“No seriously. Where the %$&# is my car?!” – Me while turning in circles in my own damn parking lot in front of my condo.
Yep. That’s me. You’re probably wondering how I got into this situation. Or at least that’s how the movie about the last weekend would start if said movie existed outside of my crazy, still in shock mind.
1. No alcohol was involved. No, seriously I swear it.
2. I am still a little ashamed that one of the first things out of my mouth to my boyfriend at that moment was, “Dude…where’s my car?”
Saturday morning the man and I left for our first out of town adult getaway. Adult as in without his son or my daughter, not some hedonistic naked hotel. Well, I guess the idea was pretty much the same except not in public (hopefully) and at some point we were going to be meeting my (fully clothed) best friend and her husband for cocktails and so that they could finally meet the first man I’ve managed not to scare away in 3 years. I mean, look at us.
We’re adorable. How much trouble can we really get into? Ok, so we can usually get into a little more than a little trouble but this time we were perfect angels. The good ones even.
We headed down to St. Petersburg, got checked in, got food, and ran through the rain (yes, I had a literal black raincloud following me) to the little bar on our hotel beach to meet up with the bestie. 24 hours later we are headed back home, missing a wallet and his ID, but without any additions to our records, so I’m calling that a win. Well, I would call it a win up until we pulled up to my house.
I walk inside. I walk back outside.
“Dude…where’s my car?!”
Empty. Freaking. Parking. Space.
My first trip out of town with the man to get some quality fun time and I come home and someone jacks my damn car.
From in front of my condo.
I’ve had a few moments in my lifetime where I seriously contemplated if I was a serial killer or a renowned dictator or even a Nickelback fan in a previous lifetime to deserve these things. This was definitely one of them.
If anyone has ever had a car stolen from them, there’s not much you can do. You call the cops, you call your insurance, you freak the *&%# out when you realize you don’t have gap insurance and then you bake cookies. No? Ok, well that’s what I did. And right now, I’m just waiting and hoping to god the asshat who stole a car with a booster seat in the back and a freaking textbook on Race, Gender and Class Issues in the Media in the front seat (which of course I need for a midterm in 4 days) decides to calmly park and leave it somewhere without any damage. Or minimal damage. Or at least less damage than totaling it would be so I don’t have to continue paying on a car that someone else is driving around or cutting up for parts.
Here’s to hoping I was Mother Theresa and not Mommie Dearest in that past life.