The cruel irony is that all I want to do right now is hit somebody.

A person (or persons) unknown broke into my car last night. I’ve been running back and forth between two jobs and two residences (I’m currently dog-sitting) and have not paid much mind to keeping valuables out of view — as such, my briefcase with all my notary supplies, my formal leather, and most of my paddles (including the Notarizer) are gone.

I thought about throwing the mother of all privileged, white-boy tantrums, but instead decided on due grownup diligence and called my insurance company. I filed a police report as well, since I’ve got to submit formal notice of the stolen notary stamp and journal to the Secretary of State’s office. The police took my name and number and said an evaluator would be calling me back shortly, and the conversation that ensued when she did almost totally made up for the whole traumatic violation of personal property thing.

Evaluator: “Hello, I’m [name], calling from HPD. I understand your vehicle was broken into?”

Me: “Yes, it was, unfortunately.”

[She runs down a list of questions about make and model, license plate number, extent of damage, etc. And then…]

Evaluator: “Was anything stolen from the vehicle?”

Me: “Yes, several things.”

Evaluator: “What was the first thing you noticed missing?”

Me: “A gray leather shirt and black leather pants.”

Evaluator: “And what else was taken?”

Me: “A bag of paddles.”

Evaluator: “A bag of… paddles?”

Me: “Yes.”

Evaluator: “Like ping-pong paddles?”

Me: “Paddles for spanking.”

Evaluator: “Spanking.”

Me: “Yes.”

[long pause]

Me: “I figured honesty was the best policy.”

Evaluator: “Um… I’m not sure how to catalog this.”

Me: “Well, you could call them recreational items.”

Evaluator: “…”

Me: “Or theatre props.”

Evaluator: “Yes! Theatre props! That’s perfect!

Me: [dies laughing]

Evaluator: [trying to remain focused but clearly tickled out of her mind] “Okay. Theatre props.” [guffaw, deep breath] “Got it. What next?”

Me: “A gray canvas briefcase.”

Evaluator: “What was in the briefcase?”

Me: “A notary stamp and journal.”

Evaluator: “WHAT?!? OH, MY GOD. SOMEONE COULD BE OUT THERE FRAUDULANTLY NOTARIZING THINGS UNDER YOUR NAME.”

Me: “I KNOW.”

Evaluator: “I AM SO GLAD YOU REPORTED THIS.”

Me: “SO AM I.”

Even if we didn’t really need to raise our voices, the solidarity was as refreshing as it was validating. Also, I want to marry her, if only because she probably owns a gun, and that is high up on my list of relationship ideals at the moment.

I hope she doesn’t make me live in the suburbs, but I’m pretty sure people don’t steal paddles there, so I guess it’ll be okay.

UPDATE: I got another call later this afternoon, from a random CPA who was like, “You don’t know me, but I just found something belonging to you in the alley behind my office.”

imageedit_4_7436868034

Out of everything that got stolen, this was the one truly irreplaceable item. The Dark Gods of Vengeance may not have come through on my humble request for a crimson spectacle of divine retribution, but at least I know They’re down with consolation prizes.

2 thoughts on “The cruel irony is that all I want to do right now is hit somebody.

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