Archive for January, 2011

January 30, 2011

Why It Matters

I hope JoniRae will forgive me for not doing a funny fiction of her weekend with Pursey, as I have something else I want to say.

A week or two before her scheduled date, JoniRae asked if she could switch her weekend because she was going to end up with extra kids, and her fun girls’ night would not be able to happen. As much as I wanted to accommodate, it has become almost impossible for me to re-arrange in the near term. The schedule is just that tight. When I told her that, she was of course totally gracious but apologized that Pursey’s weekend would be spent á la kid.

I did not mind at all.

And then she sent me this photo, and I wept in gratitude that she had kept her date as scheduled.

The gorgeous girl is JoniRae’s daughter, Willow.

Willow is the reason.

Willow and the other beautiful daughters and sons of those who have shown Pursey Galore a good time.

I look at the people a generation or two above me. These are the people who are at the greatest risk. I know where we are with medical research, treatments and rehabilitation. We will fight, and treat, and teach and do our best to prevent. But the devastation still exists for them.

I wish it did not.

I look at the people in my generation. These people are at less risk. I know where we are with medical research, treatments and rehabilitation. And for those of our generation who may suffer a stroke in our older age, the odds are better. We will understand more about prevention, and more about treatment. But I fear there are still many who will live with the devastation.

I hope they will not.

But I look at Willow, and Kate, and Katie, Matthew and Eddie. Alex and Boy Wonder and Little Ceo. Tater, Miss L and Miss M. Hank, Sophie and Maren. Sage, Sawyer, X and all the other daughters and sons and nieces and nephews whose names I haven’t learned yet. I look at Child A, Child B and Child C.

Maybe it can be gone for them.

Maybe Anissa’s children can live in a world where stroke is a thing of the past, where the devastation has gratefully stopped, even if one generation too late.

Pursey Galore rocked Blissdom. And it was so fun to see the tweets and the photos. I laughed and applauded.

And thought about why. Why she was there.

She was there for Willow.

January 19, 2011

Pursey Galore and the Wine Cellar

The ever lovely Nichole from In These Small Moments toted Pursey Galore around at the Napa In January Blogger’s Wine Event last weekend. The Purse raised $136 at that event in which I embarrassed the wait-staff by singing. But you can’t think of Napa Valley without thinking of really, really rich people. So then THIS story occurred to me…

She knew it was here somewhere.

She tiptoed through the dark.

She’d heard rumors of it.

And finally, she wormed her way into the house, and now she had to find it!

The party invitation was totally legit. It’s not like she’d swiped it from someone else. It came addressed to her – Nichole – and was her ticket into the 30,000 square foot mansion on the hill.

The one with the wine cellar.

That held the Lafitte Rothschild 1870.

At 15 grand a bottle.

Nichole held no nefarious intentions toward the bottle, she just wanted to see it. Her brief career as a wine marketer had given her a taste of the nectar, and once she learned that the family on the hill had one of the best stocked wine cellars in the world, and that they had a bottle of the Rothschild…well…she just HAD to.

The Black and White ball fundraiser was perfectly timed, her magazine scored her the invite and now her she was in her black ball gown with the snowy white sash sneaking down a staircase like Tom Cruise in a Mission Impossible movie trying to get into a rich woman’s wine cellar so she could take one look at the Holy Grail of wines.

Her sequined whispered softy as it swept back and forth across the silk of her dress. She carried her delicately heeled shoes in her hand as she crept quietly down the staircase.

She’d watched the house manager like a hawk as he disappeared and reappeared with progressively more dramatic vintages, and with an unerring internal compass had deduced the location of the cellar. Slipping quietly into alcoves or behind draperies as staff hurried to and fro, she’d made it all the way down to the oversized oak door undiscovered.

She pushed open slowly, the change in air pressure pulling a cool, earthy draft through the door that made her skirts swirl. She reached into her zebra-striped bag for her flashlight and clicked it on.

Now, she thought, if I were a $15,000 bottle of wine, where would I be?

The beam of light swept methodically along the walls and Nichole knew she was close. Just a few more seconds and…

“ACK!!” she squawked as the lights clicked on.  She spun around, blinking in painful confusion, to be greeted with the sight of her hostess standing imperiously on the threshold.

Nichole’s mouth went dry as she struggled for words to explain. “I…I’m sorry…I only…I…”

Verbs eluded her.

Her shoulders slumped as she realized there was no gracious way to explain herself.

“I’m sorry. I was just desperate to see the Lafitte.”

The woman nodded, but was clearly unimpressed. “I should call the police.”

Nichole’s heart thought about stopping.


“Or…?” Nichole squeaked.

“You can hand over that bag.”

Nichole looked at the outrageous zebra-striped sequined handbag on her shoulder. The one she’d selected only because it was the only black and white purse she owned.

Ththis?” She stammered.

“That’s a must-have,” announced the Matron. “It will freak the hell out of the wine committee at the Club.”

Nichole smiled and started removing the essentials from the bag.

Raising eyebrows and keeping her ass out of jail. Now those were worthy causes.


January 14, 2011

Pursey Galore and the Roll of the Dice

My dear In-Person friend Holly, who is a registered dietician who works with seniors right now and writes a blog called Healthy Living Holly, brought Pursey along on a trip to Vegas for a  New Year’s Eve wedding. Can you imagine ANYWHERE better for the purse?? No. You can’t. Doesn’t exist. So here’s a little something that MIGHT have happened on that night out on the town…

With a cocktail in one hand and her trashiest bag o’ stuff in the other, Holly made her way to the craps table.

She was down to her last chip, and she really just wanted to get something to eat, so she decided that she’d throw away her final few dollars and head to the buffet.

She slipped up to the table and set down her chip. The boxman took her lone chip placidly and set it down. The stickman handed her the dice. She stood there a moment, thinking good thoughts, when someone said, “Rub the dice on that purse.”

The stickman said, “Dice must be in view at all times.”

“Wave the purse over the table!” Said a different voice.

Holly laughed and swung the zebra-striped sequined purse-shaped disco ball over the craps table and threw the dice.

“Seven,” called the base dealer.

The spectators cheered and the boxman put down a chip.

“Roll again!” said a voice. “Swing the purse!” said another.

Holly swirled the purse over the table a second time and rolled the dice.

“Eight,” called the base dealer.

Holly collected the dice and rolled two more times.

“Eight!” called the base dealer, and the boxman put down another chip.

“Again!” Called the crowd, and Holly waved the purse over the table like a bishop swinging a censer.

“Eleven!” Called the base dealer. The crowd, larger than it had been a moment before, cheered again.

Holly kept rolling, waving the purse over the table, taking pass bets and hitting the point every time.

Her chip had made many many friends and was socializing happily on the table.

On her tenth or eleventh pass, the crowd now in a frenzy, the point was ten.

Holly reached for the purse to the lucky wave and…it was gone!

Panicked momentarily that it had been stolen, she quickly caught sight of it’s tell-tale sparkle a few dozen feet away where her girlfriend was standing, rummaging though its contents.

“HEY!” Called Holly. “Bring that back!”

She took one step toward it and the base dealer called, “Stepping away from the table kills your bet.”

Holly bit her lip and turned back to the table. She held her breath and tossed the dice.

“Seven!” called the base dealer. The crowd groaned. “Craps.”

Her chips made an exit, stage left.

Holly’s shoulders slumped and she shuffled over to  her friend.

“Here you go,” she said, handing Holly her purse back. “I needed my lipstick. You were doing great over there!”

Holly felt silly haranguing her friend for snatching her good luck charm, so she let it go. “Yeah, fun while it lasted. Let’s go eat.”

As she turned, someone tugged her arm. “Excuse me,” said a young lady, “I’m gonna go play some blackjack. Would you come bless me with the purse?”

“As long as it’s on the way to the food,” she answered.

January 5, 2011

Pursey Galore and the Bid for Freedom

My dear friend and co-worker Cindy, who is not a blogger, signed up for the purse as soon as she heard about the project.

After a hostage situation in customs, Pursey Galore ended up trapped in an envelope in Utah for an ENTIRE WEEK. When she finally made her way to Cindy, she felt she had time to make up for. Cindy was pretty sure that if PG had a voice, this was what she’d say.

I can’t stand it one more minute! Thought the broad in the stripes.

I’m going crazy in here!!

She paced. Counting off the space in footsteps. One, two… turn around. One, two…

She was loosing her sequined mind.

Freedom was close, she could sense it. Only a few more hours…

She shifted this way and that, desperate for the doors to open, for the light to pour in.

She cocked an ear and listened. She could hear excited muffled voices. Was this it?? FINALLY?

And then, like the parting of the Red Sea, like the opening of the Gulag, freedom.

She burst from her confinement in an explosion of sparkly brilliance. Free! FREE FREE FREE!!!

She turned to her blond benefactress and draped herself over the woman’s shoulder. “You and me?” she said, “We’re gonna have a good time!”

The first stop was the steak-house. A couple glasses of wine, a thick juicy porterhouse…life was looking up. While there, she spied one of the girls from the Big House. She’d cleaned up well, though. She looked polished, sophisticated. Almost like she was trying to forget where she came from.

What a faker, thought the newly freed striped senorita.

Next she coaxed her patroness to party after party. It was the holiday season and the lights and the cocktails…well, they were pretty intoxicating. Literally.

And then finally, the champagne was flowing, the music was loud, the people were merry, and things…things…well, things got out of hand.

There were loud voices and flash-bulbs. Some sort of altercation with a wooden cowboy and then there might have been obscenities hurled at a policeman.

And before she knew it, she was back…back in the dark, confined space.

Nooooooo!!! She cried to the universe. Not again!!!!

She took a deep breath. It’s okay, she said. I’ve done this plenty of times. I can do it again.

Cause no one can keep a sequined girl down for long.