Louie Meet Louie

So picture this: me, in Mexico, at a dusty swap meet where the air smells like grilled corn and knockoff cologne, and every stand has at least one “genuine” designer bag just begging to fall apart on the flight home.

And there it was. A Louie cross body bag. Not Louis Vuitton. Not Louie Anderson merch. Louie.

Now, if you know me, you know New York has trained me for moments like this. I’ve survived Canal Street, haggled in Chinatown over “Rolexes” that spelled it with three Xs, and walked away from vendors like I was auditioning for Shark Tank. So when the vendor told me his starting price, I just laughed. Not a polite chuckle. A “honey, do I look like I just got off the cruise ship?” laugh.

We went back and forth like two drag queens reading each other in a dark bar bathroom. He tried guilt. He tried charm. He even tried math—which was bold, because I was doing conversion rates in my head faster than his calculator. In the end, my New York haggling skills won out. I walked away with the Louie cross body for less than the price of a margarita pitcher.

And yes, is it real? Real enough. Real enough to hold my phone, my wallet, and the dignity of knowing I out-haggled a man whose ancestors invented bargaining.

Now, back in NYC, I’ve got a Louie swinging from my shoulder. People ask if it’s “authentic,” and I just wink. Because honestly? The authenticity isn’t in the stitching—it’s in the story. And baby, this Louie’s got one hell of a story.

🐾 Roxi & Xena Comment from the Spa:

• Roxi: “If he spent that much energy negotiating for snacks, we’d be millionaires.”

• Xena: “Dad went full gay with a purse now. Do we get matching ones for walkies or nah?”