My husband, toddler, and I are getting ready to go on a hike. I have a Shewee — a female urination device — so I don’t have to squat in the woods. I’m having a hard time finding where I put it last.

Me: “I’ve got to stop misplacing my pee thing.”

Husband: “Huh, I don’t have that problem.”

A few years ago, I tried online dating. I started talking to a guy who portrayed himself as being fairly wealthy, with pictures of sports cars, beach houses, and mountain resorts filling his profile page. I tried asking him a few times in our online chats how his family earned their apparent wealth, but I never got a straight answer from him.

After chatting through the site for a few weeks, we agreed to go out to dinner. Our server was super friendly and entertaining, and every bite of food was delicious. When the servers asked if we’d be paying together or separate, I tried to say separate, but my date interrupted and insisted that he would pay for everything. I initially protested, but I remembered all the signs of wealth from his dating profile and gave in and let him pay.

When he filled out the payment slip, I noticed that he only added about a 3% tip; he just rounded up to the next whole dollar and called it good.

Me: “Hey, you should leave more of a tip. She was awesome tonight, and our food was great.”

Guy: “Nah, that’s plenty. Come on, let’s head out.”

I ended up leaving a $20 bill on the table while my date was walking out. We went our separate ways after leaving the restaurant, and after stewing over it for a few days, I decided to message him on the dating site to tell him that I didn’t think things were going to work out between us.

Guy: “Why not? I really like talking to you, and we had fun on our date, didn’t we?”

Me: “Yeah, it was fun, but honestly, you leaving such a small tip kind of stood out in a bad way. I worked as a waitress in high school and college, and if I got that small a tip on such a great meal, I would have felt terrible.”

Guy: “Look, I’ll be honest. I was kind of short on cash that night, so I couldn’t afford a bigger tip. I wasn’t trying to stiff her or anything. I would have left more if I knew it would be that big a deal for you.”

Me: “If you were short on cash, I could have paid for my own meal. I let you pay because you insisted on it, and you have all those pictures on here showing fancy cars and vacations, so I thought you had plenty of money.”

Guy: “Those are all photoshopped. I couldn’t get any girls when I had regular pictures, so I had to do something to get dates. And I know what you’re going to say, but we had so much fun talking and everything. Just give me a chance to show you who I am, and I know we can make this work.”

Me: “Okay, now we’re definitely done. Bye, [Guy].”

I blocked him immediately and ended up deleting my account on that site a few weeks later. I started questioning every guy’s profile that I saw and couldn’t get over the idea that they might all be lying just to get a date.

I live in Italy. I’ve always been a fan of British men’s clothing, especially the country, gentlemanly style, but as a young student, I cannot justify the expense. While on a vacation in Cambridge, my girlfriend spots a jacket on the stand of a secondhand clothes vendor. It’s just what I am after: single-breasted with notch lapels and four-button cuffs, in a warm green corduroy. It’s as British as a red phone booth, it fits my size, and the price is a bargain. Of course, we snatch it up.

Once we’re back home, my girlfriend is getting ready to take the jacket to the dry cleaner and starts laughing.

Me: “What’s so funny?”

She points at the label stitched within the inside pocket: “Made in Italy”.

My husband’s cell phone rings. After the preliminary “Hello” and irrelevant details:

Caller: “This is [Caller] with [Investment Company] and it’s time for your semi-annual account review. When can we schedule a call with your representative?”

Husband: “Let me check my calendar. Hon, have you seen my phone?”

I just laughed and laughed. Yes, he found it… in his hand!

It’s January of 2009. I am a regular at a bar a few blocks from my house. One of the bartenders is absolutely eye-catching: tall, blonde, busty, leggy, and openly transgender. She gets hit on at least twenty times a night by drunk customers. I know she would resent it — and turn me down — if I were to go over to her and use spoken words to hit on her, so I devise a different plan.

I take one of my social cards — a card with my name, phone number, and email on it — and tuck it inside a written note.

My Note: “I have been admiring you and crushing on you for months. I can’t believe how well you handle all the drunks who say crude things about you. You are clearly kind, caring, patient, and good-hearted, as well as beautiful. If you’d like to contact me, feel free. My information is enclosed.”

I hand the note to the bar’s owner and tell her to pass it to the bartender in question when she gets off shift (which I know will be in a few minutes). The owner does so, and when the bartender reads it, I can see the owner pointing toward me. I leave after the game I’m watching is finished.

The next day, the owner passes me a note from the bartender.

Bartender’s Note: “If I wasn’t already in a relationship, I’d call you. Thanks for not being a jerk like the other dudes.” 

Fast forward to July of 2009. I’m sitting on a park bench watching people tossing Frisbees, kicking soccer balls, and picnicking, when my favorite bartender walks up along with a tall brunette. The brunette introduces herself as the bartender’s romantic partner.

Brunette: “Thank you for doing what you did when you did it. [Bartender] was going through a really rough mental health period, and having someone say nice things about her rather than just hearing drunks leer at her chest and legs helped get her back into a good mental state.”

As of now, they’re still together, and both are doing well now that the worst of the global health crisis has passed.