Do I Have a Target on Me?

Remember back in 2006 and 2007 when my apartment was broken into? (Like, three times, but who's counting, anyway?) And everyone told me that I should move and then I started looking for a house and it took me a million years and I looked at two hundred houses and I made three different offers on three different houses and finally someone sold one to me out of pity. And it just so happens to be the house that I'm currently living in and paying a mortgage on and trying to refinance so I can pay less money on and it's also the same location WHERE SOMEONE STOLE MY GOLF CLUBS FROM CAROLYN'S CAR. Yeah. That happened.

Granted, her car was accidentally unlocked, but that's not the point. We both got all of our clubs and golf gear stolen over the weekend which totaled up to about $1450 in loss. Which is exactly that crappy point of loss when you have a $1000 deductible and filing a claim means that your insurance is going to go up $80 that will last for the next five years. Totally not worth it.

Long story short:

I called the police to report a theft from the vehicle. This conversation took place:

Me: Stuff was stolen!
Dispatcher: Did they leave behind tools or anything else?
Me: No.
Dispatcher: I'm going to give you a number to file a report over the phone.
Me: Would it make a difference if I told you I work at the crime lab and I really want an officer out here?
Dispatcher: Uuuuuummmmmm... I don't know. Hang on.
*pause*
Dispatcher: We'll be sending someone there.
Me: Thank you!

So, two officers came out and we filed the report and they fingerprinted Carolyn's car (That's a bitch to clean, in case you didn't know. PS, she hasn't yet. I keep getting a black forearm from resting my arm on her window.) and collected a few envelopes that were in the center console that ended up on the passenger side front seat, so I know Bad Guy touched them.

And we were sad.

Actually, I was enraged. If I had that power that turned me into the hulk, I would have been all "HULK SMASH!" all day long. But I don't. So I didn't. So, there's that. At least all my other stuff wasn't in tiny pieces.

Anyway, getting stuff stolen sucks. And apparently, people really like to take my things.

Listen everyone - my things are not that super extra especially nice. But it turns out, I'm highly attached to my things. So stop taking them from me. It's emotionally damaging. And it turns out, YOU WILL GET CAUGHT.

Okay, so, this is really the best part of the story. Are you ready? I don't think you're ready. Sit down or something. You are? Oh...

Three years later, after my apartment burglary, the crime lab got a CODIS hit on the swabs collected from my window screen. (See, there WAS a reason I mentioned it in the first sentence of this post.)

That's right, Jerk! The cops know who you are. You fucked with the wrong person. (I know you thought that when Remy scared the ever-loving crap out of you, but now we have a DNA database for backup. Honestly I just want to prosecute so we can have Remy testify in court. Wouldn't that be the *cutest?*)

And it turns out that the idiot that stole my golf clubs also just got caught. I got a call from my case detective today saying that they found my golf clubs (sadly Carolyn's clubs have yet to be recovered).

Apparently the police got a tip regarding a bunch of business burglaries and went to talk to their suspect in the case. He was staying at his girlfriend's apartment, she opened the door and told the police that they could come in, and BEHOLD, there were my golf clubs, right there in the apartment. Bad Guy said that he bought them at a garage sale 8 months ago, but Detective found a receipt in there from Tomahawk Hills from about a month ago for 9 holes. Yay golf league! (That was probably when it was sweltering and Carolyn wasn't there and we decided to play best ball and got a 52. Good times.)

The women's clubs and women's shoes were clearly not his, and he had a whole bunch of other stolen property like power tools and drills and chainsaws and leaf blowers and stuff. So, I had to go make a report, sign it, get a picture taken with me and all my stuff (that's weird, right?), and then I got to take all of my things home!

They also found one tan fuzzy head cover from Carolyn's golf set. That's kind of like rubbing salt in the wound, but I took it anyway. I told her it was her beacon of hope, that her clubs were out there somewhere, and one step closer to being found because now they know who Bad Guy is. (It's hard to come up with comforting bullshit when you're super happy to have your stuff back and trying not to be giddy over it because her stuff is still out there homeless and sad and missing and lonely and in need of a hug and stuff.)

So, moral of the story is this - DON'T FUCK WITH ME, BAD GUYS.

I'm glad that I've gotten this Bad Guy Public Service announcement out there for consumption. I'm serious. Just don't.


End Blog.