$50 safety pin
I would have been a perfect contestant for “Let’s Make A Deal”. Not because I like to trade doors for boxes. And not because I want to dress like a housewife in pink sponge curlers (the most common costume, as I recall).
No—I have a special talent that would have wiped the smug smirk from Monty Hall’s face and forced him to peel “Twenty-Forty-Sixty-Eighty…ONE HUNDRED!” dollars from his wad of bills if I were chosen to play one of the audience quick-money purse searches.
After years of practice and lots of kids, I am the proud owner of the world’s junkiest purse. It wasn’t something I planned or had to work hard to accomplish. All I had to do was carry my purse around. It filled itself up.
In my earlier days, I could take off for town with a cute little wallet. Checkbook, driver’s license. Maybe a couple dollars shoved in my back pocket. Off I flew, light as a billfold and capable of navigating through my day with calm security.
But that didn’t last long. Children burst from my body, and my little wallet couldn’t hold the pacifiers, toys, baby wipes, and photos that were included in the deal. I bought my first “real” purse, and was amazed at how much stuff I could fit inside.
Now I had room to bring along lots of extra things. Maybe I wouldn’t need ‘em, but I had ‘em if I did. There were church things (pencils, paper, gum, Lifesavers, Kleenex). Important papers (immunization charts, emergency numbers). Items to protect baby (Band-Aids, Bactine, tweezers).
Before I knew it, I had an entire daycare’s supply of goodies in my purse. They fell to the bottom, along with the odd change that jangled there. The weight of my purse increased in direct proportion to my child’s weight; I carried one on each shoulder and was perfectly balanced.
The kids grew. School needed Room Mothers with big purses to bring things for parties. I could do that. My purse was huge by then, the size of an American Tourister Carry-on.
There were all kinds of pockets and sections I could fill with cotton balls and plastic spoons for relay races. Balloons and crepe paper for decorating. And still have space for the camera to record every priceless second.
I carried food in collapsible cups on car trips. Washrags in sandwich bags for carsickness, and little bottles of Airwick for car freshening afterwards. I was ready for any emergency and—like a stage magician—there was nothing I couldn’t produce from my bottomless purse.
My fingertips became as sensitive as a safecracker’s. In the dead of night, I could plunge my hand into zippered pockets and find anything I needed. Like the Metal Claw game at the carnival, I hovered. Grabbed. And whisked the item into my lap without missing a beat.
“Let’s Make a Deal” is back on, without the magic of Monty to make it the frenetic fun it was. But if I ever go to Hollywood, I’m ready.
Need a fuzzy butterscotch Lifesaver? I’ve got one! What’ll ya give me for a permanently locked combination lock that’s too good to throw away and is going to open as soon as somebody remembers the right numbers?
I have an AA battery that is ALMOST dead. A coupon for 25 cents off Cheez-it crackers (maybe expired by now). And I’m pretty sure I’m carrying a couple ketchup packets and a pile of leaking salt packets.
Watch for me. I’ll be the wild woman wearing an old bathrobe and clawing at Wayne Brady’s stylish sports jacket, yelling, “GIMMEE FIFTY DOLLARS! I HAVE A SAFETY PIN/SPOON/COMPASS/UNPAID BILL/HALF-EATEN CANDY BAR…RIGHT HERE IN MY PURSE!!”
Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com
This article originally appeared on The McDonough County Voice: Columnist's junk-filled purse would've helped in Let's Make a Deal
