In the Bag

You want to know a way to get on my bad side?

Tell me my kate spade handbag is an overpriced sack. Or, point out that a plastic bag from Safeway will hold just as much. Or, tell me how I could have gotten an adorable satchel in adorable pleather at Kohl’s for an adorable $14.99—unless, of course, I have a coupon.

Let’s back up. Some time ago, I grabbed my handbag (see photo) as I prepared to hoist myself out of the car and onto the curb while Chris slowed down a smidge to drop me off at work. I dug around for my keys so I could actually enter the building. I pulled them out, and they dripped with milk.

After a little more digging, I found the culprit: Charlotte’s sippy cup, milk not entirely finished, lid not attached correctly, upside down. I hadn’t realized my spawn had dumped her cup in my handbag.

As I got into my office, I emptied the bag and found large puddles of milk at the bottom. I salvaged my wallet and keys. My lunch was already protected by a plastic grocery bag, as I had always—ironically, it appears—feared my lunch leaking into my handbag. I also lost about 30 business cards, but who gives a hoot about those? I get about 3,000 at a time. No biggie.

BUT MY BAG!

Eventually, I regained perspective. I could have it dry cleaned. Frankly, after being used every single day since I got it, the poor thing was due for a deep cleaning.

So, that evening, I dropped it off at the drycleaners in town. “How long will it take?” I asked.

“Three weeks,” the very nice business-owner said.

“Three weeks?!”

She nodded apologetically.

I sighed. Fine.

And so I parted—temporarily—with it.

Now, technically, I GET that it’s just a handbag. But you see, it’s a very, very special handbag.

When I was about 5 or 6 weeks pregnant—I mean, the pee stick had barely turned pink—I was in L.A. for a college reunion with my Oxy girls. While there, I met up with my aunt (who is like my second mom) in Old Town Pasadena, at one of my very favorite restaurants, a Greek place called Café Santorini. I told her I was pregnant. Though I shall keep the actual conversation between Her and Me, she was glad.

As we left, my aunt said, “You know, a kate spade opened up on Colorado Boulevard.”

Uh-oh. “Really?”

“Really. Wanna peruse?”

“Well, duh.”

We entered, and straight ahead of me sat a pretty handbag with a cute striped bow, big enough to hold page proofs and other work-related things with sassy yet classic style.

“You like?” my aunt asked. I thought she was just making conversation.

“Oh yes,” I said. “It’s freaking adorable.”

She plucked the bag from its shelf and plopped it onto the counter by the cashier with a bit of theatrical flair. Because, well, she’s my aunt. And theatrical is how she rolls.

“Happy Getting Pregnant With Charlotte,” she declared, whipping out her credit card. She had already predicted that I would have a girl. And that I would stick with my favorite girl name—Charlotte. And that the pregnancy would proceed just fine.

Now, did I mention that the only other people who knew the state of my uterus at this point included Chris, a friend at work, and my Oxy girls (who would have noticed a tequila-free margarita right quick)? Not even our parents knew. My mom would arrive in DC a week later, and I wanted to see her reaction LIVE, and logical Chris wanted reassurance that Embryo Charlotte was viable (i.e., good heartbeat, implanted at a good spot, both of which are determined at the first ultrasound, also a week later) before telling his parents.

My point? At the Pasadena kate spade, Embryo Charlotte’s existence was very secretive and rather surreal. And very, very new.

But it was fun to celebrate the beginning of my girl’s life, even if she was smaller than a kidney bean.

SO. You can imagine my glee when I came home from work and found a message from the drycleaners that my handbag—my kate-spade-auntie-cheryl-charlotte-hofmann handbag—was in. I zipped over and picked it up.

And oh, happy sigh. I highly recommend having your handbags meticulously cleaned. It’s back! And with nary a sign of spilled milk from Embryo-Turned-Big-Girl Charlotte.