wigs and head coverings. We struck out on wigs, but grand-slammed in the head covering category.

When we first walked past Pat's Hats in Hatboro, we were underwhelmed. We peered in through the dirty store-front window; the shop seemed tiny, old-fashioned, a bit dirty, and under-stocked. The sign on the door--"Back in 15 minutes"--was hastily hand-lettered, almost like an after-thought. I felt a little relieved--I was not optimistic about our chances for success. I was hoping for a more boutiquey experience.

Well. Apparently you can't judge a hat shop by its dim interior. Pat turned out to be the good will ambassador for medical hair loss. She showed us scarves, hats, turbans, beanies, caps, and one wig. She was kind, helpful, knowledgeable, professional, and compassionate. By the time we left, we had purchased two sleep caps, one bandanna-like covering, and four scarves for Uppie, and a bonus crushable straw hat for me. Oh, and a free pink-ribbon breast cancer scarf, too.

Plus, we exchanged phone numbers with Pat, and made a date to have dinner together next week. Except for the date part. And the phone number part. But my point is, we could have--she was that great.

Oh, and remember that hand-lettered sign on the door? It turned out that Pat had zipped off to help her elderly mother who had fallen and hurt herself.

Anyway, if you're in the area, and you need some help with hats or head coverings, give Pat a call. She puts the hat in Hatboro, PA.

And here's a link to a nice article about Pat and her hats: http://www.montgomerynews.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=17690091&BRD=1306&PAG=461&dept_id=562922&rfi=6.

Chemo Countdown

My sister starts chemo tomorrow.

I wish it were me.

Not that I want to have breast cancer, or that I want to put my family through all that drama, but seriously. Of all the people in my family, she's the one that needs chemo. Any one of us would have been better equipped emotionally to handle this, but no. She's the one.