BY MARGARET CRANDALL My frustration with handbags started in the ‘80s. Back then, the “it” bag among the private all-girls schools in the Washington, DC suburbs was this Coach model that practically spat out pens, pencils, and frosted pink Maybelline lipsticks, because Bonnie Cashin was too cheap or lazy to put a zipper under the flap. I still get angry thinking about that purse. It had one job — containing my crap — and it failed miserably.
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