I had taken a trip to NYC with my daughter, sister and niece. While there, we bought a number of purses, knock-offs, from street vendors. We had also stocked up on shoes (not knock-offs), and I had lost the left shoe of a beloved pair of Liz sandals. We gave our purses new names to reflect the fact that they are imposters: Phooey Vuitton, Fake Spade, Nada Prada, Fucci and Foach.
My daughter fell out of love with her Fucci, mainly because it's a larger sized purse than she would normally carry. She made a deal with me and I bought the Fucci and her Foach wallet for $25.00. Here's a picture of the Fucci:
It's the right size for me, classic styling, and slender silhouette.
It's also a pain in the a$$.
The Fucci is the purse equivalent of the black hole. Stuff goes into it and disappears. It has three main compartments and two of those have an additional zippered pocket. The top of it stays together nicely because it's design was based on steel bear traps. When I open it to put something in, I have to be fast because it will quickly snap shut, trapping my hand inside. Then I have to go through the tedious task of gnawing off my arm to set myself free. And that's not as much fun as you'd think.
Notice the handles. They don't move. Ever. They stick straight up, getting in my face as I'm trying to pry the sides of the trap apart and peer inside to find my wallet, car keys, make-up, whatever. If I bend a handle to the side to get it out of my way, it quickly snaps back, whacking me across the bridge of my nose as I'm searching inside black hole to locate the item I need.
Earlier this week, I walked up to the plaza in the center of town and had dinner; eating outside, reading a book and enjoying a lovely evening on the plaza. When I left home, I had dropped my house key into a side zippered compartment in my purse. It was a single key on a butterfly keychain.
I got back home around 10:00, and went rummaging around in my purse for my key. It was gone. I sat down on the chair on the porch and started a fight to the death with my purse over possession of the key. It was determined not to give it up. I pried open the purse, slapping at those damn handles and item by item, emptied the purse. I had it completely emptied and no key. Risking amputation, I meticulously went through each compartment of the purse and did not find it.
I picked up my cell phone and called the restaurant and asked if they had found a single key on a butterfly keychain. No.
I felt through all of the pockets in my shorts. No.
I battled with the purse looking through each compartment again. No.
I threw the purse down on the floor of the porch in frustration and heard a small muffled metallic tinkle.
I picked it up, clutching the sides, and glared at it. Through gritted teeth I snarled, "Give it up or I'm giving you to Goodwill!"
I stuffed my hand inside again, feeling around and through several layers of black rayon, I could feel it. I just didn't know in which compartment it was. Keeping ahold if it in one hand, I used the other and went through each compartment again until I felt the cold metal with my fingers. A HA! Victory! And I KNOW I had searched there before. Demon purse!!
The other morning on my bus ride in to work, my cell phone rang, but I couldn't find it inside that black hole. I knew it was in there because I could hear it. A similar battle ensued, this time in public. The other passengers were looking at me rather nervously as I fought with my purse, called it names, while my cell phone rang and rang. I finally held the purse over my head, looked up in it, and shook it. The phone fell out with a solid clunk to my nose.
I wouldn't be surprised if that lost sandal is in there somewhere. And Jimmy Hoffa. And the Lost Tribe of Israel.
You ask why I still use it. Look again at the picture.
It's a great looking purse.