Designer Handbag Harlots
by Bonnie Biv	December 6, 11:21 p.m.

I have never been much of a handbag-hunter. For me, the accessory merely serves to hold bare necessities (in a pinch these double at McGuiver tools): lipstick, perfume, ten nonfunctioning pens, gum, wallet, stray earring, phone, crumpled wad of receipts, business cards, hairpin, and one illegible number-on-a-bar-nap that I can't explain.

Don't get me wrong: I do own a small set of versatile purses – faux circa 1920s – and I happily buy more when I can figure out how to sneak them into the house without getting The Look. However, my motivation is merely an obsessive-compulsive need to match. My handbag-to-shoe coordination is down to a science; I won't step foot out the door if my strappy trimmings vary from one another by even a single shade. (Appearing put-together is vital when you're scatterbrained; if you can't dazzle them with brilliance, enlighten them with ensemble!)

The label, on the other hand is of absolutely no concern to me—on my bag or anyone else's. It certainly doesn't serve to classify who I am or how I'm faring in today's war-warn, housing-hammered, jihad-juiced economy. Frankly, I pity anyone who is defined by her zippered-carcass-on-a-chain.

Alas, this semi-lucid perspective is not shared by the fashion cyborgs in this country. Even those who indisputably cannot afford upscale brands have succumbed to the sinister display of “luxury” goods hanging on, say, Sarah Jessica's tiny starlet bod—sparking a global market of trademark infringement where the Chinese laugh all the way to the exchange bank.

(Side note: I assert that Carrie Bradshaw's accessories were economically and aesthetically scandalous, and not something to be emulated in real life—paid product placement notwithstanding. Further, we all know she moonlighted between the Egyptian cotton sheets to earn her leather-and-lace treats. While that suited the sluts on Sex in the City, such virtual prostitution really should be frowned upon by everyone outside Bangkok, Las Vegas, and Upper East Manhattan.)

In spite of my own acute awareness of the rampant, marketing-injected mind-virus, I am ever aghast at the steaming desire many women exhibit toward handbags. Allow me to spin some unsettling yarns...

As I waited to board a flight recently, a woman began to stroke my brown briefcase like it might get hard. "What a beautiful bag," she cooed. I gave her a quick once-over: Black knee-high boots embossed top-to-bottom with large "C" icons. Brown patchwork handbag also speckled with the letters. Fat ass fighting against the tight denim of her embroidered jeans. Long, bright nails. How charming. If only a dozen Ben Franklins could buy a lady some class. I gleefully responded, "It's not Coach, it's Nine West." She recoiled as if I'd just announced it had crotch-cooties.

(I wish I had thought to invent that it was purchased in an Outlet Mall... on clearance for $12.97... because it had been returned... by a Hispanic... who used it to tote five-and-dime items... and I had to replace the lining by hand... using an old Kmart windbreaker... Hell, I could have won an hour of preflight entertainment on her face alone!)

That same bag – which is clearly adorned with circles rather than letters – received another erotic massage at the office that week. A bleach-blond HR Manager scooped it off a conference table and hugged it to her giant breasts. “My husband just blew a grand on outdoor junk at Cabela's,” she hissed. “So I am spending the same budget on a Coach like this one.” Ugh. I happen to know that this office-butterfly earns less than a tenured schoolteacher. I blurted, “What a waste!” and watched her dreamy-eyed expression turn bitter.

This is how I make friends and influence people. Effective, yes? Which is why I use my unique method on every label-victim I know, including my socialite-wannabe close friends and relatives.

When a cousin told me her tale of woe about stolen Vuitton bags containing – among Neiman's finest – tens of thousands in cash, I couldn't help but snicker, “That's precisely why you should pack Samsonite.” She flinched as if I had spat on her Karan coat. “No. No,” she sighed, “I need my Louis.” Naturally. Just like she needs an LED sign blinking the words, “I'm stupid and rich! Go ahead! Steal my stuff!” Of course, stacking brown two-tone bags nine-high on a major avenue is pretty much the same thing.

By the same token, those tan flowers pose a joyous chuck-challenge to many blue-collar boys on airline loading docks. Those guys are probably the only heterosexual men in America who keenly recognize certain bag labels (except for bejeweled stock analysts and gangsta ass thugs)—excellent evidence that drawing envious looks from females – not males – is women's motivation for buying posh products.

Take a certain trip to Nordstrom's department store as an example, where I overheard in baritone, “Is the goal to own the ugliest bag possible?” When I burst into laughter – I positively could not stop myself – the innocent man's wife shot him a flaming glare and roughly tugged him away.

The moment sparked my curiosity. So I began an ongoing series of random male-demographic polls in my Occupation Underbelly, where my associates pop into Burberry for conscience-clearing gifts en route to the flight home. I maliciously plop my sac à main du jour in front of them and make them guess its cost. I have never heard a figure below $250. I have never spent over $250.

I rest my case: They don't get it, and neither do I. Perhaps I am too mentally entrenched in my own (and my kids') future to succumb much to fashion extortion. But I – and my hetero male peers – actually appreciate a pseudo-reasonable 300%-markup—a $100 pricetag that doesn't flagrantly green-line the pockets of a half-dozen out-of-touch (albeit merchandising genius) designers.

On the other hand, I am not actually suggesting that all of you capitalist women out there stop blowing your wads on high-end junk. Although I disdain conspicuous consumption with almost every molecule in my protoplasmic sack, by all means, I think you should break yourselves! Buy into the pages of Vogue magazine! Rejuvenate 1980s Dallas-esque glory! Throw tantrums with Oprah outside Hermes stores! Say things like, "That's hot!"

...Because the longer Handbag Harlots stand on their gleaming pedestals of snobbery, the more their wasted money pours into the economy. And last month I bought a hundred shares of Coach in anticipation of a personal boost from the prosperous-but-not-too-bright.

It's only up five percent. Get to spending, Label Ladies.

(Do you suppose columns like this are why Nordstrom, Macy's, Lucky, eLuxury and even Montgomery Ward won't allow me to place their ads on my site?)