The Quest
Much has been made of womens’ lust for shoes. Think Imelda Marcos or Carrie Bradshaw. But it’s not the Manolo Blancos that get me all fired up. It’s bags. Tote bags, shoulder bags, messenger bags, pocketbooks, purses. A bag by any other name would still be — a bag.
Art laughs at me. I have about 15 reusable bags for groceries. And yet, often I still manage to leave them all in the apartment when I drive off to do errands. Is a canvas bag still green, even if it’s hanging on a hook by the door when you check out at Trader Joe’s?
I recently ordered a “ketch purse” from a mail order catalog. I found it among the overstocks on sale for $14.99. Who could resist? A sturdy canvas bag with “lots of pockets”. I sent away for it. Loden green! I was so excited! However, when it arrived it was black. I was sure I had ordered the green. Oh, well. Back it went, and I quickly ordered its replacement in loden green. Finally, it arrived today. I could barely contain myself! Tore open the box, ripped open the plastic bag, pulled out half a ton of tissue paper, and then it hit me. It was perfect except: I couldn’t fit my wallet in it. Or, I could fit my wallet but not my keys. No room, either, for my oversized sunglasses. Definitely no room for a makeup case. I would have to make do with a lip gloss and a miniature tube of bronzer. I tinkered with it for about fifteen minutes, ran back to my closet to see if I had a smaller wallet. And when I looked up at the top shelf, there they sat, my last two “perfect” bags. The organizers to end all organizers. Both of them perfectly good bags, looking sad and abandoned, like two little wallflowers at a dance. I looked in the mirror, and I knew I had gone off the deep end. I carefully restuffed the tissue paper inside my teeny-tiny loden green bag, put it back in the same box it had arrived in, guiltily filled out the “return form” and admitted that I had misjudged the size (reason #31), slapped the return label on it, and resolved to drop it at the post office tomorrow. I pray I will never hear about this incident again. (But I have a sinking feeling that I will the next time I become infatuated with yet another bag).
The thing is, I am always in search of the holy grail of pocketbooks. I can see it in my mind: Just large enough to hold my wallet, my keys, my oversized sunglasses, a small makeup case, a travel size of Kleenex, my date book, a pen, and my cell phone. Nothing more, and nothing less. I would like it to look smart, but not pretentious. I would like for it to have the look of authority, but not pushiness. The sort of bag you could carry to work (even though I work at home), or to a night out on the town (although we mostly stay home and watch Netflix and Tivo). What I want, in short, is a bag that defines me and gives me an identity. You know, the identity I have always strived for and never quite achieved. The kind of bag that could be worn by a Vogue model along with a Chanel suit. Classic. Post-modern chic. (And of course, all for under $25.00).
And so, the quest continues, one bag at a time, always in search of the elusive enigma wrapped in a mystery. Will I ever find it? Perhaps not. Perhaps, as in so many other things, the joy is in the journey, not the destination. I just know, it’s out there somewhere. . . Maybe Macy’s?
MONDAY MORNING REFLECTIONS ON SUNDAY AT THE MALLS
Well, it’s Monday, and as you might guess, my mood reflects it.
Yesterday Art and I hit the malls. It was stupid, of course – a gorgeous, warm, sunny, November day with only six weeks to go till Christmas. What were we thinking?
We were browsing around for furniture. Need I tell you what the malls looked like? As a matter of fact, it was a challenge just getting to the malls. There was traffic, and when we got within a couple of blocks, there were cars snaking down the block for half a mile just trying to park.
But Art is nothing if not determined. We drove around to the less traveled entrances and made our way up to the floors where the air is thin. We boldly walked into The Pit. I can’t really say “boldly”, since it’s more like we had to elbow and jostle our way. There were wall-to-wall people.
Now, ordinarily, I like going out where there are people. I like the camaraderie of it. I like the social ambiance. But this was way over the top. It’s as if we were being herded through cattle stalls.
Our first stop was Pottery Barn. There we had the sense of being in a dream, since everyone looked like us – Middle-aged, receding hairlines, gently expanding hips, Gap-attired, bespectacled, no kids. We immediately saw a sofa that we liked. (It’s scary when they hit your demographic on the nose!) What we did not like was the price. We thought – “Well, this isn’t the only furniture store in the world.”
We tried going to a large showroom for a national furniture chain I won’t name. Much easier to get to. Much easier to park. Much lower prices. Many more selections. Not so many people. Just one little problem: ugly furniture.
So on we intrepid travelers schlepped to Ikea. Same situation with parking. Same (or even more) wall-to-wall people. We were greeted by a vaguely Swedish-sounding fellow at the door, “Vilkom to Ikea.”. Then we followed the herd upstairs to the showroom. We followed the arrows to the sofas. We gratefully took a paper yardstick and a pencil, which they provided, since the size of the sofas was not necessarily marked (or at least, easy to find). However, we noticed that the yardstick was marked in centimeters on one side, inches on the other. It was 39 inches long. After scratching our heads a few times, we just cut off the last three inches and measured in yards. That was easier.
The population at Ikea was distinctly different from the population at Pottery Barn. Ikea people look to be about twenty or thirty years younger than Pottery Barn people. They mostly had small children in tow. The noise bounced off the stark white wall, stainless steel surfaces and unfinished woods, turning into a loud din. Twice we saw sofas that looked promising, but upon closer inspection realized that, 1) they were “oversold”. Translation: Not available in the foreseeable future; 2) they were “unassembled”. Translation: My husband would spend an afternoon trying to decipher the pictographs that pass for instructions and would probably chuck all that in the end, and might have to resort to calling our cabinet-maker friend down the street.
There was one set of furniture that was set up in a little room. I really liked the look of it and longed to sit on the sofa to try it out. However, there was a young couple sitting on the sofa at that moment, so we walked around for about ten minutes and came back. When we came back, the same young couple was still sitting there (catching their breath?) and I decided that I would politely stare them down so that they would move over and let someone else try out the sofa. But it was not to be. They stared back at me with a stubborn look that said, “We were here first. Bug off!”. I finally decided that it didn’t look that good, and my husband pointed out that it was the same company as the one we had seen in the beginning (oversold/unassembled).
Well, we thought we would go downstairs and browse through the bric-a-brac in the basement of Ikea. “This is the real fun part”, I announced. My husband replied, “You think?”. Down we went and as we wended our way through a lot of pillows, candles, throws, strange looking paper napkins, and devices of mysterious purpose, I realized that I was having a déjà vu that went back to my college days. “Maybe I’ve outgrown Ikea”, I mumbled.
On we went to Macy’s, which, it turns out, has a very nice furniture department. Not as inexpensive as Ikea, but not as pricey as Pottery Barn. And you can order a sofa in the fabric of your choice. But thinking harder about it, we realized that – having a cat – we were not going to be happy if we bought a sofa with permanent upholstery. We needed slipcovered furniture (which is what we have now).
We went back to our house. Both of us had the same thought at the same time: “Maybe our old furniture isn’t so bad after all!”
© 2004, Robin Munson
MALLED
Yesterday, my sister Michele and I rendezvoused at the Beverly Center in order to buy birthday gifts for our other sister, Sherry, and our mom, who turns 77 today. This does not seem like an unreasonable or Herculean task. Rather, I imagined, it would be a pleasant two-hour diversion. A time for Michele and me to do some serious girl talk, sip cappuccinos, and shop. Can you think of a better way to spend a Saturday afternoon? (Okay, granted, this particular piece is skewed a little in the feminine direction).
We synchronized our watches for 1:00, Macy’s handbag department.
The first thing I realized, after years of planning such outings, was that I was going to be late. I had a 10:30 hair appointment, and typically, I would not be out of there before 12:30. (This has more to do with my friendship with my hairdresser than with the requirements of coloring my hair, which she could do in her sleep in half an hour). So I called Michele and we agreed to meet at 1:30 instead of 1:00. In this way I would avoid rushing.
As it happens, my husband, Art, needed the car while I was getting my hair done, so he dropped me off, and when he picked me up, he was hungry. He wanted to go out for lunch, but clearly there was no time for that, so we went home and I made him a sandwich. We were done eating by 12:55, and I had it in my head that if I left by 1:00, I would be able to comfortably make my 1:30 ETA. Then I realized that our cat, Henry, was looking longingly at his empty food bowl, so I stopped and fed him before I left.
I got in my car and turned on the radio. The announcer stated that it was 1:13. One thirteen? I was sure my watch was right. It had to be 1:00. I looked at my Timex. One thirteen. I tore out of the driveway, headed down the street, and drove straight into the parking lot on Barham Boulevard, which was usually more like the Indy 500. I crawled all the way down Highland Avenue, behind buses, behind trucks. Meanwhile, I remembered that my sister had begged me to keep my cell phone on and handy (just in case of a delay).
Now, you have to understand that there is a philosophical difference between my sisters’ view of cell phones and my own. My sisters treat their cell phones more or less as extensions of themselves. The cells appear to be on and functioning 24/7. I have often had long, heartfelt conversations with both my sisters while they were negotiating their way through traffic. To them, this is the logical use of a cell phone, and the logical way to use what would otherwise be wasted time in traffic. My own cell phone use is restricted to emergencies and situations where I just find it much more convenient than walking to the nearest pay phone. I don’t know my cell phone number. I never call it. I don’t keep my cell phone on when I’m not using it. Nobody ever calls me, anyway because they know I won’t pick up. I am rattled on the rare occasions that the cell phone does ring, because it sounds so alien. I am just getting used to the fact that in order to “pick up” on a cell phone you have to press the “Send” button. In order to turn it on you have to press the “End” button. (???). Furthermore, like Spiro Agnew (may he rest in peace), I can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, so my attempts at driving and using the cell phone have been almost nil, and on the rare occasions when I thought, “Okay. How hard can this be?”, I have nearly wrecked the car.
But there I was at Fountain and La Cienega, still a good ten minutes from the Bev Center and maybe fifteen minutes from Macy’s handbags, and still slogging my way through a maze of red lights, jay-walking pedestrians, double-parked Rolls-Royces, and large, cumbersome buses. I had prepared for this by deliberately turning on my cell and putting the ear piece in my ear so that I wouldn’t have to risk the microwaves next to my head or hold the phone while trying to steer. I waited until there was a dead stop – that didn’t take long – and I squinted to look at the miniature numbers and dial Michele’s cell number. Suddenly, I went blank. Was it 2-7-3 or 2-7-8 or 4-7-3 or 4-7-8? I tried all of them. No Michele. I kept getting some guy’s voice mail. If he has caller ID he’s going to wonder who was calling and hanging up time after time. You see, in my panic, I couldn’t remember which numbers I had tried. When I looked up, cars were honking at me, and the traffic had begun to move. I abandoned all cell phone activity and decided to just drive and hope for forgiveness.
I made the parking lot by 1:43. There was a long, long line of traffic wending its way up the spiraling platforms looking for open spots. Thank God for fifteen years of training from Art. I knew what to do. I looked for the sign marked “Valet Parking”. I followed the arrows. I stopped where it said “Stop”. I was practically hysterical by this time, so I wasn’t too concerned about the price. (It clearly stated, “$5.00 for the first three hours, $3.00 an hour after). “Oh, what the hell” I reasoned. I could still taste the bitter gall in my mouth from the last time I had lost my car in the maze of a similar parking structure. It was worth every penny.
I got my ticket for the car, shoved my keys into my purse, and began running. The attendant ran after me, “Miss! Miss! What about the keys?!”. I ran back and gave him the keys and ran into the elevator like a maniac. It was now 1:45. The elevator landed me at the Macy’s Men’s Department. “Perfect”, I thought. “At last something that works!” You would have to have a fairly intimate knowledge of the Beverly Center to know that having arrived at Macy’s Men’s Department does not mean that you have arrived at Macy’s. I quickly determined that and began running down the nearest corridor craning my neck for signs. I finally found Macy’s. I got on the escalator which carried me down to the first floor, and I ran toward the smell of leather. The handbag department. At last!
Michele was there, browsing in the handbags, not seeming to be in the least bit bothered by my tardiness. I was sweating by now, hot flashes coming fast and furious. I meant to apologize, but the first thing out of my mouth was, “I hate cell phones!”. She said, “I love them!”. Then I apologized, and she was gracious and unfazed. I took a deep breath.
“Okay, let’s shop”.
(To be continued.)
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