You Stole My Purse


It wouldn’t be a wedding without a sloppy drunk woman accusing us of stealing her purse. We take it in stride, every situation presents unique challenges. Tonight’s drunk accused staff of stealing her purse while she went to the bathroom. “I left it on table 6, a black designer bag with $300 cash and all my ID. I was gone 2 minutes, one of you stole it” she slurred. Dead set on accusation, sloppy drunk unleashed a torrent of “you’d better fucking find it”.  We didn’t touch your purse!

Sensing sloppy drunk’s looming meltdown, boyfriend trumpets “this is fucking serious, which one of you stole her purse? Hand it over now!” Emboldened by her partner’s bravado, sloppy drunk parrots “fucking serious”.  Hysteria escalates, she’s wailing incoherent protestation. Rage pulsates from boyfriend’s throbbing temples, “she was gone 2 minutes, who the fuck stole her purse?”

Instead of laughing or calling security to escort the lovely couple out, I ask a server to check the bathroom. Sure enough, “stolen” purse rested where sloppy drunk left it – top of toilet paper dispenser inside a bathroom stall.

Did they apologize? Nope! They accused “thief” of planting it and stormed out. Sigh. So ends another day at the office.

Two Dresses


The first Monday of the month, Quora deposits money earned from views on my content into a PayPal account. A little bit here, little bit there, I never gave it much thought. Truth is, I wouldn’t have a PayPal account but for Quora insistence on opening one to receive deposits. Not much of a online shopper, credit cards secure occasional purchases. PayPal mystifies this middle aged ponderer.

After work today it dawned on me –  in 22 days, 11 hours we’d board a plane for Havana. I needed new dresses. Where to begin? Amazon, eBay? Search by retailer, brand, style? Argh, I loathe online shopping! Pop-ups, flash sales, discounts offered with acceptance of mailing list bombardment. Hour after hour of futile nonsense wore me down. Frayed, disgruntled, on the verge of calling bullshit – I found a acceptable dress. Add it to my cart? Seriously? Okay fine, I’ll play along. Watch me push a virtual cart to check-out! Payment options? What’s this, complete the transaction with PayPal?

Throwing caution to the wind I clicked PayPal. Snap, order on the way! Holy crap, I just bought a dress with virtual money handed to me for posting questions. WTF? Sweet! Can I play again? Yep, seems so – twenty minutes later, repeat performance, another dress on the way. What fun! Steady now, take a deep breath, time to act responsibly.

Phonebots


Phonebots clog city streets. Tenacious, impenetrable and defiant, they march catatonic to the glow of their hand held device. They invade crosswalks with self absorbed surety of army ants, oblivious to crossing signals, traffic flow or common decency.

Wanting to scream “what’s wrong with you!” never goes well when driving a company vehicle. Self centred numskulls always take offence. Sometimes they snap a photo of our company logo/phone number, calling to express outrage over the employee who almost ran them down. Propriety dictates polite restraint. I take a deep breath, waiting patiently for phonebots to cross the street. Every so often my inner prankster honks the horn, if I’m lucky a phonebot jumps and scurries. One time a phonebot dropped their device, I laughed out loud.

Do phonebots know how infuriating they are? Believe it their right to cross intersections with flashing “Don’t Walk” signals? Create gridlock by stepping off the curb seconds before a light changes preventing vehicles from making turns, then dawdle along with kaleidoscope eyes fixated on their cell phone? Do the self absorbed little darlings care? Absolutely not! So I sit, and I wait, and every so often I shake them up with a strategically dispatched blast of the horn. It’s hysterical, phonebots hate it when you interrupt social media dribble in the middle of an intersection at rush hour.