Victimized

While visiting my sister-in-law in Pittsburgh, Mrs. Apron and I were violated.

It was yesterday morning and we were making trips from the house to the car, loading up our overnight bags and our kosher-for-Passover roadtrip snacks. I thought I was being diligent about locking the car with the remote gizmo thing each time, but I guess I wasn't.

When it finally came time to go, after we hugged my sister-in-law goodbye and after I got a final neck-lick-a-thon from her obsessive-compulsive cairn terrier, my wife got in the car and immediately observed a smell (can you observe a smell?) that was not heretofore present in the vehicle.

It was patchouli, the scent that nine out of ten potheads prefer.

Uh-oh.... who's been sleeping in Mama's PT Cruiser?

The worst part, I think, about theft isn't what's stolen (in our case, it was our portable GPS system that we had really not done a stellar job of hiding) it's just the fact of some unauthorized shithead getting his presence and his stank all over your own personal space. I think most victims of larceny will tell you that, although they might not use the word "stank." Whoever it was also stole the emergency two dollars that we had been keeping in the glovebox, but that was it. As far as we know. Because we model the interior space of our vehicles after images of post-hurricane trailer-parks, it's difficult to ascertain exactly what's missing and what's present.

I was annoyed that he didn't steal our food bags, actually. Then at least I could have reasoned, "Well, okay, the sonofabitch is homeless, so he's going to sell the GPS for crack, fine, but at least he's also stealing food-- I can live with a Jean Valjean illegally entering our PT Cruiser if it's going to feed him, but the food was untouched.

That's probably because it was filled with pesadik brownies and figs.

I can rationalize that maybe it's good that I left the door unlocked, because otherwise, if he really wanted the GPS, he could have picked up a rock and smashed through the passenger-side window, and that really would have sucked-- because we would have had to undertake the six-hour drive back to Philadelphia from Pittsburgh with a trashbag taped to the door frame, and that's just not cool. Part of me wished that I'd seen him in the car, that I could have intervened, but those fantasies of heroism could easily end with me getting shot and, over a GPS unit (an entry-level model at that) is that really worth it?

Fortunately, we didn't need the GPS unit to get from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia. It's 76-West. For 310 miles.

It's funny-- part of me desperately wants to feel bad for people who steal, especially in these economic times. Part of me wants to pull their balls off and stick them in their eye sockets. I'd never really been the victim of crime before, and I guess you can't know how you're going to feel about it until it happens to you. After I realized it happened, I felt shitty. Like a fool.

I hope that GPS unit buys you a nice rock of crack, you bastard. One thing, though: if you can afford a bottle of patchouli oil with which to slather yourself from head to toe, you can afford to take a fucking shower, too.