Call Your Mom!

You know those times when you see something and know you will not be able to sleep until you have it? (Me either, but I have a friend with this problem.) Anyway, ages ago I was thumbing through Vanity Fair magazine and I saw this ad for a handbag. It was a picture of this beautiful handbag on a small table in a coffee shop with a pair of glasses next to it. I think there may have been a cup of coffee and a newspaper involved, but I really can't remember. Naturally, I fell it love with it. And, as I have a (rather annoying) tendency to do, I began obsessing over it.

I suppose you should know that I am a highly intelligent person, and I have taken enough literary criticism classes in my life to know a few things about advertising. This is one of the things I know: I loved that bag so much because it embodied a whole image — an image that I happen to love. Looking at this ad made me want to sit in a coffee shop somewhere on the Upper West Side wearing my tortoiseshell glasses (I don't wear or need glasses, by the way), a streamlined and luxurious black turtleneck, ballet flats, a just-so shade of red lipstick, and my hair tied back in a knot at the nape of my neck. And I would sit, with my doppio espresso, reading the Wall Street Journal or something, totally undisturbed by the trivial, and rather shallow, nonsense surrounding me. 'Ah, 'tis just another day. Remind me to call my broker later, dahling. Where shall we winter next year?' You know what I am getting at. And yes, I know it is a sham. Well, for me, anyway. But that is the beauty of advertising. Each of our belongings is an idea or a projection of something else, in a way. That aside, I tracked down this bag. I couldn't help myself.

I suppose another thing you should know is that Kate Spade's handbags don't actually grow on trees. They are expensive — and rather expensive at that. Certainly not in the manner of Hermès or anything, mind you, but still expensive. But really, what was I to do? I was quite literally losing sleep over it. My options were thus: Buy said gorgeous handbag and all my problems will be solved; or, don't buy it and become some wildly unattractive hag — all on account of the fact that I am losing a great deal of beauty sleep each night. Naturally, I bought the bag.

Shortly thereafter the guilt set in. No, it wasn't a million dollars, but it was enough to make me sick if I thought about it too long. So I tucked it in the back of the closet, waiting for the guilt to subside. It didn't. So, one sad day I drove myself to Nordstrom with the idea of returning my gorgeous handbag. I walked in and slapped it on the counter and began demanding a full refund. Mid-sentence, I said, 'What am I doing? Lady, give me back my bag!' And I quickly left.

A few more months went by and I pulled my lovely handbag back out of the closet. I took one long look at it and thought, 'Why this isn't a handbag at all! It's a piece of luggage! Talk about huge. What on earth am I going to do with this thing?' (Although, I daresay it would be perfect for a diaper and wipes and such. Nevermind a newspaper and smart glasses.) I have been more than happy with my gorgeous little Longchamps, after all. (Which is true; it's the best handbag I've ever owned, and suits me perfectly.)

I drove myself back to Nordstrom, slapped the bag back on the counter again, and said, 'Please! Just take it away!' As the girl was beginning to issue my refund, I carelessly glanced at the tag. Written in a tiny little font were the words: Call Your Mom. Call Your Mom — that is the name of the bag. I can't even begin to tell you how appropriate that is. It nearly made my heart beat out of my chest. I had just been talking to my mom on the phone in the car. It's a sign! And then I looked up and saw that the bag had since gone on sale — by quite a lot. Oh my goodness.

And so, being the classy dame that I am, I returned the bag. And then I bought it again — on sale. I realize this is wildly tacky, but I am feeling rather pleased with myself. And I plan to call my mother in the morning and tell her all about the new diaper bag I 'just bought'.