I got lost driving home from NYC.

Oddly enough, I hit every light crosstown green (seriously, all of them, even Broadway, green), found my destination, only to find the hard part?

Getting out. May I just say, for the Powers That Be in NYC: post the 95 signs. Please. Don't make me have to pull off, on exit 18A, call someone, to verify that I am, indeed, on the correct freeway. I was. I just didn't know it. (His co-workers quite enjoyed this call, might I add)

Sadly, I had picked one of the only exits that allowed one to exit the New York Thruway but not re-enter it.

Really? Really.

None of the high-jinx on the ride home however, deterred me from the enthusiasm of breaking laws in two states to call Heather, repeat (nearly verbatim) The Meeting. I'm so thrilled, I can hardly stand it! I do so wish she'd been able to accompany me on this trip; but we did have a client meeting scheduled.

Clients always come first.

The bag will be gorgeous.

I nearly swooned at the choice on leather, piled one atop the other, four shelves deep; the whirring sewing machine, along with the hand sewed felt mock-ups laid out for inspection for another client being lovingly finished - and I, toting nearly every bag I've ever owned, as I wanted details from one bag, the shape of another, the handles on that one. I've quite forgotten how easily the language flows between Heater and I; I need hardly say anything, and she's drawn the thought, the concept, in living breathing color.

The lovely gentlemen with whom I sat, tried his best to keep up with the rather jumbled stream of needs and wants. He doesn't speak the same language Heather and I do. I gave him high marks, however, for keeping up. Seeing a bag in my head, and getting someone to create it? A horse of a different color altogether.

At one point, requiring a reference to shape, I used the analogy of the straw markets, in some hot, sweaty, sandy beachside port somewhere, and these particular bags I'd seen there. He assumes I want our bag in straw. Ah. No. I don't do straw. The shape. Sort of. With this kid of bottom; and those handles. The handles in straw? Good heavens no. I want and need these handles. With feet.

Let's be honest: in a bag? Need and want are the same thing. I need a bag with a beautiful lining, but want one with a water resistant lining. See? Same thing. I (ahem) tend to keep an odd assortment of Completely Necessary items with me at all times, including (but certainly not limited to) dog chews, Matchbox cars, mini-baby wipes for sticky fingers, the usual pens, lipsticks, and whatnot, along with juice boxes and water, snacks, and the seemingly never ending parade of horrifically designed collars. Most of which Pucker's eaten through. That's not really the point though. The point? They were also ugly. Moments passed, as he took in the staggering array of items on the table, before turning his attention to the detail I wanted him to note - and he says, flat bottom, yes?

No.

I need one (and, when you hear this you'll want it too) a bag with feet. There are more germs on the bottom of a hand bag than on a grocery store shopping cart handle! And we put our hand bags on the same counters on which we prepare dinner?

He blanched as I shared that little factoid; he's throwing in the feet for free. He was green enough, I wonder if he'll simply require all bags made by them to have feet.

Renderings are perfect. I'm pleased. Heather will be pleased. He's pleased. Makes a few more notes; muttering to himself as he's drawing.

Bags, he says, with the feet. Always with the feet.

He ended up speaking my language after all.