A Cautionary Tale (Long Post Warning)

First, I must begin with the purse.

Many many years ago--possibly 1987 or so--I ran across the perfect club-going purse at Banana Republic. Tiny, with a buckle on the front and a long strap to wear across one's body. Ideal for clubs where you didn't want to leave your purse just sitting somewhere when "How Soon is Now" came on and you wanted to dance. Exactly the right size to hold driver's license, some money, your keys and a pack of smokes. I bought two, one in black and one in tan. Anyone who knows me from back in the day will probably remember those purses.

And, because I never throw away accessories, I held onto them after my clubbing days were long behind me. Because I thought, someday these might come in handy again.

Flash forward to 2009. The hubster and kiddos are out of town and I am on mine ownself and am taking in SXSW for the first time in years. Last night, a late night show at Pangaea (sp?) to see Gomez and the Decemberists. (Fantastic, BTW.) And, tonight, a meeting with some gal pals at the Pop Culture Press party at Dog and Duck to enjoy some good beer (Magic Hat, not readily available in Austin, a friend tells me, but very tasty) and live music, including a band I had completely forgotten, That Petrol Emotion (successor band to The Undertones, y'all!).

So I dig out my little black purse. Still perfect, now fits my drivers license, cell phone, passkey to get into my office garage, money, check card, gadget that unlocks my car, business cards, a pack of smokes, and a few other necessary odds and ends. And I'm delighted to be wearing it again, and am even thinking about how I can call it "vintage" I walk from my office to Dog and Duck after work today.

Sooo, after the 10 block walk to Dog and Duck, my tiny bladder is demanding immediate relief so I avail myself of the portapotties set up outside the show. (Inside bathroom is closed, yes, I checked).

And because the purse hangs down low, I remove it and set it on the tiny ledge in the portapotty and turn around to, well, do my business.

And that's when it happens...

I stepped on the ping-pong ball.

No wait, that's Auntie Mame, sorry.

I hear, ker thunk, SPLASH.

Did you just say, "oh NO?"

And I say, oh yes.

My purse FELL IN THE PORTAPOTTY. Yes, in there with that blue liquid with all the filth and the toilet paper and the cigarette butts and God knows what else.

And in my purse was all my money, the passkey to get in the garage where my car was parked, my drivers license, the gadget that unlocks my car, my check card, my cell phone, and my cigarettes.

Well, what would YOU do?

First I yelled, "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH FUCK!"

And, then, dear readers, I fished my purse out. Yes, with my hands.

I had no choice.

(Those of you who are dry-heaving by now should probably just not read the rest of this.)

So, in the grand scheme of things, the portpotty was not as, um, befouled as some that I have been in. And my purse, thank GOD, um, floated on top.

So God help me, I reached in, grabbed it, and threw it to one side. Which was a bit, um, splashy.

And then I inspected the damage.

Actual purse itself, dry.

The strap?

DRENCHED. Disgusting.

I used up all of the remaining toilet paper to dry off the strap. And then I gingerly carried my purse out of the portpotty from hell and asked the people selling beer if they had any hand santizer.

So when my friend Jaye found me I was busily scrubbing the strap down and trying to clean off my hands like I was Lady Macbeth.

I deposited the befouled purse on a picnic table in the direct sunlight for the duration. Kept an eye on it, but really? If you wanted to steal it? I say, have at it! Enjoy the syphillis you catch from it!

So, now I'm home and the purse is empty and lying on the floor of the bathroom. Some of you are saying, just throw the damn thing away. But I've had so many adventures wearing it! Including, now, dropping it in a portapotty. And it's vintage! Maybe it could be disinfected and saved somehow? Because I might need it again?

As for me, I'm needing a shower.