Rather like what they did to Star Wars, this post is the prequel to Women and Shoes: A Love Story and Women and Chocolate: A Huge fucking Love Story.
You see I treated myself to a new handbag a few weeks ago. Obviously, I had to hide it in the concealment zone for ten days so that the old man wouldn’t realize that I’d spent vast amounts of our hard-earned cash on something so superfluous, but I finally got to flaunt it yesterday.
He hasn’t noticed.
Unlike a lot of women I know, I don’t have a wardrobe of handbags to accessorize with different outfits. I wish I did, but a) the old man doesn’t see the necessity of new clothes so I doubt I’d get the latest Burberry past him, and b) I’d waste valuable drinking energy changing over my shit from one handbag to another.
Can anyone seriously be assed to change all of the shit from one handbag to another, EVERY DAY?
Anyway, I stick to a practical black and brown design that goes with everything and will last me a good couple of years, but I do have a particular
weakness fondness for Guess handbags because I like me a bit of tasteful bling. This is this year’s new model:
So, when I did the two yearly changeover from old to new model this week, even I was slightly impressed appalled by just how much crap I managed to accumulate in one tiny vessel.
My handbag is either a handbag version of Dr Who’s Tardis or Hermione Granger’s beaded handbag with the undetectable extension charm on it.
Here’s what I found:
- Five lipsticks, all exactly the same shade, although I’m assuming they must have looked different shades in the shop.
- Twenty-five tampons, which, (and this could be related to Harry Potter again), breed in my handbag until the day I ACTUALLY FUCKING NEED ONE, and they then become invisible. Tampons are always the first objects to fall from my handbag when I drop it, particularly during client meetings.
- Sixteen pens, which, like their cousin the tampon, are never there when I need them either but then breed overnight.
- The business cards of every real estate agent in Sydney, some hot some not.
- Petrol receipts for all those bank reconciliations that I promised the old man I would do two years ago, but never quite got around to.
- 2 lip balms from Thredbo 2012
- Four pairs of reading glasses
- Massive, mother-sized sanitary towels that look as though they should be for incontinence and not menstruation. Just in case I get stuck somewhere like the Arctic, overnight, with my period on its heaviest day. As you do.
- Neurofen for headaches, Neurofen for hangovers, Neurofen for periods, Neurofen for backache and Neurofen for Teenagers.
- 3 dog poo bags in case I get caught short. These are also handy when you pick up drunken teenagers and their hanger-on friends from parties, who assure you that they can hold onto their alcohol until the car starts moving.
- Notebook – for that moment in the craft of writing when inspiration will assault my senses and send me that life-changing, millionaire-making idea that I have to write down immediately in case I forget it. The notebook is still blank.
What crap do you pack into your handbag?