Purse

     To Clara, my purse is the holy grail.  She likes to unsnap my wallet and pour all my cards and driver's license onto the ground.  My purse holds my car keys (she likes to point them at the car and push the "lock" button to make it honk).  It holds pens and gum and coins and a canister of Crystal Light pink lemonade powder.  It holds granola bars and Wet Ones in an interesting package with a sticky seal on it.  It holds dangly earrings that I've found uncomfortable while wearing and tossed in there.  It holds tubes of lipstick in delicious berry colors (free samples from Clinique, five or six seasons old), and a spare tube of Desitin diaper rash ointment with a picture of a cute baby on it.
     Best of all, it holds my cell phone.  Clara likes to press it to her baby cheek and listen intently.
     Clara has a few purses, but her favorite is a small sequined one with a zipper.  She likes to hold snacks in it, like cheese and miniature boxes of raisins.  Lately she has also been putting her toy telephone in there.
     Simon and I pretend to be her press secretaries, and take calls on the telephone.
     Simon fields calls from the UN Secretary General, the Prime Minister of Britain, and Donald Trump.
     "I'm very sorry, Mr. Cameron, but she is booked solid for the next six months," Simon said into the play telephone recently.  Surely Mr. Cameron could tell there were other, more important things on Simon's agenda.  Pouring organic shells and cheese onto Madame Clara's tray, for example, or attending to her toilette. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and murmured to Clara, "He wants to know your thoughts on the upcoming United States election and the situation in Syria."
     Clara took the phone and pretended to listen.  Then she handed it back.
     "Yes, yes....I see...very urgent....," Simon continued into the phone again. "Well, we could do a Wednesday.  What's the nearest Wednesday you have available...six months from now?"
     Most of the calls I field are from Lady Gaga.  I keep trying to work in a request from Gaga to borrow a wig, which is ridiculous because Clara doesn't even own any wigs.  Lady Gaga is the best possible call to take, what with all the different scenarios that could play out.  I'm so harried and distracted, though--putting on Clara's shoes or wiping her face with the play phone wedged against my ear--that the many possibilities elude me.
     Gaga could ask Clara to borrow one of her outfits, for example.  They could talk about the meat dress Gaga wore last year and share ideas about a line of accessories made from hamburger.  Or, I could simply sing the lyrics to Gaga's song, 'Telephone,' into the receiver:
     "Stop callin' stop callin' I don't wanna talk any more.  I left my head and my heart on the dance floor."