thwarted good samaritanism

Thursday night I got on a train and headed out to my parents' house for a weekend of sitting around, eating and generally doing nothing. (Which was excellent, by the way, thanks for asking.)

However, when I got off the train at the end of the line, I noticed that someone had left a purse on the rack over the seats, and, not really trusting the MTA's Lost & Found, I took the purse with me to my parents' house, ready to call the owner and let her know her purse was safe and sound, and in the hands of a sane, friendly person.

Except there was absolutely nothing with identification in the purse. No wallet, no ID, no mail. Nothing. Not even a library card. The only thing in there was a pair of shoes (not my style) and a huge WAD of keys. There must have been ten keys and fifteen keychains on that thing. And easily ten quick tags -- the little cards you can get from places like (oh, say for example) CVS, AAA, Sam Goody, Shop Rite, etc.

My first thought was to call AAA, of course. I dialed the number on the tag, and they asked for the ID number... which had been partially scratched off the tag by endless rubbing against sixty five keychains. I then called the car dealership that was printed on one of the keychains. Nobody answered. I started to give up hope.

My father championed the cause, and called CVS and Shop Rite (who did not treat him well, so he called the CEO to complain), with no luck.

My mother championed the cause, and took a picture of the purse, and made a poster for us to take back to the train station and hang up. Except, whenever my mother and the computer are involved, things get a little haywire.

The first poster was very simple, and looked like this:
(Except the 555-5555 was replaced with my parents' phone number. You don't need to know that. If I gave it out they'd be inundated with calls about how much time their daughter wastes. Don't bother, they already know.)

Well, we got a little giddy about the poster, and the second version looked a little more like this: I, of course, had to get my own two cents in, and reworked the poster myself (at this point, mind you, my mother and I are in such hysterics that we can't breathe, and tears are running down our cheeks. There's something about my mother's laugh that just cuts me up inside. When she gets going, it's really hard for me to stop.)
The purse sat on the countertop all weekend, staring us in the face, announcing its inappropriate presence at all hours. We sometimes carried it around, pretending it was ours. It became the butt of ugly jokes. We talked about all the things we should be doing to find its owner. (My dad mentioned posting it on my blog and I said "pshaw, Dad, I only write about intersting stuff there!") In the end, we just agreed that I would take it back to Grand Central Station on Monday, on my way to work.

Except that my sister eventually got sick of looking at it, and put it somewhere less obtrusive on Sunday night. So I forgot to grab it this morning on my way out the door.

Sheesh! Who knew it was so hard to be a good samaritan?