Although I am a type-A, obsessive-compulsive neat freak, you wouldn’t know it by peering into my purse. To call it a sty-on-straps would be an insult to pigs everywhere. Remember that old game show where they’d give a gazillion dollars to the woman who could procure, say, a horseshoe or a convection oven from the bowels of her bag? I would have owned that show.

Band-aids? Check. Tennis ball? Got one. (Hey, it’s a good thing to have when you’re stuck in traffic; just slip it between your back and the seat and voila! Instant massage.) Hello Kitty stickers, two dozen pens, nail clippers, note pad, pair of crusty AA batteries, water bottle, wet wipes, dental floss, gum and tic-tacs (well they each have a place), several dozen gently-used tissues, corkscrew, granola bar, Tylenol, tape measure, approximately eleven dollars in pesos (from my trip to Mexico two years ago), Superglue, sewing kit and thirty-seven Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons? All present and accounted for.  (Because you do know those BBB coupons never really expire, right? They’ll take ten-year old coupons, honest to God. You just have to remember to use them, which I can never seem to do but you’re probably better at that kind of stuff than I am.) I once unearthed from the deepest depths of my purse a zip-loc bag filled with—and I am not making this up—blue juice. It was way down at the bottom, and the appalling smell of the thing, even sealed, still haunts me to this day. I wracked my brain for days and finally realized what it was. Or had been, I should say. Carrots. A bag of baby carrots. You’d think that little science-experiment-gone-awry would have convinced me to change my hellacious handbag ways, but sadly, you’d be wrong.

Every once in a while, like when I can’t cram a single abandoned Polly Pocket doll in there, I dump the whole mess out on my bed. (Thankfully I have a California King, because the contents wouldn’t fit on my dining room table, even if I put in both leaves.) I generally stare at the pile for three or four hours then remove the obvious trash (empty Splenda packets, months-old grocery lists, dry cleaning receipts… but not the Bed Bath & Beyond coupons! I really am going to use those one of these days.) The rest of the stuff gets tossed right back in, because what if someone in my vicinity has a q-tip emergency and I can’t assist because just yesterday I threw them away? I’d never be able to live with myself.  Trust me, I’m the gal you want to be sitting next to when your bra strap pops, because I have dozens—possibly hundreds—of safety pins within convenient arm’s reach at all times. You just need to be patient while I dig through all the other crap to find them.

On the bright side, my right arm is incredibly buff from carrying around a lovely, leather 24-pound weight everywhere I go.

This woman is blaming me—me!—for her pregnancy. Funny but true.

Remember that old Far Side cartoon, the one with the guy talking to his dog? Under the first picture is the caption WHAT YOU SAY TO YOUR DOG, and the copy-bubble coming out of the guy’s mouth reads something like this (and I am totally paraphrasing here so please don’t send me a nasty note with the actual, verbatim copy, even if you happen to be Gary Larson; it’s not that important): “Okay buddy, who’s hungry? You hungry, boy? You want to eat? I got your delicious food right here. That’s right! I’m just going to get you a bowl and serve it right up, and maybe after you eat we’ll go for a nice walk…” Under the next picture, which is identical to the first there’s the caption WHAT YOUR DOG HEARS; that copy-bubble has this inside it: “Blah, blah, blah, blah, FOOD, blah, blah, blah, blah, WALK…” Now I’m not calling my husband a dog exactly, but seriously, we seem to have a hell of a time exchanging even the most basic information on a daily basis. I’ll tell him I’m going somewhere and thirty minutes later he’s frantically calling my cell phone, demanding where I am. (Hello? I just told you, dear.) He’ll swears he told me about his 7 a.m. meeting and I’d bet the dog’s life he didn’t. I’ll excitedly tell him some deliciously juicy bit of gossip and he’ll say, “Oh, I knew that already.” (You did? And you didn’t tell me? What the hell is wrong with you?) Is it just me? Can some men and women effectively communicate? If not, it would make me feel infinitely better if you would please detail the many ways your husband drives you conversationally nuts.

I’m glad I’m not married to this gal.