Once upon a time, in a house a few miles away, I was burgled. Or, rather, Ex-Ex and I were burgled. Which was only cool in that we got to go around saying, “We’ve been burgled!”
Two teenagers and their uncle literally broke down our back door. They took electronics, a blender (really), and a bottle of Kahlua. I guess it’s the beverage choice of deadbeats.
I discovered the scene, called the cops, and had the distinct pleasure of seeing every pair of underwear that I owned strewn about the bedroom – a byproduct of the punks digging through dresser drawers. I arranged for a neighbor to board up the door. And I called Ex-Ex, who was traveling for business.
He yelled at me.
I stayed in a hotel because none of my friends were home. When I arrived at the police station at 7 a.m. the next morning, responding to a call that they had recovered our stuff? Well, I was treated to a show from a rather angry woman brought in by a bounty hunter. I sat in my little Gap jeans and fleece jacket, clutched my little Coach bag and kept my eyes on the floor in the too-small waiting room. I found myself rocking back and forth to the time of my new mantra: “I am a bad-ass bitch. I am a bad-ass bitch.”
I had the door replaced. I navigated the insurance nightmare. I cleaned up the house – including the dust the cops used to lift prints – before Ex-Ex got home. I wanted to save him from the trauma of seeing our home ransacked.
It was all fine. But really? It’s not an experience I would wish on anyone.
So now, seven years later, I receive this e-mail from Ex-Ex:
Well, our old friends are back. I guess every seven years they deem it appropriate to break into my house. This time, they were quite brazen and kicked in the front door, then stole my two televisions. Thought you of all people would appreciate this latest turn of events. Considering the last experience with the insurance company, I’m considering not filing a claim.
How are you?
Why? Why, why, why are you contacting me to tell me you got burgled? Bet you’re amazed at all the work involved in cleaning up from such a mess, huh? And how can I not respond to this message without outing myself as a Grade A bitch?
Luckily, Alice came to the rescue. She drafted this little ditty:
Funny how life operates in cycles. May the next cycle be that someone who slowly rips your heart out and screws you out of money tries to be your friend and e-mails you about things as if you give a shit.
Oh, I do so like that Alice. She’s got style.
So. Do I send the message? Or do I ignore the whole business and instead return to my own regularly scheduled programming, where I have discovered that I kind of have a boyfriend and I am more than kind of falling really hard for him?