He goes by the brand, yet imagines he goes by the flavor.

– Mark Twain

‘You got a weird message from your sister,” said David. “Which one?” I asked.

David looked at me as if I’d inquired after my own shoe size. “I said it was weird , didn’t I?”

“Well, why didn’t you just say it was Jane?” I huffed, kicking off the heels I’d been standing in for the last five hours. “What’d she say?”

“Something about ‘getting the Juicy,’” he answered.

“Leave it to Jane to get the Juicy,” I said over my shoulder as I headed for the stairs. When I’d finished brushing my teeth and David had not yet arrived in the bedroom, I assumed he was still standing downstairs in the dark, trying to decide whether or not he wanted to ask.

Earlier in the day, I had accompanied Jane on a gift-certificate-induced trip to Mac (make-up, not computers). After our faces were painted and our egos plumped by our shimmering male helper, we retired to the Nordstrom Café with our bootie for a victory lunch.

We had inhaled our cups of tomato basil soup and were waiting for our turkey sandwich to arrive when Jane leaned forward, adopted a serious tone, and asked, “Do you think it’s dumb of me to buy a Juicy Couture diaper bag?”

“That’s a teenage-girl brand, right? Don’t tell me it has the logo written all over it, I fucking hate that,” I said.

“It does,” conceded Jane. I rolled my eyes and she rushed through her well-rehearsed justification: “I found it on eBay, and it’s only $200. The ones in the store are, like, $500. If I have to carry around a diaper bag for two years, I want it to be a stylish one, and this one is fun — Heather said it was more Britney Spears than Julia Roberts, but I think it’s really Madonna.”

“Look,” I said, mentally kicking myself for allowing David’s lecturing precursor to invade my vocabulary, “if it’s a better bag, and it’s the bag you want, and it’s something you’re going to use for the next few years, I think it’s a good buy. But if you’re only buying it because it’s branded, and because you want to be branded right along with it, then I must protest this purchase.”

“I like the Juicy,” Jane said in a pouty little voice.

“Then get it,” I said, because I knew it was the only thing she wanted to hear.

The following morning, David got up the nerve to ask. I was hesitant to explain it to him; David has always made his stance on trends and branding caustically clear — while at the Hillcrest farmers’ market last weekend, he gestured at a woman’s ass, where the word “GUESS” was emblazoned in white on pink fabric. Interpreting the brand name as a demand, David surmised, “Stupid?”

“It’s sheer marketing genius that these companies can get people to pay a premium in order to advertise for them,” he’ll say whenever we go to the mall. Women drenched in “LV” patterns with giant “CC”s on their big sunglasses and silver “Tiffany & Co.” dog tags dangling from their wrists and necks never fail to make David burp a bit of vomit. It was apparent I would have to give some background on my sister if I was to help him better digest Jane’s Juicy choice and minimize what might otherwise be a potentially dangerous bout of eye rolling.

“You have to understand, Jane is a fashionista,” I began. “She worked at Nordstrom for years. It’s important to her to have style, and for other people who know about style to recognize that she knows what she’s doing fashion-wise.” I was beginning to confuse myself and I could see my inability to articulate the circumstances reflected on David’s face. Figuring a quick rip of the band-aid would be better than this slow, excruciating peel, I blurted, “Jane got a diaper bag doused in its designer’s name.” David flinched.

I went over to Jane’s, leaving David to ponder the power of advertising. Knocked up for the second time to selflessly bear a sibling for her daughter, Bella, my sister has been suffering from textbook morning sickness (or, more accurately, “morning-noon-and-night” sickness).

Jane was sprawled on the couch when I arrived. She complained about how tired and ill she felt, but when I questioned her about the bag, she perked up and shot to her feet.

“You wanna see a picture of it?”

“Yeah, maybe later,” I said. Deflated, Jane returned to her post on the couch. I sat next to her and asked, “Why is the brand name so important to you?”

“I don’t know, it makes me feel like a celebrity,” Jane explained. “In my own little suburban world, I can be cool and chic.”

“But you don’t wear brand names on any of your clothing,” I pointed out.

“Clothes are all about design and fit. I buy what looks best on me. It’s bags I’m concerned with, even my Canal Street bags,” Jane said, referring to the five designer knock-offs she acquired in New York’s Chinatown a few years ago.

“Anyway,” Jane added in an accusatory tone, “Aren’t your sunglasses Prada? Isn’t your purse Michael Kors? And I know that’s a Tiffany’s ring.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t buy any of these because they were brand names — I bought them because I liked the way they looked. And I don’t like the way anything looks covered in logos. I’d have to take off this ring and get a magnifying glass for you to see Elsa Peretti’s signature.”

“Well, because I know about fashion and style, I recognize your stuff for what it is. Just as other people in the know recognize my fashion ability and taste,” Jane said.

“Right, but I don’t care if people recognize my fashion ability,” I countered.

We were cut off by a series of high-pitched shrieks, the powerful piercing quality of which was impressive, considering their source — the 30-pound creature that is the miniature, golden-haired version of my sister. I cringed in pain and distraction from my niece’s energetic solo.

“You know,” I suggested, lighting upon the best idea I’ve had in years, “I bet you could petition Juicy Couture to design one of those collars like they have for dogs that bark too much. Not something that would hurt the child, it would just spray a little foul-smelling mist — it’s citronella for dogs, so maybe it would have to be broccoli for kids, but anyway, I bet that would be really effective at keeping them quiet.”

“Nice, Aunt Barb ,” Jane said wryly.

“Just an idea,” I said. Then, in an attempt to make peace for my unwelcome (albeit brilliant) suggestion, I said, “How about you show me that Juicy picture?”

Delighted, Jane made for her computer. I snatched a giggling Bella into my arms and followed my sister to add yet another item to the long list of things I never thought I would do — ogle a diaper bag.