During my years, I have catalogued several ways that make for a bad morning waking up. One is when my mom is in the kitchen banging and clanging pots and pans around as if she’s Emeril Lagasse. Two is if my mom decides to scream at me – when you’re suddenly brought to consciousness by screaming, you automatically panic and go on the defensive and are quite sure that you have done nothing wrong.
But both of those have nothing on someone, no matter how sweet and fluffy their voice is, slipping into your room and saying, “Erin, the garage has been broken into.”
My brother would probably disagree. He would probably say that someone flying into his room in a near-murderous rage and saying, “Kevin, you got my fucking Ipod stolen (This is the third Ipod stolen compliment of Kevin),” is even worse.
Yes, my Ipod was stolen. Call it women’s intuition, but as soon as I heard the garage was broken into, I knew my beloved Ipod that accompanies me to the gym at least six days a week was gone. I threw on my robe (and managed to pull it close), rushed through the house, and pulled open my car door to find my Ipod…gone. I can’t begin to tell you how pissed I was.
I was/am so pissed, that if I caught the person, I would beat them. Yes, it seems severe, to beat someone for an Ipod, but this I my Ipod that I bought with my money, and I’m nowhere close to being a millionaire, even a thousandaire. I work for a non-profit organization and live with my mother.
Had it been an Ipod from Circuit City or Best Buy that got stolen, hey, that’s a thief’s prerogative, but do not steal from a person who drives a 2001 GOLD Saturn. I may not be the religious type, but you can guarantee that IF YOU STOLE MY IPOD I AM PRAYING FOR THE ETERNAL DAMNATION OF YOUR SOUL!
Anyway, I am FUMING, Kevin is shaking his head apologizing because this is really looking like it was his fault, and Andrea is laughing all this up. She can laugh; all she has is a busted Discman, not an Ipod she paid $272.00 for when it came time to add taxes.
Well, she didn’t laugh for long. Kevin went out and checked his car, then came in and told her that her car was unlocked. It was her chance to now berate Kevin until my mom pointed out that her car was left outside and the garage door open or closed would have had no bearing on it.
She quickly changes to blame Hans, her Danish fiancé who is visiting for a few days, then flies out the front door to check her car. Thankfully she has so much shit it in, that the thieves thought it was a lost cause. You see, when you open Andrea’s door, gossip magazines, random shoes, CD cases (the CDs themselves are not inside of them), and other various items fall out onto the ground.
My mother obviously called the cops and we’re thankful for a little thing called Home Owners Insurance which will hopefully get me a brand-spanking new Ipod touch (which could possibly be the silver-lining). Kevin leaves as we’re making the crime report because no one broke into his car. A few minutes later, we receive a call. Kevin has a missing textbook.
“Who steals a textbook?” I wonder aloud.
We’re pondering this because even when I paid $200-300 for a textbook, I was lucky to get $20-25 back from the bookstore when I turned the book in. Wait! Turned the book in…for money…a plan begins to form in my mind and I am suddenly happy that I can fulfill this rage inside of me and possibly beat the criminal to a bloody pulp. All I have to do is stake out the text rental places. We have enough man-power here that we should be able to cover multiple locations, and that little fucker would have no choice but to hand my Ipod over or let me beat him with whatever weapon is handiest (I bet I can find a beer bottle in Andrea’s car…THAT would be great).
Kevin then tells me that the book is something about racism in the media. My heart falls because sitting on a table in the living room is a book titled Racism, Sexism, and the Media the Rise of Class Communication in Multicultural Areas. I ask him if this is the book, and he’s quiet before he admits that yes, it is the book in question. He brought it in Saturday night in a drunken haze to read to Andrea. Apparently he was so drunk he forgot he brought it in. He even forgot the dog tried to hump him…three times. And there go my perfectly laid plans.
My mom suggests shopping after the officer leaves, and I agree. We get on the road and despite the 9-degree temperature, the sun is brutal and I pull out my Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses. And I flip. I had a pair of Versace glasses in my car. If my Ipod AND my Versace’s are gone SOMEONE is dead. I don’t care if I have to attack the paperboy, someone knows something and I am going to beat someone to get my now $400 worth of merchandise back.
All throughout the mall, the organic pet store, Sam’s, and the best little chocolate store, I am worrying about my sunglasses – the small amount of luxury I can afford to indulge myself with - that someone has now relieved me of. I find it hard to be sympathetic to the unemployed’s plight when I held two and at a time three jobs simultaneously. Yeah, it sucked to work so much, but I did it so I could afford to buy myself an Ipod and Versace and YSL sunglasses and not resort to stealing them from poor unsuspecting people who drive gold Saturns.
That is what really gets me. You can tell from my car that I don’t have a lot of money because what person would choose to drive a gold Saturn if they had the money for something better? And why can’t you just prey on those people with their big gas-guzzling SUVs? If they can afford to pump premium into a car that gets 12 mpg on the highway, they can afford to replace their Ipods and Versace sunglasses.
After we’ve wrapped our shopping, I am anxious to get home and check out my car. Of course, people are driving like a bunch of idiots and I suddenly yell at someone who pulls out in front of my mom and then proceeds to drive his monstrous SUV as if there were 2 feet of snow on the ground.
“I hope someone steals your Ipod!” I yell at him from within the car.
My mom looks at me as if I’m crazy and I explain the mania, the murderous rage that is boiling in marrow of my bones because even if I get a new Ipod, I now have to reload all the songs onto it and then redo all of my playlists. And I need certain music at six in the morning to get me through my workout. Sonsabitches!
With frayed nerves, we arrive home. I move the Dick’s Sporting Goods boxes that were in the floorboard and see the little white case sitting under the boxes saying “Versace.” I open them and they are there. So are the cheap ALDO sunglasses in the Valentino box (A faux pair I bought in Chinatown and then broke three months later).
OH MY GOD! Thank god!
And then I remember my blue jacket chilling in the backseat. I wore it when I went Christmas shopping on Saturday and bought stuff for my Nana. She gave me a $100 bill to repay me. I flip now as I grab the jacket and reach into the pocket I was sure it was in. Only…the pocket is empty. My heart dives into my stomach. That was the money I was going to use to buy Rachelle’s present. MOTHER FUCK! In a fit of desperation, I plunge my hand into the other pocket and pull out a ONE-HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL!
I nearly collapse out of jubilation. They may have ripped off my Ipod, but they apparently thought my gold Saturn was too much of a piece of shit to yield any more treasure. Little did they know that under the boxes and down comforter (which was chilling in the backseat as well) there were designer sunglasses and $100 in cash.
Later that day, Kevin and I were driving somewhere and I once again hurled the Ipod insult. He looked at me like I was crazy until I yelled, “Why don’t you go screw your balls,” long dramatic pause, “ON! Because they’re clearly not attached!”
“Wow,” he said.
I gave him a dirty look. “You don’t understand, but this Ipod gone is an insult to me. My workouts are going to be hell now.”
“Don’t you read when you’re on the treadmill?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“So…you do…three things? Run, read, and listen to music?”
“Yes,” is my reply.
“Wow,” he says.
Wow is right.
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