About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
This town blows
I didn’t really need any more reasons to loathe this depressing town. The downtown blight and infestation of 99s and WalMarts get the job done. But just in case my antipathy was wavering, a nice young crystal meth addict helped sway me by robbing our house in the middle of the afternoon.
Yup. Last week said drug addict made his way up the street from downtown, kicked in our back door and stole all my jewelry. Thankfully Junior and I were out of the house. Thankfully my collection of jewels consisted of sterling silver, Diamonique earrings, and bangles, but the bastard did get a piece of jewelry that belonged to my great-great grandparents.
I was pleasantly surprised by the three police officers who pulled up to my house about 30 seconds after I called 911. They were polite, concerned, and surprisingly attractive (hey, it took my mind off the crime).
After examining each room, I noticed that they kept going back to the dining room. Curious, I wandered over to see what had their attention, which is when I overheard:
“Shit that’s a big cat.”
“Did you see the other one? It’s even bigger.”
The officers were ogling my poor kitties! It’s not uncommon for people to come over and remark on the pleasant plumpness of our pets but these were people of the law. Shouldn’t they have been dusting for fingerprints? Snapping pictures? Calling the crime lab??
The officer noticed me in the doorway and asked, “What is that?”
“It’s a rag doll Coon Calico cat,” I lied. (I have no idea what breed our cats are. Someone gave them to me for free for Pete’s sake.)
“That’s a big cat.” He let out a low whistle.
“Are we done here?” I asked.
After they left I sat on the couch surrounded by my 25 pound son and two, 25 pound cats. It was 75 pounds of feeling better (for personal reasons I'm not factoring myself into that equation). For this piece of shit town, I'll take that. For now.
(I highly recommend Brink's if you need a security system. We just had one installed. Aside from the tech's commentary on Junior's inability to hold his own bottle—he can, he just doesn't want to—the experience was relatively painless.)