My coworker and I were just about to leave the office for the day, when a woman walked in the front door. She stopped, looked around the dark office and said, “Where is the birthday party?”
“There isn’t a birthday party in here,” I answered, picking up my purse.
“Yes there is!” she demanded, immediately upset.
I turned to look at her. And did a double take.
She was dressed head-to-toe as Winnie the Pooh.
I’m not making this up.
“No, there isn’t a birthday party. You’re welcome to use my phone if you need to call someone and get directions, though.”
“Yes, there is. Where to Ernie and Beatrice live?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not able to give you that information.”
“Well, do they live here?”
“I’m really sorry, but unfortunately I can’t tell you that either.”
Stomping her foot, Winnie grunted and left the office.
Little did she know that she did not intimidate me, as her fuzzy Pooh ears flopped around more and more the angrier she got.
I swear, my office just begs crazy people to come inside.
Jillian Wyatt 