It’s Christmas and I’m heading to the airport terminal at Portland International on the little parking lot shuttle.  A girl across from me has what might quite possibly be the most perfect purse.  I’m sitting there adoring it from across the shuttle isle when I realize that there is no way she hasn’t noticed me staring at it.  Not wanting to seem rude, odd or both I tell her how cute I think her purse is.  She laughs and tells me that she was actually wanting to ask me where I got my jacket because she was admiring it. After chatting for the rest of the 10 minute drive to the terminal and making one of those passing friendships that are so characteristic of travel, I determined that I had to get myself that Elliot Lucca bag…as long as it was in the $100 range.  I was feeling frivolous.  At this point you are thinking one of two things, either you think -what kind of idiot would spend $100 on a purse or you are thinking what kind of idiot thinks she can get an Elliot Lucca bag for $100.  What can I say? I was young; I was naïve; I was a designer bag virgin.  Well needless to say, after the 45 minute flight to Spokane, followed by an hour and 45 minute drive to Coulee, I discovered that the most perfect purse on the planet came at a price a little higher than the $100 limit I’d set.  In fact, the cost of purse perfection was $228.  I hemmed and hawed and tried to justify, but I was going through one of those, “I need to be financially responsible” phases and so I didn’t buy the purse. 

Months passed, but my love for the purse never died.  My belief in its perfection stayed firm, and so this summer due to some heartbreak issues, I was ready to drown my sorrows by succumbing to my love for that piece of paten leather perfection.  Yes, I was ready to pop my designer bag cherry.  The only problem was, as is often the case with things that are too good to be true, I hadn’t been the only one to notice the perfection and the bag was no longer available.  Elliot Lucca had already replaced it with a new version: the Luxe II Satchel, but it was really just a poor man’s version of the original Luxe Stachel…the new design had a braided handle, I mean, come on! 

And so began my quest to find a replacement purse.  At first, it was to no avail.  Of course, part of the problem could have been that my dad was along on the shopping trip, and I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time enjoying the spiritual experience that is shopping for a hand bag, with my dad hovering a few feet away.  Ok, sure, he’s right, it is ridiculous to spend money on yet another purse, and yes it could be considered a sin to spend a couple hundred bucks on something that you could basically make for about $5 yourself, but those arguments completely ignore the very real aesthetic benefits of the well made designer purse.  Finally, I end up at Nordstrom and there is a purse that, though not perfection, is the only purse that I have felt any affection for since I realized I’d lost the Elliot Lucca bag.  It’s very similar, and though the slight differences cause it to lack the perfection of the Elliot Lucca, it’s pretty darn cute.  I have to admit that the not quite matte, not quite paten leather might make it a better long term investment (paten leather is a trend that can go out so quickly) and I realize I will be ok with settling for this unexpected substitution.  Surprisingly my heart has warmed to the idea of loving this HOBO purse; I will always wish I’d just bought the Elliot Lucca purse while I could still have it, but I think I’m going to be very happy with this HOBO purse.  And so, with that I handed over my credit card, and though I totally couldn’t afford it, I bought my first designer bag.  Something I’d sworn I would never do.

Now depending on how well you know me, you will appreciate the very layered metaphor that is in this story.   Driving back to Coulee from Spokane today, I noticed how metaphoric this story was and thought, why not practice my writing and post a blog.  But to answer the question, I posed in the title of this blog…I have to admit, though this story is pretty damn metaphoric, it is about a bag.  And though I’m not a fool who thinks she’ll find a “perfect” man, I have to believe I’ll find one who is perfect for me and so…I’m going to marry an Elliot Lucca not a HOBO!

originally posted July 17, 2007

The break-up kiss – New Year’s Day and we’d just broken up (yeah, happy 2008 to me).  As he was leaving my condo, he turned back and kissed me; you know one last time.  It was the most bittersweet kiss of my life.

The perfect kiss- Valentine’s Day…it was the most perfect first kiss of my life.  I don’t know what else to say; it was perfect!  The ambiance was all that you could want – dinner, moonlight, and a holiday dedicated to lovers.  Plus it was just a really great kiss.

The worst kiss ever – following an awkward 4^th date, the most awful kiss of my life (don’t worry, I’ll get more into that later!)

Strangely they were all also “only” kisses.  Well sort of.  Mr. “Break-up Kiss” and I had dated for three months, so that was obviously not our only kiss.  I mean, hello, contrary to popular belief I’m not a prude!  I like the kissing and let me tell you… that boy could kiss.  Apparently we weren’t meant to kiss forever, but if you picked a mate solely on physical compatibility, I would be married to him…truthfully, I can think of worse fates.  The point is this though: that was our only kiss in 2008.  Maybe 2008 is just a bad year of kissing for me.  Maybe I should just not kiss again until 2009…funny me, as if I’ll have the opportunity to kiss anymore before 2009 anyway!  Silly, silly me. 

Ok, enough “woe is me,” here’s the funny story…

So a few of you have heard the “bad kiss story” and a couple of you have suggested turning it into a blog…so I hope it’s as entertaining in writing as it apparently is in person.  And yes, I’m so glad my kissing trauma can bring you all so much joy!

Around the beginning of June, I went on several dates with a guy with whom my friend had set me up.  Seemed nice; had a couple really great dates, but then they just seemed…not as great.  I couldn’t put my finger on it at first, but I soon realized that it was a growing awkwardness due to the fact that we were simply running out of things to talk about.  It was the mirror opposite of a good dating experience – when you become more comfortable with the person because you are learning (and liking) more and more about each other.  Nevertheless, this growing awkwardness did not, for some reason that still escapes me, stop him from kissing me.  Now I know a lady doesn’t kiss and tell, but I’m still not entirely sure that I actually did any kissing that night.  I know what a good kiss is…this was not it!  It was more that my mouth was accosted.  I had heard of such things occurring, but I thought they were urban legends!  Or at the very least such things didn’t occur past the age of 14!  Apparently, I was wrong.  I guess my kissing experiences had been blessed up to that point.  For lack of a better way of describing it, I’ll stick with the analogy that seemed the most apt at the time: it was as if he was employing shock and awe on my mouth – and oh I WAS shocked but I was certainly NOT awed!  And no, I know what you are thinking.  It was not that it was too much too soon…it was just that you don’t ever kiss a person that way…not ever!  It was just weird; there is no other way around it.  You could be married for 50 years and that kiss would still not be appropriate…in fact, it would probably be even less appropriate – if that is even possible!  Ok, I’ll be completely honest – I have one word…reptilian.  And guys, just so you know, you NEVER want a girl to be able to describe a kiss are reptilian.  Never!  Unless, it was part of some…no, actually, I can’t think of a single “unless.” Just avoid the adjective completely.

 Now the horror of this oddly detached yet inappropriately robust kiss is of course amplified by the fact that it was preceded by that perfect first kiss and to be honest, a life-time of very high quality (though too few) kisses.  So in June it was like I had been living on filet mignon, then starved for several months and was thrown a Burger King burger (I hate them…charbroiled? Try burnt!).  You’d think that after starving you would just be happy for food, but no – charbroiled is still really just a misnomer for burnt and you just end up remembering, and longing, for the deliciousness of the fillet mignon.

Of course things could be worse.  Did you know that 90% of cultures in the world kiss?  Can you imagine being in that other 10%?  Now THAT would be worse!

Well in the end, the more exotic version was even less to my liking than the classic version.  The gingerbread waffles weren’t that fantastic either.  In fact, I ended up stealing bits of Tony’s omelet while he was in the bathroom – thanks buddy!  The fact is, I need to just admit that I’m an eggs and bacon and hash browns kind of girl and not a Tiramisu French Toast girl.  Granted, I’m girly and all…for goodness’ sake I took ballet for half my life, and was admittedly obsessed.  And sure, I like to put on a cute dress if the occasion permits; ok I like to put on a cute dress if the occasion even slightly permits.  I’m quite certain my brother could give a myriad of other examples showing my excessive girlyness; however, I’m really just not Tiramisu French toast! Apparently there is a limit to even my girlyness.  And I think I need to learn that about myself.  I mean, I love John Wayne movies; and unlike my mother, The Quiet Man is not my favorite.  (If you are wondering it would be The Searchers, with El Dorado and Fort Apache tying for second.)  And, I get seriously perturbed at the Beaver’s games on Thirsty Thursdays, when all the girls show up in their short little skirts – I mean come on…there’s no skirt wearing in baseball!  And, I like target shooting, heck, I’d probably like hunting if it wasn’t really just hiking with a lot of extra weight (why? Why not just hike and buy some venison on the way home? *smiles*)  I’m girly, but I’m not Tiramisu French Toast girly.

During my recent trip to New Orleans for Erin’s wedding, we had breakfast at a Cracker Barrel and oh my goodness!  Bacon and eggs, hash browns, biscuits and gravy and grits (ok, I could have done without the grits – what is with southerners and their love affair with that tasteless mush??), the breakfast was fabulous!  Now, I’m more than happy to try fancy lunches and dinners; heck, I’ve even been known to force down shellfish with a smile just to impress a cute guy (I wore a pretty cute dress that night too!), but breakfast – you just don’t mess with breakfast and you certainly don’t make it girly.  It’s like baseball, and like baseball, breakfast is a sacred thing, which, if you are a good American, you’ll understand

 French Toast really just isn’t a good idea.  It sounds good but in reality and in practice it isn’t.  I’s a lot like biodiseal.  The problem with biodiseal is that you rape the environment and expend more gasoline raping the environment than you actually replace,  So yeah it sounds goo, but in  reality it’s just not a good idea.  Sure I want to decrease the dependency on foreign oil as much as the next girl, but we have to be smart about it.