The first time I got robbed, the thief stole all my underwear.
"Just underwear?" the cop asks as he writes.
"Right," I say.
"What would you estimate the value of the underwear to be?"
I clear my throat. "Uhhh ... eight hundred dollars?"
You think I want a permanent record that I buy my undies where America shops?
"Anything else disturbed?" the cop says.
"The thief fixed himself a sandwich," I say.
"What kind of sandwich?" the cop says.
"Whole wheat or white?"
"Mustard or mayo?"
"Would you like a sandwich, officer?"
"Well, if it's not too much trouble," he says, tucking his notepad into his pocket.
Needless to say, my underwear was never found.
I don't understand people who steal. It's seems to me it's a lousy way to make a living. Unless they're into women's clothing, there's usually a lot of heavy lifting, the hours stink, and the stress must be incredible. Wouldn't it just be easier to get a job?
"Why on earth do people steal?" I ask my cousin. She's a psychologist. She knows about these things.
"Because they're low-life leeches on the fast track to hell!" she thunders.
Don't take this as her professional opinion. Her analysis is a tad bit biased at the moment. She recently got robbed. The thieves took every electrical device in her house.
The last time I got robbed was in Italy. While Sweetie and I were at the beach, three thugs cut the lock out of the trunk of our rental car and robbed us blind