I've finally broken down and accepted the fact that I am never going to be an anal-retentive person whose car is so clean as to be completely barren of any attraction to would-be thieves. I've also realized that what little "luck" I have will run out, and I will someday be victimized by a car thief who actually knows how to steal a car. And since my car is now many miles past its factory warranty, I no longer have to worry about violating it by using an "after-market" product.
So I, like many cell-phone-toting, Blackberry-worshiping, Palm-piloting others, plan to compensate for my general carelessness and lack of organizational skills with an overpriced electronic gadget. I'm buying a car alarm. Did you hear that, scumbags? A car alarm. A big, loud, shrieking one that yells, "Get the f*** away from my car, @$hole!" Of course, I won't be able to set it at home, because I doubt that it would deter my overweight cat from sitting on top of my car to keep his feet dry when it rains. Or the giant raccoon from knocking the trashcans into my front bumper as he tips them over. But it would make me even more unpopular with the neighbors than my Kerry-Edwards bumper sticker does.
I'm sorely tempted to go for the whole enchilada: keyless entry, remote start. Not that I need it, but it makes it feel more like I'm getting revenge than caving in. "Look, scumbags, you think you've got me cowering in fear because you made me buy a car alarm, but ha-ha, I am living BETTER than I was before you smashed my window and stole my stuff!"
When I got done being panicked about being robbed (funny, the more times you go through it, the easier it gets), and finished the usual routine -- police report (clothed, this time, unlike in last post's adventures), freeze the bank account (though I realized afterwards that my checks actually hadn't been stolen), try to remember what I left where in the car and if any of it was worth anything, call the auto glass guy -- I tried to settle into my usual "could have been worse," glass-half-full mode. It didn't work as well this time, though.
Maybe I'm just tired and cranky, but a really stubborn part of me remains supremely pi$$ed off that I can't leave stuff in my car when it's convenient to do so. Why shouldn't I pull an all-nighter at work and swing by Starbucks on my way home instead of interrupting my flow to pack up a load of stuff, transfer a bunch of files, and fight traffic all the way to my safe, suburban home in the sticks to realize that I left something I need sitting on my desk 35 minutes and a gallon of gas away? And why do I, and apparently an ever-growing portion of the population, have to live in the sticks to feel safe, anyway?
The first time my car was vandalized, I was living in a quaint (read: run-down-but-not-yet- falling-down) apartment in the "historic district" of a city in Virginia. Which meant that most of my neighbors were paying a lot more than I was to live in not-quite-as-run-down apartments, and the only place to park was on the street. When I came home from work one day, there were two African-American kids on one bicycle riding down my street. I parked my car and started walking to my apartment, and the little voice in my head said, "you shouldn't leave your stuff in your car; go back and get it." I quickly dismissed it as the most racist thought I had ever had; I was embarrassed to let those two boys see me look at them, see that they were Black, and then think better of leaving stuff in my car. I walked on into my apartment, praising myself for being so liberal and enlightened.
The next morning, as I stood outside waiting for the tow truck to retrieve my undrivable car with the broken window and busted ignition, I had a fleeting thought that maybe I needed to be a little less liberal. I did also briefly think that my little voice might be psychic.
Many break-ins later (read the post before this one), I think I'm not psychic, just resigned. Which, I want to think, is not the same as being prejudiced, or even pessimistic. I'm not saying that the two boys on the bicycle broke into my car all those years ago, or that I know anything about any of the thieves I've attracted in the years since (except that one of them was named Tony and had a jealous girlfriend). I just know that the way I choose to live my life (leaving my car parked in a public space at night with stuff in it) is apparently so much of a temptation for some people that they can't do the right thing and leave my $h!t alone. It's a good thing they've never seen me in a short skirt and high heels.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Life in the big city
I had planned to return to my long-neglected blog with a lighthearted post about my new striptease aerobics class (the best part so far has been the reaction I get when I tell former boyfriends about it). In fact, I planned to set aside some time this weekend to write, play Ms. Fix-it around the house, and check out Soup Sunday. I burned a good bit of midnight oil at work on Friday night; I had a project that I wanted to get done before Monday, and I didn't want to have to work on it over the weekend. Could have taken it home, but things were clicking along well at my desk and I just kept plugging away.
I wasn't altogether surprised that my car got broken into. In fact, I guess I expected it. Despite having been a victim a few times before, I haven't broken the bad habit of leaving stuff in my car. Especially stuff that I know I'm going to need to put back in my car in the near future. I guess I should look on the bright side: now there's less to take out.
As is usually my luck in victimhood, the thieves didn't get anything that will be of much use to them. In fact, my vehicles seem to attract dumb crooks. The first time my car got burglarized, my favorite backpack was taken. Since it was before the dawn of online banking, I had the remains of my monthly bill-paying (but no wallet and no checks) in the bag. The woman at the student loan company was quite amused when I called to get a new book of payment coupons. I told her to be sure to let me know if anyone actually mailed a payment in with one of the old ones.
Those first thieves of mine had apparently seen the episode of COPS, I think my friend said it was, where they talked about how you can start a car by jamming a screwdriver into the ignition and forcing it to turn. Obviously they didn't pay close enough attention, 'cause it didn't work for them. And I learned the peril of buying a new cheap imported car instead of a used one: spare parts are hard to come by in the first year or so. Mine had to come off an assembly line in Japan, or so the dealer said. But I think he was getting a kickback from the rental car place.
So I opted to lease American next time around. This time the thieves popped the lock out of the door and went straight (and unsuccessfully) for the standard issue factory radio, conveniently (for me) ignoring the $60 in cash I had stashed in the center console. A later go-round (when my car happened to be relatively empty) yielded the thief about $2 in change and my boyfriend's $9 watch from Wal-Mart. He left the $150 cowboy hat and a $1000 dent where his first attempt to throw a brick through the window went wide to the right.
Perhaps the most memorable episode was the one where I actually got some of my stuff back. Two of the city's finest showed up on my doorstep at an obscene hour of the morning, having found my address on an old parking ticket (of course I've paid it, Officer) that had been in my glove box. My dazed roommate let them in, and I stumbled into the living room in my underwear before she had a chance to warn me. Hard to say who was most embarrassed, 'cause I, unlike the cops, wasn't awake enough to care all that much. My things had been stuffed into my backpack (not my favorite one, which I've never been able to replace) and dumped in a parking lot.
That was also the first time I actually had any personal contact with my thief, or at least someone who knew him. After replacing my stolen cell phone, I got a call from a girl who sounded very indignant that I, a female, had answered my own phone. I asked her who had called her from that number, and she told me that Tony had called her the night before. I let her get good and jealous before I told her that her beloved Tony wasn't a playa, he was just a lousy thief.
Since most of my bad automotive luck has occurred in the parking lots of bars, for a while I thought that God was trying to tell me to quit drinking so much. So last night I skipped a planned trip to the bar and worked late instead. Wonder what God's trying to tell me now?
I wasn't altogether surprised that my car got broken into. In fact, I guess I expected it. Despite having been a victim a few times before, I haven't broken the bad habit of leaving stuff in my car. Especially stuff that I know I'm going to need to put back in my car in the near future. I guess I should look on the bright side: now there's less to take out.
As is usually my luck in victimhood, the thieves didn't get anything that will be of much use to them. In fact, my vehicles seem to attract dumb crooks. The first time my car got burglarized, my favorite backpack was taken. Since it was before the dawn of online banking, I had the remains of my monthly bill-paying (but no wallet and no checks) in the bag. The woman at the student loan company was quite amused when I called to get a new book of payment coupons. I told her to be sure to let me know if anyone actually mailed a payment in with one of the old ones.
Those first thieves of mine had apparently seen the episode of COPS, I think my friend said it was, where they talked about how you can start a car by jamming a screwdriver into the ignition and forcing it to turn. Obviously they didn't pay close enough attention, 'cause it didn't work for them. And I learned the peril of buying a new cheap imported car instead of a used one: spare parts are hard to come by in the first year or so. Mine had to come off an assembly line in Japan, or so the dealer said. But I think he was getting a kickback from the rental car place.
So I opted to lease American next time around. This time the thieves popped the lock out of the door and went straight (and unsuccessfully) for the standard issue factory radio, conveniently (for me) ignoring the $60 in cash I had stashed in the center console. A later go-round (when my car happened to be relatively empty) yielded the thief about $2 in change and my boyfriend's $9 watch from Wal-Mart. He left the $150 cowboy hat and a $1000 dent where his first attempt to throw a brick through the window went wide to the right.
Perhaps the most memorable episode was the one where I actually got some of my stuff back. Two of the city's finest showed up on my doorstep at an obscene hour of the morning, having found my address on an old parking ticket (of course I've paid it, Officer) that had been in my glove box. My dazed roommate let them in, and I stumbled into the living room in my underwear before she had a chance to warn me. Hard to say who was most embarrassed, 'cause I, unlike the cops, wasn't awake enough to care all that much. My things had been stuffed into my backpack (not my favorite one, which I've never been able to replace) and dumped in a parking lot.
That was also the first time I actually had any personal contact with my thief, or at least someone who knew him. After replacing my stolen cell phone, I got a call from a girl who sounded very indignant that I, a female, had answered my own phone. I asked her who had called her from that number, and she told me that Tony had called her the night before. I let her get good and jealous before I told her that her beloved Tony wasn't a playa, he was just a lousy thief.
Since most of my bad automotive luck has occurred in the parking lots of bars, for a while I thought that God was trying to tell me to quit drinking so much. So last night I skipped a planned trip to the bar and worked late instead. Wonder what God's trying to tell me now?
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