Help! I've been robbed!

It was a little bit my fault, but Jeez…

The other day I had a busy busy morning scheduled. You know, the type of day that makes most people start to sweat, but for me, The MOT, it’s just another day of errands to be completed before 11 am. I had to go to the bank, close an account, go to another bank, get the title for my car (yep, all paid up! Thanks, DH!), go to T.J.’s and pick up a few organic bits and pieces, go to a consignment shop to see what kind of money I could get for the babies’ old Absorba and Catamini/Minimini outfits, and go to Old Navy to load up on V-neck tee shirts in perfect fit. They are 3 for $12, and since the boys yank the hell outta everything I wear, I might as well wear cheap-o tee shirts with my Isaac Mizrahi skirts as not.

I had to get all the above completed before 11:00 am, because I had an appointment down town to have my hair restored to its convict length. It’s just too darn hot. (According to the Kinsey report, every average guy you know, much prefers his lovey dovey to court when the temperature is low. But when the thermometer goes way up, and the weather is sizzling hot, Mister Pants for romance is not…because it’s too darn hot! It’s too darn hot! It’s toooo daaarrrn bad I have to burst into Cole Porter in the middle of a blog as well as in life, please excuse me.)

Song and dance aside, I was doing well. I got a load of laundry in the washer and the clothes from the washer on the line, made a few calls and got outta the house by 9:00. The DH had taken Mister A and Mister B to the playground, so knew they were safe and happy. I stopped at Bank One, then at Bank Two and then went to the consignment shop. That’s where it all went down.

I entered the shop carrying my wallet in one hand and two bags of clothes in the other. I put the wallet and the bags on the counter and started discussing the clothes with the female there. She said she’d give me two dollars per outfit. Hellooo? I pointed out that these outfits cost, on average, $75 each new. She looked a bit taken aback. Now, just so y’all aren’t taken aback, or a front, or any which way, I got the clothes for about $20 each on eBay. I’m not a complete sap. Anyway, I said, and this might have been a tactical error, “I guess I’ll take these things to a shop in Old Saybrook, or somewhere more snooty. Ha ha.” I really said the words “Ha ha” to let her know I was get a-foolin’, and she smiled back, but now I think she was not amused.

I got into my paid-off car and went to T.J.’s. I parked and reached over on the car seat for my little red wallet, but...it wasn’t there. I knew what had happened; I had left it in the consignment shop! I called them up right away. I had the number in my cell phone because I had called as I was driving over to check what time they opened.

Me: (all friendly) Hi! I was just there with some children’s clothes and I left my wallet on your counter!

Woman on phone: (sounding unimpressed) Oh, let me look, Honey. (Pause of two seconds) Nope, no wallet here.

Me: Thanks.

I zoomed back anyway, all the while praying to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, to help me find what is missing, Nel nome del Padre e del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo, Amen.

I zipped into the store and saw the same three women were there, helping a few customers. I asked and asked and looked around, but no one saw a thing; so they said. Now, just so you know, I had called between 10 and 12 minutes after I left the store, all my errands were in the same neighborhood, and I got back to the shop about 20 minutes after I had first left. What can happen in 12 minutes? Two situations come to mind. One: the wallet fell on the floor, and, due to the plushness of the carpet, I did not hear it drop. (That’s sarcasm by the by. It’s a cheesy shop and the threadbare carpet wouldn’t muffle the footfalls of an ant.) A customer, who came in after I had departed and left before I made the call, saw it and scooped it up. Situation two: The woman who was manning the counter saw me leave it there and either didn’t notice at first, or didn’t like my snooty remark and didn’t tell me it had left it behind. Then, once I was gone, she took it. Shehad a look inside, saw it was a Coach wallet, full of cash, I had just closed a bank account remember, saw my big ole birthday check from Mumsie, saw the gold Amex and decided to teach the snooty be-atch with her fancy clothes a lesson.

Naturally, I would like the think the former, but the latter situation is somehow more plausible. A friend, to whom I related my take of woe, told me of a study performed by his alma mater. The study was a test of basic human honesty/decency. A wallet, full o’ cash money and some ID, was left in a public place. A hidden camera recorded what people did upon the discovery of the wallet. About 70 percent picked it up, took a peek and took off. Only a small percentage of the people tried to return it at all, a slightly larger percentage took the money and returned the ID.

Hmmm. I tend to believe in the basic greediness of my fellow man, so I have no expectation of anything being returned. However, membership does have its privileges! Did you know that Amex not only got me a new card, Fed Ex’ed overnight, but they also called my Master Card, Nordstrom and Discover for me? AND, the best of all, they faxed the DMV to get me a new driver’s license! I love Amex, I really do. If that weren’t good enough, later I discovered I had tidied up the wallet, and had taken my childrens’ pictures and the gift cards for B and N out and put them into the pocket of my handbag. I was relieved not to have lost my photographs, let me tell you!

This was also an interesting robbery from a historical perspective. Many years ago, when I was mightily insecure and not yet convinced of my worth as a human being, I used to date this freakin’ scumbag, who totally brainwashed me into thinking I was unable to live without him. Or get dressed without him, or speak without him, or get a haircut without him, you get the idea. Anyway, this troll, who shall go by the alias Tommy Rodriguez, used to also get me to pay for all the grocery shopping. One time, as I was getting all the shopping bags into the car, I put my wallet on the car roof. Yep, you guessed it, I was so busy thinking of this that and t’other, and so busy being insecure, I drove off. By the time I realized it, it was almost half an hour later and the wallet was definitely gone; I lived in the big city at the time. I was VERY upset, because it was not only a wallet, but also a Filofax, with all my addresses and some photos and my lovely lapis lazuli Waterman pen clipped on the side. I actually cried. As my chips were down, this freakin’ slimeball had the nerve to say, “Oh, mi amor, are you going to leave one of our children in the parking lot too?”

I was THIS close to smacking him, lemme tell you.

The DH, man of my dreams, could not have been a bigger contrast. I called him and told him I had been robbed, but it was a little bit of my fault and so on and so forth. He said to come meet him, because he knew how much I wanted to keep my hair appointment and lunch date. I hooked up with him, and the boys, at his parent’s house. He gave me a hug and a kiss, told me how much it sucks to lose a wallet, handed me his spare credit card. Then he took all the cash he had, without counting it, and handed it all over. (Wow. I think I'll get "robbed" again next week.)

What a man.

I met my lunch date, aka Preacher Mom, after I had had my hair restored to the felonious length I prefer, and told her the story. She was suitably sympathetic, and a bit surprised that I wasn’t more upset. I told her I was letting it go and that I felt I might have deserved it a bit and she was kind enough not to agree! I had to tell her, since she is a minister and all, about my cyclical prayer to Saint Anthony en route back to the shop, and what I said, in my head, as I left the shop.

En route to the shop: Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen. Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen. Dear Saint Anthony, please help me find what is lost, Amen...

En route from the shop: Well, F**k you, Saint Anthony.

I also reassured her that, yes, I did apologize to the saint, the poor guy.