BoomerGirl Diary

It arrived on my mother’s birthday. A fashion goddess in her own right, a chic gal who had an eye for fabulous accessories, for all things cashmere, hand-stitched and Italian-made, she would’ve turned 81 on Wednesday.

So when I went to get the mail and found a mysterious gray package awaiting me, I just knew this was a wink-wink from Mom. In honor of her own birthday, a day we loved to celebrate in style, she was sending me a little gift from beyond.

Magical thinking on my part? Hell, yes.

“Oh goodie,” I cooed. “What’s this?”

Before ripping it open, I wanted to savor the moment. A gift from beyond isn’t a daily occurrence. I wanted to milk it. I wanted it to last.

In reverence, I held the otherworldly package up to the light and what I saw gave me the chills.

What I saw, quite simply, was this: the outline of one of my mother’s favorite things in life. The thing she never left home without. The thing she coerced me into taking to school for reasons of no personal importance whatsoever:

“It looks nice with what you’re wearing.”

I fought her every step of the way. I didn’t need to schlep one more item to school, not when I was already lugging my lunch, notebook, text books and assorted love notes I would (thank God) never deliver to my latest surfer boy crush-of-the week. In those days, backpacks were for hikers, not 15-year-old school girls. I had my hands full.

Yet on this particular day, I knew that my mother had pulled some heavenly strings. The last gift she ever gave me was a stunning hand bag. She gave it to me early, months before my birthday. She sensed she wouldn’t be around for my 42nd, and she was right.

And now, all these years later, she was sending me another hand bag on her birthday. What a lovely gesture, don’t you think? It was all too wonderful.

As I opened the envelope, my heart sank. Once again, magical thinking had messed with me. Once again, I’d gotten carried away.

What greeted me was certainly not a divine offering from Mom. It was a cheap knock-off that didn’t deserve space in my cluttered closet, let alone on my kitchen counter. It was a hand bag, and I use the term loosely, made, not of Italian leather, but shiny brown vinyl, so shiny I could see myself cringing in horror. It was a hand bag heralding, not from Italy, but China.

I’m telling you, in no uncertain terms, that this hand bag sat there and mocked me. This hand bag was an embarrassment to hand bags everywhere.

Yet the troubling question remained: Who would waste the postage and send me this cheesy piece of nothing? The chances of my leaving the house, accompanied by this painful fashion faux pas, were non-existent. I still have some pride left.

Sure, I could change the destiny of this pitiful pocketbook. I could drop it on the floor and turn this sorry little satchel into a doggy chew toy.

However, just because this shameful excuse for a purse landed at my door, does it give me the right to toss it in the trash? I still have options. I could donate it, although that seems cruel. Or I could just stare at it from time to time and laugh my butt off. That’s probably what my mom would’ve done.

I’d like to think Vogue had the best intentions when they sent me this shoddy product, apparently as a thank you for subscribing. Still, a note would’ve been nice. A note would’ve made those intentions so much clearer:

Dearest Virgin Subscriber,

Here’s a small (okay, very small) token of our appreciation. Now stick this freebie piece of crap in a drawer and go out there and get yourself the $12,000 handbag you deserve. It’s only money, right? And according to our fantasy demographics, you’ve got it coming out of your ears. So go out there, girlfriend, and boost the economy. Spend like there’s no tomorrow because if things keep going the way they are, we could perish any day now. Why not go out with a bang?

Love and kisses,

Your close personal friends at Vogue