So yesterday Nathan and I spent the morning trolling through West Seattle’s various yard sales. When these domestic dealings are successful and I come away with awesome finds, it’s an exhilarating experience that boosts my cheap-loving ego. When they’re not as fruitful and the space is filled with rusty bundt pans and frayed and pilled Strawberry Shortcake blankets, a part of me dies. The part that could have been doing something of great social and political import, like watching the A&E channel.
And this excursion around the ‘hood took about an hour and a half, which was enough time for this to happen:
So can I get an internet witness that it sucks like a vacuum to arrive at our brand-new home and find that someone had taken a sharpie to the side of it? I could handle the mattress debacle, especially since I knew the culprit and I was satisfied with how it was handled. But this.
Yes, it can be painted over but that’s going to take time and money and any effort on my part would totally counter the work I’m doing for my political sect: the Poor and Lazy Party. And worse yet, this isn’t art. If they were going to do it anyway, why didn’t they knock and ask us for our input? I could have said, “Write something with ‘Nathan’ in it,” or “How about one of those directional signs that tell me how many miles it is from here to Saipan or England?”
But what they did instead was draw some acid-trip math equation, some circles that look like butts and initials.
If he/she/they had been trying to mark their territory, they could have just peed around the perimeter. That’s what animals do, right? If I had come home to a pee moat, I would have been esctatic that the real owner was here and was going to take over our mortgage!
And stars? Give me a break! At least put up a unicorn or liger or something with rainbows. But stars? This belongs on the front of a Trapper Keeper, not my garage.
Our neighbors called the police since they were tagged, too, though not to the same extent. And what did the police do? Shelve four murder cases, flip on the flashing cherries and zoom right over, of course! Actually, four hours later when my neighbor along with two cops knocked on the door, I was holding Nathan whom I had just fed his tomato sauce and pasta dinner.
“Sorry it took so long to answer. I was trying to put in the baby gates.”
“Oh I can see why,” one cop said.
I realized then what he must have seen: a toddler with a scrape on his face (thanks for not being more cushy, sidewalk!) and shirt with bright red stains on it. Nice job, Mona. Invite the cops over to witness the child you’ve beaten and bloodied. Why don’t you fess up to the iPod you listen to in your car because you’re too cheap to get your broken stereo replaced! The cops will love how you talk into your earbud wire like it’s an actual phone!
The cops did take our information and also took some pictures. They said they didn’t think it was gang-related, (Unless we’re being attacked by the Lollipop Guild!) and pretty much chalked it up to what happens when you live in a busy district, which is what I had expected they were going to say.
One time I was attending a conference in Chicago with some female co-workers and we had gotten so hopelessly lost at night that we pulled into a 7-11 to ask a cop for directions. He was puzzled that we were in that shady neighborhood because we shouldn’t have been there so late. In addition to telling us that it was okay to run any red lights if we felt unsafe, he also gave us a police escort to the freeway.
If I had been offered a police escort for the next few days, I think I wouldn’t be as upset about the damages. Because arriving with the cops at Target is almost as good as a limo, right?