almost two years ago i found this bag at a now-defunct boutique on curry row in the east village. but like so many over-the-top things that i love, the purse, i determined after a mental assessment of my wardrobe, belonged with dorothy.i was right, but later i missed it dearly, just like dorothy now misses the ruffle she cut off the bottom in a pointless bout of asceticism. we both looked for the bag online, googling for the mysterious 'malina' scripted in plastic and dangling from a removable string on the handle. nothing. the boutique made it out to be from a local designer, which is probably true, if by designer you mean machine and by local you mean china.
fast forward to last weekend, when ed and i were eating at a peruvian place around the corner from our apartment. the woman at the table next to us had a bag that looked just like this one, except it was pink and had brass handles. when i interrupted her conversation with her date, i learned that she had gotten it on the street in new orleans and that her date hates holding it for her.
less than an hour later i had found the same green one as d's on ebay and bought-it-now. along with my yellow cherry dress from anthropologie, this bag signals my early-life crisis, in which i buy up fashion items i could've only dreamed about as a five-year-old.
still looking for those blue-gray sparkle mary janes, tho.
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