big B, Little b, what begins with b? bryan and botkier bag blues. B, B, B.

My husband. I love him. He is just...ahh. I don't know. Such a mensch. Last night we're on the sofa, giddy with excitement because we're finally watching the season premiere of House. God, that detective is so mean. And House is our hero. His cynicism throws us into fist-pumping spasms of victory, like, "Yeah! Take that you turd muffins!" And these days I truly understand his pain. Let the man have his Vicodin! He's so complicated! He hates us yet he saves our lives! Someone tell Ayn Rand—Altruism lives! House is a messiah!

So I don't know how the subject of the six-hundred dollar handbag came up. I probably brought it up come to think of it. Something like, "Well, I am going to be forty," as in, is there a better time to buy something so extravagant for the mother of your darling children? And Bryan said, brimming with discouragement, "If you get that bag it'll be the only thing you get all year." And I was like, "That's fine-—wait a—no!" And then he says, emphasising even the syllables that weren't there, "A six-hundred dollar bag," and that was it. I got it. Was I ever ashamed! So maybe I'll find one on ebay. Or on sale at Century 21 in Bay Ridge. At least my quest will afford me two and half years of mind-numbing distraction. Something to mull over when House is in syndication.

But so then Fox News comes on and Rosanna Scotto, who I saw in person at Hillary Clinton's 50th if you recall, asks us, the viewers, a really important, newsworthy question: "Which superstar's closet do you want to raid?" Not only could we answer the question among ourselves, but Rosanna wanted us to share our answers with her, via the Fox News website! So I got to thinking, because this is news after all. I guess nothing else worth noting is going on in the world.

So...Kate Moss was the first name in my head, and I shared this with the mensch to my right, but really, if I could take anything from her closet, would it even fit? I mean, how crushing would it be to walk in there with her jangling behind me going, "Oy, oy, out of me way, I gotsta snort some blow," only to find that everything's too small? So I say, very logically, "Well let's see. Who wears an eight?" Because now I'm onto shoes. Whose Laboutins are going to fit me? Lindsay Lohan's? J. Lo? Xtina? And Bryan says, because he thinks he's being funny, he thinks he and House share a witty personality, "Kathy Bates?"

And I'm like, did someone just pour a bucket of ice over my head? I'm stung. Just stung. "I was talking about SHOES," I said, looking away, my eyes welling up. "Aw, honey, I was just kidding!" he says, but my nose is turning red. My chin, she quivers, ever so slightly, but Bryan knows he's screwed up because he can't stop smiling and giggling. "Come on, honey. Penelope Cruz! You can raid her closet!" He's just so embarrassed and he can't take it back. "You're so little. Come here, you little thing, you." He knew he said the wrongest thing ever. "But wasn't it kind of funny? You gotta admit..." I face the wall. A giggle escapes my lips. "See? I'm funny. I'm sorry. How 'bout Nicole Richie? You want to raid her closet? Hm? I love you."

So it looks like the bag is mine.