Man vs purse. Purse wins.

October 13, 2008

I am thisclose to escaping. I can see the light and I welcome it. OK, it’s actually several lights. In truth, it’s probably billions of lights, seeing as how we’re talking about the Las Vegas Strip at night.

But that’s the not the point. The point is that I am within 10 feet of exiting the Miracle Mile at the Planet Hollywood Hotel when I hear these fateful words of apocalyptic doom: “Oh look, PURSES!.”

A kiosk. A lousy, bloody kiosk. Not even a real store. The final kiosk in a long line of kiosks designed to lure the unwary consumer into parting with whatever leftover currency not already been fed into the slavering maws of ravenous slot machines.

I gaze longingly at the light ahead of me. So close I can smell the electricity. The margaritas. The exhaust. And then I close my eyes. Swallow hard. And turn.

I step away from the light.

I won’t bore you with details about the purses. They belong in that category of Women Things that those of us who reside on Planet Man have no desire to know about, no need to understand or comprehend. Gooey, yucky things like douches and tampons and breast pumps and yeast infections. Cooking. Vacuuming. Raising children. Figure skating. American Idol.

Mysteries of the universe — every single one of them.

A company called Miche flogs the purses and — here is that wonderful POINT OF DIFFERENCE ad men sell their own mothers to find — it’s actually several purses in one. That’s right — take a plain black shell, sew magnets inside, sew corresponding magnets inside what I can only describe as skins (each with its own distinctive colour and texture), put skin over shell until abovementioned magnets bond and — o the unbelievable joy of it all! — you have a “NEW” purse. Or at least a “different” purse.

Innovative as hell, apparently, this whole coverup trick. Although I can see no purpose on Planet Man for such an invention. Unless . . . Unless it’s in a Mission: Impossible kind of way. You know — if you could attach someone else’s sleek skin over your tired, bald, fat shell and become a “NEW” person.

I’d pick Brad Pitt. “Let’s play the Adoption Game, Angelina. I’ll be the naughty orphan . . . ”

While Viking Woman assures me this is ALL she wants to take home from Las Vegas (in the heat of purse passion she has somehow forgotten the three pairs of shoes purchased at the outlet mall), I glance over at Brother Number 2 for some Planet Man empathy.

He’s dialing his cellphone.

“Who you calling?”

“My wife.”


“I’m going to buy her one of these purses.”

“But you have no idea which of these ‘skins’ she’d like. Colour. Texture. Short strap. Long strap.”

“That’s why I’m phoning her.”

“But why would you — an inhabitant of Planet Man — buy a purse for a woman?”

“Because I’d like to have sex again before I die.”

“Good point.”

I turn to Viking Woman. “Take your time, honey. I’ll be over here applying CPR to my credit card.”

In summation, this is what I learned today: new purse + happy wife = sex.

Apparently there is room on Planet Man for Women Things after all.

Who knew?


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