“This has my picture on it,” I said, showing her my passport that Homeland Security accepted the last time I flew.
By then a front-end manager came over and probably felt sorry for me, or more likely saw the customers piling up behind me. He took my key-chain store-discount card and said he could clear it through customer service. A short minute later he came back and said, ‘No.’ The computer said I hadn’t written a check there in a long while so I needed my driver’s license.
“Do you have another form of payment?” she asked, to which I said ‘No,’ repeating, calmly, that I left my cash and debit card at home.
“Sorry,” she said. “I can’t do anything else for you.”
Completely frustrated, I started poking around my purse again and noticed my American Express credit card. Charge $15.15 of groceries on American Express? That grated against every financial-responsibility grain of my very being, but I swiped the card and it was accepted. I couldn’t believe that whole fiasco.
When I got home and told Toby that I was missing my cards, he said he saw my white purse on the table and noticed it’s empty. Now I am worried.
I checked the bedroom nightstand, the dining room table, the couch cushions, and finally, the computer room. There it was, my red card case, setting off to the side, where I do not remember placing it, but, at least I found it.
“I hate it when I do things like that; I sure feel like an old fool,” I groaned.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Toby said. “It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last time you do something like that.”
Not what I wanted to hear.