hobo bag by scary_mary

My obsession with purses, handbag, tote bags, or whatever else you want to call the device in which you like to carry around your stuff is ridiculous. And this is known to retailers. As such, all day long I have been receiving coupons and advertisements by email and a lot of them include a photo of the hobo bag.

Click the ad, and there is always at least one description for hobo bag. Ack.

I get hung up on stupid things like names, and descriptions. When Billy Crystal said, “Sheldon? No, no. You did not have great sex with Sheldon.
…No, you didn’t. A Sheldon can do your income taxes. If you need a root canal, Sheldon’s your man, but humpin’ and pumpin’ is not Sheldon’s strong suit. It’s the name. ‘Do it to me, Sheldon.’ ‘You’re an animal, Sheldon.’ ‘Ride me, big Sheldon.’ It doesn’t work.”

I completely understood.

Meg Ryan & Billy Crystal by r9M

I declined to date an absolutely gorgeous and intelligent man once, because of his unfortunate name. Can you imagine, “Do me baby, Duncan?”

Not, gonna happen. That poor guy. I hope he changed his name. Or moved to England. And met some nice non-ridiculous women. As in, not like me and my friends. (In our defense, we were all 21. But you can see that I have not improved in this area.)

This is the same with hobo bag. I cannot carry it around knowing it is named after a vagrant. That and whenever I tell myself I am ridiculous and toss my keys, wallet and phone in one at a store to test my ridiculousness, they all fall to the bottom and disappear. It’s a black hole with a really bad name.

But I keep opening every email to look at the bags. Not all of them are hobo name or hobo shape – which seems to be somewhat subjective. And it has occurred to me that giraffe print is really in for handbags. And I own giraffe print fabric, and a bunch of handbag patterns (not hobo). Yeah me.

Except, of course, that I do not have any need whatsoever for another handbag. I would like a red one. And giraffe is fun. But I do not need one. I spent an hour Thanksgiving day looking for a small makeup clutch, that turned out not to be in the bin full of handbags at all. A clear sign that I should be giving them away, not making more.

Girl Playing by D Sharon Pruitt

I am trying to think positive, and make jokes.  My grandmother would want me to.  Yesterday, when the microwave went berzerk, I told DH, “It’s Grandma.  She wants us to bring her microwave home from her apartment.”

He gasped and said, are you making jokes about your grandmothers death?  Too soon!

This said about a woman who called me regularly to tell me she moved up the waiting list for an apartment because somebody died, until she moved in.  Then she told me who died, and who else had moved up the list, and who she was rooting for on the list for when she would eventually die.  She hoped a nice, clean, catless woman would next occupy the apartment – not a man, a drunk, or a pet owner.  Don’t ask me.  Those were her criteria.

I am talking to one of my long lost French cousins.  We haven’t spoken since her dad died who knows how long ago.  It wasn’t on purpose.  We just lost touch.

I have written to my grandmothers SIL, niece and nephew, and favorite cousin about three dozen times each and have yet to post a letter.  I suck.

On the bright side, one more Frog found, a dozen to go.

I feel less ill today.  I managed to drag myself out of bed without sobbing.  I made a toile tote bag to occupy my mind.

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