This is Leslie’s day in Manitou Springs.
This makes me happy in ways I cannot express.
So just look at the picture.
I’ll shut up now.
Caring for Ourselves So We Can Care for Others
This is Leslie’s day in Manitou Springs.
This makes me happy in ways I cannot express.
So just look at the picture.
I’ll shut up now.
I have no words to thank everyone.
So I’ll give you pictures and music instead.
Love and sequins,
My dear In-Person friend Holly, who is a registered dietician who works with seniors right now and writes a blog called Healthy Living Holly, brought Pursey along on a trip to Vegas for a New Year’s Eve wedding. Can you imagine ANYWHERE better for the purse?? No. You can’t. Doesn’t exist. So here’s a little something that MIGHT have happened on that night out on the town…
With a cocktail in one hand and her trashiest bag o’ stuff in the other, Holly made her way to the craps table.
She was down to her last chip, and she really just wanted to get something to eat, so she decided that she’d throw away her final few dollars and head to the buffet.
She slipped up to the table and set down her chip. The boxman took her lone chip placidly and set it down. The stickman handed her the dice. She stood there a moment, thinking good thoughts, when someone said, “Rub the dice on that purse.”
The stickman said, “Dice must be in view at all times.”
“Wave the purse over the table!” Said a different voice.
Holly laughed and swung the zebra-striped sequined purse-shaped disco ball over the craps table and threw the dice.
“Seven,” called the base dealer.
The spectators cheered and the boxman put down a chip.
“Roll again!” said a voice. “Swing the purse!” said another.
Holly swirled the purse over the table a second time and rolled the dice.
“Eight,” called the base dealer.
Holly collected the dice and rolled two more times.
“Eight!” called the base dealer, and the boxman put down another chip.
“Again!” Called the crowd, and Holly waved the purse over the table like a bishop swinging a censer.
“Eleven!” Called the base dealer. The crowd, larger than it had been a moment before, cheered again.
Holly kept rolling, waving the purse over the table, taking pass bets and hitting the point every time.
Her chip had made many many friends and was socializing happily on the table.
On her tenth or eleventh pass, the crowd now in a frenzy, the point was ten.
Holly reached for the purse to the lucky wave and…it was gone!
Panicked momentarily that it had been stolen, she quickly caught sight of it’s tell-tale sparkle a few dozen feet away where her girlfriend was standing, rummaging though its contents.
“HEY!” Called Holly. “Bring that back!”
She took one step toward it and the base dealer called, “Stepping away from the table kills your bet.”
Holly bit her lip and turned back to the table. She held her breath and tossed the dice.
“Seven!” called the base dealer. The crowd groaned. “Craps.”
Her chips made an exit, stage left.
Holly’s shoulders slumped and she shuffled over to her friend.
“Here you go,” she said, handing Holly her purse back. “I needed my lipstick. You were doing great over there!”
Holly felt silly haranguing her friend for snatching her good luck charm, so she let it go. “Yeah, fun while it lasted. Let’s go eat.”
As she turned, someone tugged her arm. “Excuse me,” said a young lady, “I’m gonna go play some blackjack. Would you come bless me with the purse?”
“As long as it’s on the way to the food,” she answered.
My dear friend and co-worker Cindy, who is not a blogger, signed up for the purse as soon as she heard about the project.
After a hostage situation in customs, Pursey Galore ended up trapped in an envelope in Utah for an ENTIRE WEEK. When she finally made her way to Cindy, she felt she had time to make up for. Cindy was pretty sure that if PG had a voice, this was what she’d say.
I can’t stand it one more minute! Thought the broad in the stripes.
I’m going crazy in here!!
She paced. Counting off the space in footsteps. One, two… turn around. One, two…
She was loosing her sequined mind.
Freedom was close, she could sense it. Only a few more hours…
She shifted this way and that, desperate for the doors to open, for the light to pour in.
She cocked an ear and listened. She could hear excited muffled voices. Was this it?? FINALLY?
And then, like the parting of the Red Sea, like the opening of the Gulag, freedom.
She burst from her confinement in an explosion of sparkly brilliance. Free! FREE FREE FREE!!!
She turned to her blond benefactress and draped herself over the woman’s shoulder. “You and me?” she said, “We’re gonna have a good time!”
The first stop was the steak-house. A couple glasses of wine, a thick juicy porterhouse…life was looking up. While there, she spied one of the girls from the Big House. She’d cleaned up well, though. She looked polished, sophisticated. Almost like she was trying to forget where she came from.
What a faker, thought the newly freed striped senorita.
Next she coaxed her patroness to party after party. It was the holiday season and the lights and the cocktails…well, they were pretty intoxicating. Literally.
And then finally, the champagne was flowing, the music was loud, the people were merry, and things…things…well, things got out of hand.
There were loud voices and flash-bulbs. Some sort of altercation with a wooden cowboy and then there might have been obscenities hurled at a policeman.
And before she knew it, she was back…back in the dark, confined space.
Nooooooo!!! She cried to the universe. Not again!!!!
She took a deep breath. It’s okay, she said. I’ve done this plenty of times. I can do it again.
Cause no one can keep a sequined girl down for long.
Owing to some emergencies of the family kind and a nifty case of the plague, I got desperately behind in Purse Stories. Many, many apologies. But as story ideas for Megan, from Best of Fates, Hannah, from Peggy Ann Design, and Kristin, from Peace, Love and Muesli swirled round in my head, I wondered what might have happened if the three of them got together.
Perhaps it would have looked something like this.
It sat on a table, quietly winking out from between a tote bag with an impressionist painting printed on it and a patent leather laptop case.
She almost missed it. But a telltale sparkle caught her eye just as she turned, and her hand reached reflexively to shove the tote bag out of the way and see where the sparking was coming from.
Megan tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and pulled the zebra striped sequined bag free from a pile of other handbags that were clearly lesser specimens. Nowhere near as sparkly, nowhere near as stripy.
She held it up and let it catch the light, grinning at the gaudiness of it all.
She was heading out for a night on the town. With friends and finery. There was nothing like getting dressed in tuxedoes and evening gowns and riding the metro to make people look at you and start wondering.
And Megan loved it when people looked at her and wondered.
She hooked the strap over her shoulder and moved to the next table, searching for other overlooked treasures.
A heaping pile of overcoats hinted at greatness, and there was always a chance of finding something in black latex. Megan hadn’t quite put the finishing touches on her best Mata Hari look and she suspected that a shiny, black trench coat was what she needed. She set down the heavily discounted down comforter she’d snagged from the bottom of a wire bin and rested the purse on top of it before digging into the heap of coats.
Hey, what’s that? Hannah asked herself. She was navigating around a woman bent on destruction in a pile of jackets when silvery sparkles winked at her from the floor.
She reached down and picked up the purse from where it had been abandoned on a pile of linens and surveyed it as she kept walking towards the housewares section. She rubbed her hands over the satiny finish of the back of the purse, but her eye kept going back to the dazzling shimmer of the zebra-striped print on the front. Could this be any more perfect, she wondered? The big game was this weekend, and if you couldn’t make some noise then damnit, you didn’t go! And she couldn’t imagine anything louder than this. This bag, in its sparkly stripy glory, was the loudest piece of apparel she’d seen in a long, long time.
She tucked the purse under arm and zigzagged around the other shoppers, trying to avoid being stepped on or run down by a stroller. She always suspected that people brought their kids to these sales for no other reason than the stroller helped part traffic for them. Some of those things were damned heavy.
Right on cue, a mom with a deranged look, a screaming toddler and a stroller that was clearly made by Chrysler bore down on her. Hannah saw them coming at the last second and dodged in between two T-stands of last season’s strapless gowns. Breathing in relief that her foot hadn’t been crushed she stepped back into the main aisle and continued toward the far end of the sales floor, never noticing that the sequined striped bag had fallen quietly to the floor behind her.
Kristin yelped as a mother and screaming child clocked her shin as they zoomed past her at breakneck speed in a stroller that weighed as much as military transport vehicle. She exhaled upwards through her hair and tried to think charitable thoughts while the sting faded. She limped sideways to step out of the main walkway in an effort to avoid further injury, and something glittered at her from the floor. She hobbled over to a silver and black puddle and picked it up.
All pain forgotten, Kristin laughed at the sparkly thing in front of her. Black, shiny, silver and stripy, she had never seen so tasteless an accessory in her life. She thought about the simple black ensemble she’d selected for the dinner party she was hosting this weekend. What would be better to add a little outrageous glam than this silly, spectacularly tacky handbag? She thought her menu through in her head, delicious hors d’oeuvres and scrumptious entrees…but yes, even those culinary wonders would be enhanced by a little feminine outrageousness.
She had to have it.
Done with the rest of her shopping, Kristin made her way back into the walkway to navigate the crowds to the checkout counters. She’d not gone three steps when she felt a tap on her shoulder and heard, “Excuse me!”
Kristin turned to see a redheaded woman with enormous blue eyes. “I think you have my purse.”
“I’m sorry?” Asked Kristin looking at the brown leather bag she’d owned for years.
“No, that one,” the woman said, pointing at Kristin’s gaudy find. “I set it down to look for a coat, I think you picked it up not realizing that I meant to buy it. I need it for a night out this weekend.”
“I’m sorry,” Kristin answered, “I wasn’t anywhere near the coats. I found this under a rack of evening gowns, and I need it for a dinner party.”
“There it is!” Exclaimed a new voice. Kristin and Megan turned to see a woman with glossy dark hair and an expression that suggested she’d stick her tongue out at you as likely as anything else running up to the two of them.
“Can I have that back, please?” She asked, pointing the purse that clearly had magnetic powers.
“What?” Asked Megan and Kristin at the same time.
“That,” said the newcomer, gesturing at the purse again. “I dropped it. I’m taking it the big game this weekend.”
“No you’re not,” said Megan, “I’m taking it for a fancy evening out.”
“Neither of you is doing either of those things, I need it for a dinner party!” said Kristin who still had the bag in her hand and was ready to assert that possession was ten-tenths of the law.
“Pardon me, girls,” said a soft, tremulous voice.
The three women turned to see a tiny woman with hair so white it almost glowed and a spine curved with age raise her shaking hand at them. “Thank you so much for finding my handbag.”
“Your handbag?” Asked Hannah.
“Yes, a gift from my granddaughter with questionable taste. But, since it’s from her and she’s the light of my life, I take it every where I go.”
The three women who had seconds ago been arguing looked down at the bag, realizing at the same time that there was no tag on it. Hannah looked at Megan who in turn looked at Kristin. They could insist on looking inside for proof, and the salestag could be in there as likely as anywhere else…
But in unison they realized the gracelessness of questioning a little old lady trying to retrieve a treasured gift, and Kristin handed the purse over to her. “Here,” she said, trying to sound pleasant. “Our mistake.”
The trembling hand took the bag and settled the strap on her shoulder. “Thank you girls. My heart would have broken if it had been lost.”
She turned and shuffled away from the three younger women, waiting until she’d turned a corner and was blocked from view by a large display of luggage before straightening her bag and tripling her pace to hotfoot it to the check-out lines.
She glanced back at the women whose prize she’d stolen. “Gift from my granddaughter! Ha! Suckers fall for it every time!”
Pursey Galore spent last weekend with the lovely Pua, from Dino Momma, and she wrote this post about taking the sparkly bag to a pumpkin patch. But I was far more intrigued by the picture of her husband modeling with the purse. And the following possibility came to me…
Offering a meager tip to the cabbie, Pua made her way to the stage door and showed her pass, squeezing in past young men and women eager to see the designer or the models. She dropped her impeccably cut jacket and tacky, sequined zebra striped bag in a cubbie and took her station behind the curtain leading to the runway. Her partner tapped his watch and glared at her from across the gap. Pua shrugged. She’d gotten there, hadn’t she?
Things moved quickly from there. The music started, the flashbulbs exploded and Pua worked her frantic magic, helping each model change and accessorize in the time it took to draw a breath. One dicey moment came when a shoulder strap refused to stay put, risking an immodest wardrobe malfunction in front of over a hundred photographers and fashion writers. Out of pins on her wrist pad, Pua grabbed her trashy sequined bag and rummaged for spares. Without time to duck back and stash the purse, she slung the strap over her shoulder and carried on.
The designer walked among them, tucking, blousing, pinching and pleating each model before he or she walked through the curtains. The group moved like clockwork, sending each model out exactly on cue. Until…
“No!” He shouted. “Not IT.”
The staff winced. They wouldn’t know IT if they saw it, but he did, and if he said it wasn’t there, then it wasn’t there, and none of them would be able to help. The model, wearing the season’s high end men’s suit in black paired with silver bowling shoes, froze. He knew from experience that he was to do nothing, take not one step, until the designer saw IT.
He strode to the accessories table, flinging scarves, chain link belts, silk handkerchiefs and banded hats to the floor. Pua turned, waiting, holding her breath, and a rainbow scattered across the backstage area from the stage lights bouncing off the countless gaudy sequins on her zebra striped bag.
All eyes turned to her purse.
“Where did you get that?” Demanded the designer.
Pua hesitated, worried that the silly bag that made her laugh was going to offend the designer so badly that she was going to be forcibly evicted from the venue.
“It was a gift,” she said. “From…my mother.”
“I need it.”
“Huh?” She was rendered momentarily dysfluent.
“I need it.” He walked quickly to her. “May I?”
“Umm…sure.” She slipped the purse off her shoulder and dumped the contents out at her feet, knowing that it needed to rest flat against the cut of the suit.
The designer moved quickly, slipping the strap over the model’s head, angling it properly along the lapel.
The loud, outrageous, zebra-striped sparkle was – somehow – the perfect complement to the sleek black jacket and silver shoes.
The designer pulled a lock of the handsome man’s hair down over his forehead, took one more look and shoved the model gently through the gap in the curtain. The gasp from the crowd was audible. The dressing team leaned forward, hoping to hear something over the music.
Pua nodded. Well, it was all of those things.
The staff watched the designer, whose ability to read the audience’s reaction to the line was legendary. His face scanned the crowd, moving up and down the audience, assessing posture, the intensity of the jotting of notes or the typing into laptops.
A collective breath was held.
“Yes,” he finally said. “The last piece did it.”
Silent jumping and high-fives were shared. The designer’s face took on a younger appearance as he grinned. Then the music blared again, which was his cue, and he dropped the smile, adopting the bored, disinterest, too-cool-for-my-own-damned-good expression expected in the fashion industry, and slipped out from behind the curtain to cheers from the crowd.
Her annoyed dressing partner looked at the pile of debris at Pua’s feet. “You want something to put all that in? You’re totally not getting your purse back.”
Pua nodded. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. It really had too much attitude for me. It belongs on a stage.”
Her partner handed her a handled shopping bag and snorted. “It belongs in a bordello.”
“Yeah, well, sorta the same thing,” she answered while scooping up brushes and lipsticks.
Her partner nodded. “True enough.”
Katie, from Sluiter Nation, wrote a beautiful post about taking Pursey Galore on a tour of the charms and history of a small town. But I immediately latched onto the placard about the visit from the Queen of the Netherlands. Now, I have no idea if Queen Beatrix has a sense of humor, but in my imagination, this is how such a meeting might go…
I’m angry, thought Katie.
I’m angry and I’m irritated and I don’t believe I got dragged to this stupid event.
She stood with her arms crossed and her brow furrowed and refused to look at her husband.
Her husband refused to look at her, too.
“I don’t believe you brought that thing,” he hissed.
Katie turned her head further away but smiled slightly.
She decided that she liked revenge.
“It’s horrible,” he whispered.
Well yes, thought Katie, that was the idea. Make me give up my weekend just to impress a bunch of people we don’t like anyway and I am going to get even.
And since her sense of decorum prevented her from actually being rude to anyone, she got even the only was she knew how. Which was to pair her elegant cocktail dress with a trashy, zebra-striped handbag.
And to make sure her husband didn’t reach a state of apoplexy before they left the house and insist she select something more appropriate, Katie had hidden the bag in the car ahead of time, pulling it from the back seat just as they reached valet parking. Her husband didn’t even know she had it until they were walking into the hotel.
At which point he did reach a state of apoplexy, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Katie had an excellent sense of timing.
Her husband suggested in a strained voice that perhaps she could leave it at the coat-check desk. “Nonsense,” she replied. “I need my lipstick and I’d have no place to carry it.”
So they stood at a black-tie cocktail reception making small talk with a population of local business people that they’d never met, and who they would probably never see again, and Katie smiled each time someone stared at the purse, then glanced politely away to ask their thoughts on the weather.
HA! She thought, enjoying the perplexed look on each rich face.
Katie wandered to the buffet table, appreciating the tasty spread of hors d’oeuvres despite herself. She reached for a canapés just as a flurry of activity on the edges of the ballroom caught her eye. Something was up, there were suddenly many more men in suits than there had been moments before.
Her husband was at her side seconds later. “What’s going on?” She asked.
“Some unexpected VIP showed up, I guess.”
“Who? The president of the Chamber of Commerce?” She asked sarcastically.
“Yes, because that’s the person who requires a secret service detail,” replied her husband, matching her tone drip for sarcastic drip.
Katie and her husband watched as a pairs of men and women in dark suits quietly appeared to flank each doorway. Who was in the hotel? A senator? A cabinet member?
The room was suddenly quiet as the guests scanned the doorways waiting for the appearance of the guest that required such measures. Then a side door of the ballroom opened and a woman of impeccable carriage with a satin sash across her gown walked into the room, escorted by additional people in telling, dark suits.
Whispers reached Katie’s ears. Queen Beatrix, from the Netherlands.
Katie’s mouth went a little dry. A queen? An honest-to-goodness queen? And she was standing there with a zebra-striped sequined handbag on her shoulder? Well crap…talk about a plan backfiring.
She briefly considered flinging the purse under the buffet table, but abandoned that plan when a pair of strong, intelligent eyes caught hers and the woman in the gown and the sash walked toward her.
Shit! Was all Katie could think.
Queen Beatrix strode gracefully to her, her gaze shifting perceptibly from Katie’s face to the audacious sequined accessory hanging from her shoulder. Katie prepared herself for the obligatory eyebrow raising.
But the Queen smiled.
“That’s a powerful piece of wardrobe,” she remarked.
Speak! Katie told herself. Use words! A verb! Include a verb! Don’t swear! “I..ahem…I was trying to avoid anything that was too stuffy.”
“I’d say you succeeded beautifully. Sometimes I wish I could tell the world to bugger off that way.”
Katie blinked. The Queen of the Netherlands says “bugger off?”
“I imagine it’s harder for you than it is for me,” she said.
“Very true,” answered the Queen. “So perhaps you can do it for me. Take care, my dear.” And she turned and made her way to the next guest.
Katie swallowed. Then she grinned. The Queen of the Netherlands liked her trashy handbag and clearly thought she had moxie.
She liked that. She lifted her chin a bit and pulled the bag into more prominent view on her hip. She glanced at her husband and said haughtily, “I’d like a cocktail now.”
Her husband snorted. “Get it yourself, your highness.”
Katie sighed and walked over to the bar, certain that Beatrix would never in a million years have to fetch her own cosmopolitan.
Kristin, from Taming Insanity, booked Pursey Galore to help her celebrate her sister’s last days of single woman-hood. And, although this is not the story I heard about, there is no doubt that it COULD have happened this way.
“I look fat!”
“You’re a bride. You do NOT look fat.”
“My hair’s a wreck!”
“If you’re like this for your bachelorette party, what are you going to be like on The Day?” The capital letters were clear in Kristin’s words.
Her sister took a deep breath. “I’m only single for a few short more days. I’m not ready to look like a wife yet.”
Kristin looked her gorgeous sister up and down. “You will be an inspiration to wives everywhere, now get your purse.”
Kristin glanced at herself in the mirror. She was a wife. She was a mom. But damnit, she was going to be hot stuff tonight. Hotter than normal, that is.
She glanced in her closet for a bag, and something winked at her from the shelf. Something sparkly. Something…trashy.
It was a party. She damned well should.
‘Cause nothing sets off a sexy dress like zebra-striped sequins.
The bride-to-be snorted out loud when she saw the bag, but hopped into the car without snide comment.
At the first bar, a round of free drinks showed up for the group of women. Kristin and her sister looked around for their benefactor, but the server didn’t know where the drinks had come from and no one was looking their way. The shrugged, toasted their mystery patron, and drank every drop down.
At the second bar, the doorman waived the cover charge. The women, wallets half-open, looked at each other, then sauntered into the room like VIP’s. It might have been sauntering. It might have been instability on heels due to inebriation. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.
At the final bar, the group of now perpetually giggling and moderately staggering women found themselves escorted past the other waiting patrons, and walked to table where a bottle of champagne met them.
“Ok, what’s going on?” Asked one of the other bridesmaids. “Did the groom set this all up for you?”
Kristin’s sister shook her head. “No, I didn’t tell him where we were going. He can’t have.”
The women looked at each other across the table, perplexed. Where was all this attention coming from?
Their server leaned in and cleared some glasses. “It’s the purse,” he said.
All eyes turned to Kristin and her tawdry, tacky bag.
“That?” asked six voices in unison.
The server nodded, placing the champagne flutes gently on the bussing tray.
“If you have the guts to flash that sort of bling, people will notice.” He stood up. “Another round, ladies?”
Five heads turned to Kristin, who had just turned into the leader of the pack.
“I think the correct answer to that is, ‘Hell yes.’”
The server nodded and stepped back, bearing away the evidence of round one.
Kristin settled back against the plush couch and crossed her legs theatrically. She glanced at her sister. “You mocked.”
The bride-to-be nodded, clearly clamping down hard on some additional snorting.
“Mock no more, foolish girl.”
“Never again,” her sister squeaked.
Kristin stretched backwards, her superior accessorizing skills had clearly lifted her above the other, less bold, less daring, clearly more mundane women. She reached behind her to move the bag into a safer place next to her on the couch, overbalanced, and fell on her arse onto the club floor, squawking loudly.
A roomful of bar patrons turned her way.
Her sister leaned over and surveyed Kristin’s indelicate sprawl.
“I take it back. I’m going to mock you again.
Kristin sighed and got her butt up from the floor.
Such a sweet, but short-lived, victory.
Nothing gets in the way of a good time like life. Poor Natalie watched plans for Las Vegas and Palm Beach for her anniversary both fall through. But never one to renege, Natalie gave Pursey Galore a grand tour of Casa Del Monstruo y Las Gemelas. And I imagine that something like this MIGHT have happened…
I can’t do another thing, I just can’t can’t can’t.
This was the thought in Natalie’s head.
While scooping up one one-year-old before she ate the dog food, and herding the second with her foot before a toy ended up stuffed in the dvd player, Natalie imagined a night of fancy dress and cocktails.
Not even when it was something she wanted.
Hustling the child still on the floor with her toesshe listened for noise from the three year old playing outside. Hearing nothing more than a child making truck sounds, Natalie collected the mail.
There was a package addressed to her.
Funny, she hadn’t ordered anything recently.
She set the mail on a counter, poured goldfish crackers into a bowl, and started collecting toys in various shapes and colors of molded plastic.
The package sat forgotten under a Gymboree catalogue.
It wasn’t until the next afternoon, after wiping the last evidence of a food-flinging contest between three children from the range hood that the bubble-mailer caught her eye.
Tossing the sponge into the sink, she wiggled a finger under the flap and tore the paper.
Something sparkled at her from the darkness.
Natalie upended the mailer onto the countertop and out spilled the loudest handbag she’d ever seen in her life. Zebra-striped sequins.
It was the tackiest, most outrageously gaudy thing Natalie had ever experienced. It was nearly offensive.
It was perfect.
Natalie slipped the strap over her shoulder, then pulled a dusty martini glass from the tip-top shelf of the glass cabinet. After giving the glass a cursory rinse, she rummaged in the fridge. She discovered a can of apricot nectar hiding behind an unopened jar of tahini and poured a generous tablespoon into the martini glass. She reached over the fridge into the liquor supply and pulled out the peach schnapps and the vodka. She let a splash of the schnapps fall into the nectar, and then poured a healthy double shot of vodka over it all. She gave it a quick stir with her finger and sampled by licking the finger dry.
Pulling her sunglasses from the diaper bag, she swaggered out onto the back patio with her concoction and the glittery sequined bag. She sat down on the torn chaise lounge, stretched out her legs and sipped her drink. The purse sang happy sparkly notes to the sun.
A few minutes later her husband, holding one twin, poked his head out of the sliding glass door.
“Honey…what on earth are you doing?”
“That I am sitting next to a pool on the Riviera, that a staff of impeccably dressed waiters is fetching me tropical cocktails with clockwork regularity, and that I am dressed in the finest resort-wear ever seen by rich people,” she answered, taking another sip of the orange-colored cocktail with her eyes closed.
“Ah,” said her husband. “I see.”
Natalie smiled up at the warm sky and took a deep breath. She swung her legs over the chaise lounge and started to get up. “Okay, that was nice. Back to reality.”
Her husband crossed the patio and kissed her softly. “No, why don’t you hang out on the Riviera just a few more minutes.”
“Really?” She asked.
He nodded, “Sure. I’ll keep the peasants from troubling you for a little while longer.”
Natalie relaxed back against the chair and sipped again, letting her eyes close and her shoulders relax. “Thank you, honey. I love you.”
“Love you too, gorgeous.” He stepped back into the house. “Happy anniversary.”
Sharyn brought Pursey Galore to her first sporting event, an Oakland A’s v. Los Angeles Angels weekend event over Labor Day. Although I do not believe this represents the actual sequence of events, I think we can all agree that it COULD have happened.
“You’re not bringing that with you, are you?”
Sharyn looked at her spangly zebra striped bag. “Of course I am,” she replied.
Her husband squirmed just a little. “To a baseball game??” he implored.
Sharyn nodded and threw some glitter lip-gloss into the bag. Not because she had any intention of wearing glitter lip-gloss, but because it fit.
Her husband sighed, resigned. Maybe no one would notice. On the space shuttle.
Once at the game, Sharyn worried slightly that the sun glinting off the sequins might actually blind an infielder at an inopportune moment, but decided that coping with outrageously loud accessories in the grandstand was one of the ways professional ball players justified their salaries.
She settled in for a hot dog.
And a beer.
And garlic fries.
Because nothing is better that a hot dog, a beer, and garlic fries at a baseball game.
As the sun shifted slowly overhead, Sharyn reached into her purse and pulled out a cap and tugged it snugly onto her head.
The game was a nail biter.
Ahead. Then behind. Then tied with a runner stranded at third. Sharyn had screamed herself hoarse.
She reached into the purse and pulled out a roll of lifesavers to suck on.
When her husband inadvertently scraped his thumb on the railing in front of him while making gestures clearly designed to give the pitcher essential advice, Sharyn pulled a band-aid out the bag and rendered a quick doctoring. Her husband looked at the purse. “Is there anything you don’t have in there?”
“I didn’t bring a surgical kit, so don’t cut yourself any worse than this.”
“How about gum?” He asked.
“Duh,” she answered, withdrawing a pack of Juicy Fruit.
The game moved into the 9th inning. Score still tied. This was it. Three outs and they would go home disappointed.
The first batter hit a pop fly into right field. Once chance gone.
The second batter took two balls before hitting a ground ball straight to the Golden Glove shortstop. Two chances gone.
The third batter watched two perfect pitches whiz by, then waited out three balls in a row. Full count. The crowd was on its feet.
Sharyn and her husband stood with the rest of the crowd, the sound made Sharyn’s feet vibrate.
The wind-up, then the pitch, then CRACK! The priceless sound of a bat making solid contact.
Sharyn lost the ball for a split-second in the sun, then caught it again to see it arcing straight for her.
And the one thing she hadn’t brought with her was a glove.
People were leaning in, hands outstretched, hoping to get their hands on the ball that would give them the winning home run.
Sharyn stood on her seat, open the zebra-striped bag wide and held it over her head. There was a soft whump and the bag tugged in her hands.
She pulled the purse down and looked inside. There, safely nestled between a spare pair of socks and the glitter lip-gloss was a regulation, major-league baseball.
And it was hers.
She looked up at her husband smugly, ignoring his open-mouthed, incredulous stare. “Now aren’t you glad I brought it with me?”
The people around them were cheering and patting her on the back and slapping her arm playfully.
“Hey lady,” said someone in the crowd around her, “I’ll give you fifty bucks for that purse. You can even keep the ball.”