The Day Disaster Struck

Someday I will likely be one of those ladies downtown pushing around a grocery cart full of my things. For the time being, I just carry a whole lot of shit in my purse. I carry so much shit around with me that I used to go through two or three bags a year. They would just wear out and fall apart after a few months.

So a few years ago I decided to get a really nice purse, one that would hold up for a while. I kept my eye on Neiman Marcus, saved up for a couple months, and splurged like a mofo.

Then one morning, like six months later, I was using the purse precisely as intended. I was carrying all my usual junk, plus the stuff I brought to work for the day: a can of pop, a frozen lunch, and a thermos full of chocolate milk.

When I got to the office I set down my bag and settled in. I reached for my breakfast, the chocolate milk in my purse, and was met with a swampy, cold mess. The top of the thermos had popped open somewhere between home and work leaving and inch and a half of sticky ass chocolate milk sloshing around the bottom of my fifteen hundred dollar handbag.

I pulled out all of my dripping wet things (leaving faint stains in the carpet that remain to this day), then went to the bathroom and poured out fourteen ounces of catastrophe. I spent about twenty minutes scrubbing, and rinsing, and fighting back tears. But miraculously, I managed to save my precious baby. By the time I was done, you couldn't even tell that the unthinkable had happened.

A few months later, I set down my purse to dig out my keys and a can of Dr. Pepper exploded inside it.

Despite what people say, I refuse to stop carrying liquids in my bag. I don't think that's the problem. I think the bag cursed by the ghost of a still living Marc Jacobs. But I also refuse to stop carrying the cursed bag because, you know, pretty!