So you want to know how a small-time purse gets in trouble in the big city, do ya?
I mentioned in this post that there were two inspirations for this project. Jenny Lawson, also known as The Bloggess, and Catherine Connors, of Her Bad Mother and Tutu’s for Tanner. As we know, Pursey Galore will be wrapping up her tour at BlogHer11 meeting Jenny and The Red Dress. So imagine my heart-stopping surprise to find Catherine Connors at the cocktail reception at Bloggy Bootcamp this week, as if some miraculous tacky-handbag fairy had smiled on me from above, arranging the world so my other inspiration could be there at the beginning. I do not have blogging idols. Bloggers are people. But there are bloggers who have earned my respect for what they say, how they say things, or the things they do. Catherine and Jenny are all three, and that they exist not only on my screen as bloggers, but as real people who have connected with me is just one of the trillion magical things about this world.
And now…the moment we’ve all been waiting for…
Pursey Galore and The Barroom Brawl
We stepped into the smoky bar. (Except that smoking in bars is illegal in San Francisco.) The tension was palpable. (If you could feel any through the laughter and the hugs.) I’d been at it all day. Chatting, networking. Working Bloggy Bootcamp San Francisco the way a lady of the evening works Fleet Week. The dame in charge of that gig, Tiffany, I think they call her, is a good-looking piece of womanhood. And she runs a mean conference.
But now it was time to take a break, to rest my dogs. Me and my sidekick. Pursey Galore.
We’d just walked in and made our way to the bar to order a stiff drink (cosmopolitan, extra cherry), and that’s when we saw her. A willowy blonde with eyes that saw right through you. Specifically, they saw their way to Pursey Galore, and I could see she was locked in. Then again, when faced with zebra-striped-sequins, who wouldn’t be?
I didn’t want trouble. But I don’t need to go looking for it, trouble always seemed to find me. (I really need to un-list my number.) I turned away from the blond with the eyes on my prize and reached for my drink. That’s when trouble not only found me, it asked me to tango.
I felt a tug, then the tug became a yank. Before I knew it, I was spinning around and my drink was offering itself up to the slick, concrete floor. The blond was in my face – silent, but insistent. One more yank would throw me off my heels (literally, I can barely walk in those damned shoes). But what could I do? She had me by my purse strap.
Pulling at Pursey Galore with all the strength her eighteen pound body could muster, I had no choice but to fight back. Thinking I could disengage and then beat a hasty retreat, I yanked hard. Bad idea. We both went down.
We landed hard on a table and glassware shattered around us. Trying to break the chokehold that dame had on me was like trying to get out of an IRS audit by crying. Not gonna happen. The bouncer, a hulking guy goes by the name Ted, just looked on. He knew better than to get between two broads fighting over a sequined handbag.
Fortunately, my posse was there at the ready.
That’s when the blond came to her senses. Realizing that she was taking on not just me and Pursey Galore, but a whole pack of women who can walk in heels, she decided that it wasn’t worth the fight. Picking herself up and brushing off the glass, she slipped quietly into the night.
But I have a feeling…Pursey and I will be seeing her again some day.
Ok, true confessions time. After I saw Catherine in the nightclub and I reminded myself that I knew how to blink, I dragged her by the wrist to try to get her into some light for a photo. I directed her to sit down on a low table under a lamp – and when we sat we upended the table over and a spilled a dozen glasses to the floor. Catherine, graciously, forgave me.