Lisa Hoffman & Charles Atkins

Published April 13, 2006

Charlie writes:

Like Henry Ford and cars, I believe that a briefcase can be any color as long as it’s black. Although, it wasn’t until I became a physician that I actually started carrying one. Now, I have two—both black--one for Dr. Atkins the psychiatrist and the other for Charlie the writer. But what I’ve never understood, and my friendship with Lisa has done little to illuminate the topic, is why, if a man needs one, maybe two briefcases, does a woman need so many pocketbooks?

"Well," Lisa says, ensconced in her riser chair with no less than ten pocketbooks in her immediate visual field, including one in the shape of a red teapot, "first of all you need pocketbooks to match your outfit, and you need pocketbooks for different seasons."

"Stop right there, why would you need a seasonal pocketbook? It’s not like it’s keeping you warm."

"There is an unwritten law," she says, "that you can’t use a white pocketbook, or wear white shoes, after Labor Day. I believe you can start wearing them after Decoration Day. Although, I just found out that Coach bags, which are extremely expensive, have an off-white bag that can be worn year round."

"So who gave the dispensation to Coach? Is that like the Bishop saying Connecticut Catholics could eat meat on St. Patrick’s Day?"

"The fashion gurus," she says.

"Who?"

"Various designers and women’s magazines that serve as a Bible with many commandments. That’s another thing about pocketbooks, different brands, like Prada, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Coach and Gucci are objects of desire for many women. Because they’re so recognizable it’s like wearing diamonds or driving an expensive car. The pocketbook—at least the right pocketbook—can be a status symbol."

As I look at my travel-worn doctor briefcase, which is near the end of it’s lifespan—about five years—I come to a shocking discovery. It’s time to clean it out and I’m embarrassed to describe its contents. Somehow, it’s turned into a combination filing cabinet, refrigerator, medicine chest and library; it weighs over twenty pounds."

Lisa’s eyes light up as I reveal my inner clutter. "What do you have in there?"

I don’t want to do this. "Okay, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Where have I heard that before?" she chuckles, while reaching for one of her dozens of pocketbooks—this one in the shape of a stuffed black-and-white cat.

"So who’s first?" I ask.

"I can," she says unzipping the cat, "let’s see…First of all we’ve got the wallet with money and zillions of membership cards for animal organizations, credit cards, my Medicare and co-insurance information. Then I have my checkbook and an address book with important information, and a second address book because the first one is already filled, and a weekly planner for 2006 where my appointments go in and another checkbook, and then I have my living will, a coupon that expired."

"When did it expire?" I ask.

"It’s only a year old," she says, putting it back in her bag, while continuing to list the contents. "Checks that I have to deposit, change in a separate compartment, a sewing kit in case my buttons fall off, a hair brush, a pen, a film that needs to be developed," she looks up at me.

"I take the can of film and drop it into my briefcase."

"Thank you. Let’s see," she says, "an emery board, eye drops, my Handicapped parking permit, an offer for Gevalia coffee and free coffee maker, Band-Aids, a few empty envelopes from the bank, which I didn’t throw out because one never knows when one will need an empty envelope."

"Wait a minute," I say as she goes to put down her purse, "there was a lot of other stuff in there. You’re editing, our readers deserve radical honesty. What else is in there?"

"Okay, chopsticks, a proof-of purchase sticker from several products, a list of my medications, tissues, a lollipop, a pink dreidel, paperclips, rubber bands, two-year-old instructions on how to get to a Dr.’s appointment in Hartford, and of course, make-up: lipstick, a compact, mascara, eye shadow, powder…Oh, and a comb, I was wondering where that was. Some letters from a friend, more receipts, a patient agreement from Waterbury Hospital, and packets of Sweet and Low. Ooh! A rain check from Shaws for Blue fish fillets dated June 19, 2004; it was only $2.99 a pound, and a quote from Liszt that I got from a music appreciation course "your name will be forgotten while the world is still kneeling before my memory", and finally a card for my next hairdresser’s appointment."

"Is that it?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, upending the cat purse to show me that it’s now empty.

"Much better, my turn. In the outer zipped compartment of my briefcase I find the following: four Music CDs, presentations on CD I’ve given, or will be giving, and half a dozen lectures on tape, cough drops—now over the years I’ve learned that cough drops are dangerous things in a briefcase, because come the warm weather they quickly melt into a gooey syrup--then five assorted energy bars in case I get peckish when traveling between offices, pens, a beeper, old pay stubs, newsletters from Mystery Writers of America, a royalty statement from my publisher, a fan letter I never got around to answering, vitamin C packets, and the film Lisa wants developed.

"The next compartment—that I rarely use—has batteries for the beeper, a tube of cortisone cream and another pay stub. Onto the main compartment: a novel The Kite Runner, and the book Full Catastrophe Living by Jon Kabat-Zinn. Next is my notebook where I keep a running to-do list, several color-coded files containing projects, or interesting articles I hope to read some day, a manual for the treatment of Borderline Personality Disorder, several thick reports I need to review for work, more music CDs, more lectures on tape including a fantastic one on how to decrease medical mistakes, pens, an assortment of paper clips and a few of those really good metal clips that are great for keeping opened bags of potato chips fresh, a spare pair of contact lenses and a migraine pill."

"That’s a lot," Lisa says, as I come to the end.

"It is," I admit, "and it wasn’t that long ago that I cleaned it out."

"Based on this," she says, a bit too smug, "You’re a bigger pack rat than I."

"You might be right," I say, "but the first thing that pops to mind is the Boy Scout motto, ‘Be prepared’. When I grab my briefcase in the morning, it’s like a security blanket. That if I suddenly need something, chances are good that I’ll have it."

"It’s similar for women," Lisa says, "with the added piece around style and fashion. It’s nice to get compliments on an interesting bag, or to pull out a beautiful compact and have someone ask you where you got it."

"So I guess the differences between briefcases and pocketbooks are pretty small." I say.

"Yes," Lisa adds, "And you as a psychiatrist should have known this from the start…"

Oh, no, I think, as I brace for the pun.

"We’ve all got baggage."

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