Why does one disagreement with the spouse make a woman up and grab the wrong purse -- sans checkbook?

Happened to grab the wrong retro-trendy purse. The one without the little holes that eat loose change in the bottom. My sistahs out there know which one I mean. . . the one with genuine leather, signature logo. 

But n’NOOOOO. I happened to grab the Goodwill purse. The one you got at the "everything half off" sale with the loose jingling change between the outer purse material and the inner cloth liner with the "penny snatcher" hole. The one you can brag to your mother about to prove you are truly frugal even though you can''t find a decent job, but still want to look good. (Every handbag owner has AT LEAST one of those.)

Hiding next to the melted cough drop was a Canadian dollar coin. Wouldn''t  risk deportation before parting with that national treasure. The scavenger hunt continues. . .

Found 1 dime in the auto ash tray.  Scrounged up 2 nickels between the outdated Anita Baker and Phil Perry CDs, circa 1900s.

Found a few facsimiles of rusty lookin'' objects that once passed for pennies behind an old school cassette audio purchased from the bargain bin at some out of state store called "Crazy Ollies" in Gettysburg, PA. . .

Happened to be blessed with seven more pennies from heaven disguised as shadow people hiding under the passenger seats in the back of my van seats. (Thank God for grandchildren.)

If it was still 1999, I''d have enough for first class postage. $ zero dollars and thirty two less inflated cents. . .

Had about 23 bucks in interest left on the debit card. (Even though I have questionable richter scale credit history like most Americans--no fault of any of us if truth be told)  I never leave home without it.)

Sooooooo (y''all can "yawn" now ... ) I did what any "Type A" personality would do. . . the absurd.

Walked into the post office on 12th Street.  Smiled at the only male clerk with my desperately seeking eyes, anticipating the climax of that wondrously fulfilling four-letter word. . .      "NEXT!"

Showed him my stampless self addressed unstamped envelope. Gave him 32 very abused looking cents from my clammy palm. Pulled out my debit card and said. . .

" I grabbed the wrong purse. Left my change at home. All I need is one stamp. Here''s 32 cents. Can you put the balance on my debit card."

"You want to put a nickel on your debit card, right?"

"Yes, just five cents. Do I look like a materialistic woman to you?That''s all I need sir. Just five cents."

There was an interesting look on the female clerk next to him as she stopped weighing a pack of parcels left from the customer before I arrived at the counter. A look that seemed to say "Thank you God for not sticking me with THAT woman!"

My clerk looked back at me in the same unemotional USPS way that most postal workers are taught at training. That "I''m-supposed-to-act--professional-but-you-gotta-be-insane-with-this-request" look.

I just looked at him, smiled and said, "Hey, I''ve got six handbags and just happened to grab the wrong one."

He turned up his bottom lip, and took my debit card probably thinking no way the customer is ALWAYS right. But, since he was sworn in as a government agent who knew more about matters of mail than people who attend cocktail parties who pretend to be government agents, he kindly obliged my desires to not agitate his patron whom he had no idea as to whether or not she would go "postal" on him.

Besides, this man had no idea of knowing whether or not I was some crazed relative of an FBI felon push-pinned to the break room wall between the overworked coffeemaker and the vending machine.

Then came, the miracle. He handed me back my debit card, pulled off a $0.37 cent stamp from a sheet that was worth more than the balance in the personal debit account, and pushed it swiftly toward the counter as if he wanted know one to know.

 "Take it." He said as if to shoo off some homeless peddler on the street begging for cough syrup money. "Just take it."

“Are you sure?" I didn''t want to end up with my face on the "most wanted" list for stealing from the post office, you know?

"Just take the stamp, and go." Then he gave me a receipt for, of all things, $0.37."

There is was. An face unknown to me of some playwright or musician from a byegone era. Perhaps an artist or historian who was depreciated by a nickel from someone who never cared about their career before they died.

At least it wasn''t an Elvis stamp. For that reason alone, I''m gonna pay that clerk back, and double his investment. He spared me embarrassment, even saved me a nickel on my debit card. 

So the next time that unappreciated clerk is fiddling around in his five pocket khakis for an extra nickel to free that neglected $0.75 cent cheese sandwich imprisoned in the break room vending machine, he''ll be able to set it free, all because of a priceless act of kindness for a writer unafraid to ask.