The other day Connie and I were running an errand that required us to go to Cordele. On the way, Connie had occasion to dig around inside her purse in search of something, which caused me to notice her purse, using the term loosely.

Normally I would call something this big a tote sack, but it wasn’t made out of burlap. It’s bright red on the outside and yellow on the inside, has one inside pocket (for a cell phone, which appeared to be full of q-tips) and a cavernous interior big enough to shoplift watermelons.

When it comes to pocketbooks, Connie makes her way from big bags to small clutches and back again, in a never ending search for the “right pocketbook.”

Every once in a while, she’ll buy one because it’s “cute”, or “fun”, or “stylish.” She even buys pocketbooks for her friends, if she sees one that’s on sale. She only has one standing rule: Never get rid of a pocketbook.

When I remarked on Connie’s newest victim, she said that she bought it to make a fashion statement, which caused me to laugh so hard I spit Mountain Dew on the dash.

Connie was not amused and proceeded to enlighten me on the use and value of pocketbooks in general, expensive pocketbooks in particular, and to further broaden my cultural knowledge about pocketbook customs.

“Clay, you don’t understand,” she began. “A woman can put on a worn out jogging suit, some good running shoes, lots of good jewelry, and carry a really expensive pocketbook into the most snobbish store in America and get treated like royalty. Even a place like Kennebrew’s in Americus.”

Again, we had to pause long enough for me to wipe Mountain Dew off the dashboard.

As my education continued, I found out that there are some evil undercurrents in American culture that men (or at least I) have never considered.

On the accessory scale, a pocketbook rates higher than other accessories women use, such as shoes, jewelry, and husbands. It turns out that pocketbooks are much, much more valuable than husbands.

Connie has a friend who once traded pocketbooks with a stranger she just met in a bar. They both admired each other’s pocketbooks, they both said so, and then they agreed to trade, dumping the contents right out on the bar and swapping. I guess you could do that with a husband, but people would talk.

If one woman tells another woman how much she loves her pocketbook and wants one just like it, that is considered a compliment and is usually followed by an invitation to “try it out.”

Pocketbooks carry lots of important things without complaining. They open up when you tell them to open up and they shut up when you tell them to shut up. If you want to make sure they stay shut up, there’s usually a latch, a snap, or a zipper to make sure they stay shut up. Husbands do not have that feature.

Pocketbooks don’t complain when a woman is running late. They know how to keep secrets. Pocketbooks don’t work late, drink beer, or pass gas.

Pocketbooks never go out with their friends and never complain about dinner. Pocketbooks watch chick flicks and hate John Wayne.

You get the idea. Apparently if Connie’s pocketbooks could cut the grass and wash the dishes, I’d be history.