Louis Who?

I do not understand designer purses. Truth be told, I don't understand designer anything, but purses seem particularly ridiculous. It's a bag. Its basic function could be performed by a grocery sack.

I never want to spend more than $10 on a purse, so I'm constantly disappointed. I only own one at a time - I cannot imagine a scenario that would induce me to switch my stuff from bag to bag. Somewhere, I own one of those "evening bags" that's just big enough for my keys, ID and Chapstick, but I don't know where it is and can't remember the last time I used it.

Recently, I carried a white canvas purse with blue Mickey and Minnie Mouse print and blue sequins on the handles. I got it on clearance for about $4 at the Disney Store, and I loved it. I never thought it was odd, but I guess other people did. One woman said to me, "I just knew you could pull off carrying something like that!" I still don't know if she was being sarcastic or not. I wasn't about to ask.

At my Rotary club one night, I was in charge of an evening of Dr. Seuss, with elementary school students reading to us. I'd left my stuff to mark my place, as usual, but needed to move to another table so I could make room for a guest to sit by one of our readers. As I bundled up my stuff, a tablemate asked, "Do you have permission to move that?"

"It's my stuff," I replied. My friend looked confused and said, "Oh. I thought it belonged to one of the kids." Um, nope - just mid forties me. He was puzzled. I was puzzled.

I finally replaced it (with a boring black purse) when the sequins started to fall off the handles. It's difficult enough trying to figure out the intricacies of human interaction without having to worry about whether or not my bag is business-suitable. I generally wouldn't worry, or even necessarily notice, if my attorney was in sweats, because his brain, ability, education and talent are still the same, but I keep hearing in my head things like the criticism leveled at the photographer for a wedding I attended - "I should have known the photos would be terrible when he showed up in those shoes."

I do not understand the concept of acessories (or clothing) as a status symbol. I honestly do not understand status symbols, period. I can grasp that in some circles such judgements are held to be deeply important, but I keep finding myself thinking, "Really? You honestly think there is some real kind of value or information attached to this?" You'd have an easier time convincing me of the accuracy of reading tea leaves.

My middle daughter's first job was at a fabric store. She's still better with a sewing machine than I am. She made most of the gifts she gave that year, and she made herself several pajama pants and blankets.

She had leftover flannel, blue with little penguins on it, from one of her pairs of pajamas. She decided to make herself a purse, an over the shoulder bag that was roomier than the purse she'd been carrying. I thought it was darling. She was happy. I didn't think much more about it. Then - cue the dramatic music - we went to southern California.

My daughter carried the purse through the amusement parks we visited. It was large enough to hold water bottles or souvenirs, which is nice. It didn't occur to me that it was different in any way from anyone else's purse, except that I think it's cool when people make things themselves. Then we rode a public shuttle.

One young, blonde, tanned female Californian sat near my daughter, glanced down at her purse, and visibly recoiled. She scooted as far away as she could and continued to stare at it, as though it was a rattlesnake and might strike. When we stood up to leave the shuttle, she clung to her boyfriend/husband and kept glancing back at the purse, obviously fearing that simply standing near it would somehow infect her. I am not trying to be colorful here - if anything, this is downplaying her obvious horror. As we hit the sidewalk, she shoved her significant other ahead and kept glancing back at the bag, as if she feared that it would follow her, bite her, and turn her into one of its kind forever.

This stands out all the more for me because I had an unusual experience on the same trip that left me thinking that Angelenos were remarkably blase'.

I had a severe allergic reaction to something. About eight o'clock at night, I felt something that could have been sand blowing into my eye. I went to the restroom and rinsed it out, but it didn't help. I rinsed it again, I dabbed it with a wet washcloth, but it still felt irritated. By bedtime, it was running like a faucet. I kept having to turn my pillow over all night long, in an effort to avoid the puddle under my face. By morning, my eye was swollen shut, and half of my face was huge and puffy, swollen beyond recognition. My pillow was soaked. When I pried my eye open, it was blood red. When closed, it looked like my eyeball had been replaced by a baseball or a citrus fruit. It was time to see a doctor.

This was, unfortunately, not the first (or last) time I'd need a doctor while on vacation. I knew how to find urgent care. The hotel informed me that the nearest facility that would accept walk-in tourists was just down the street at the hospital ER. I left my family swimming in the pool and walked down to the hospital.

I walked in the front door and the perky man behind the desk looked up and smiled. "Are you here to visit someone?" he asked.

I stared at him, trying to grasp this. Half my face was red and hugely swollen - I was walking around looking like a weepy John Merrick, mopping at the fluid leaking from my closed eye socket. For all he knew, I could be hugely contagious. I mean, I understand that you don't want health care professionals to be reactionary and panicky, but really, did it look like it was a good idea to let me loose on whatever ward to which I requested directions?

I decided to go with understated and factual. "No. I am in need of medical care."

"OK!" Mr. Perky said. "What seems to be the problem?"

I was dying to say, "I think my leg is broken." What does it LOOK like my problem is?

"My eye is swollen shut and weepy. The whole right side of my face is swollen."

"OK, you want the ER. It's around the corner to the left." Still smiling.

So, off to the ER I went. I was again asked, "So what brings you here today?" Could it be third degree burns, or a gash that needed stitching? Maybe it's rabies. I mean, GEEZ.

When I got in to see the doctor, I was prepared for the level of disconnect going on. After I explained, AGAIN, the doctor asked for more details and pried my eye open. "Do you think an insect might have stung you?"

"ON MY EYEBALL?"

"Yes."

Of course. "Wouldn't I have noticed?"

"Not necessarily."

He diagnosed it as an acute allergic reaction, cause unknown, and wrote me a prescription, delivered with directions to a pharmacy. So I wandered into Target, feeling ridiculous and conspicuous. Not a single person batted an eye. Not one - old, young, chic, tattered - NO ONE. I understand that people in huge urban areas have seen stuff that would make my hair curl, but I would have thought that the appearance of illness that could be contagious would cause some wariness. Maybe looking supremely unattractive in the land of starlets and rampant cosmetic surgery would raise eyebrows. Nope. I could have been rash covered and in a thong and no one would have given me a second glance.

But an unfashionable purse - now THAT was cause for alarm.

File this under Exhibit 3,498: Why I Could Never Happily Live in the Los Angeles Area.