Careful What You Wish For

Usually, The Varmint and I exist in a happy little cocoon. We hang out with Mak, work out back in our treehouse studio, go for walks with friends. It's not rare for us to stay on our property for a couple of days straight, before venturing out again for food or supplies.

This might help to explain why we didn't notice The Varmint's truck had been stolen for a day or so.

Actually, that's a lie. We didn't notice it at all. Deb noticed it.

My response, after she asked "Hey - where's the Varmintmobile?" was a shrug.

"Probably parked it up the street," I responded, waving my hand dismissively. I was eager for our walk.

When The Varmint looked out the window sometime late that evening and asked, "Hey. Where's my car?" I was a little stunned.

"You mean you didn't park it up the street?" Oops.

There have been a rash of car break-ins in our neighborhood, so it's not like we were taken completely unaware. For instance, the week prior, The Guy Across the Street had thousands of dollars worth of stuff stolen out of his car. His plan for revenge included setting up a sting operation, and hopping out of the bushes with his machete swinging once the would-be thieves made their move. (As he was telling me this, I made sure to smile agreeably and nod, without making any sudden movements.)

More than anything, we were just surprised that someone would steal Ye Olde Surfboard Schlepper. To say it's a bit of a beater is an understatement. Ours are the crappy cars on a block suddenly full of Range Rovers and BMWs, thanks to San Diego's bizarro real estate market.

Ironically, we used to make jokes that we'd leave the car keys in the Schlepper in the hope that someone would come along and steal it. But once our prayers were answered (and why God would pick this particular prayer to answer only proves that if she exists, she's at least got a wicked sense of humor), we weren't too thrilled.

The reality of the two of us stiff-legged, freedom-loving alleycats sharing a single car, however ecologically prudent and ridiculously short-lived it might be, would not be good. And the idea of shelling out thousands of dollars for a car payment was even worse. Just the idea made me feel like someone had stuffed my panties full of itching powder.

"Oy," I say, rubbing my forehead, "this sucks." 

So, after sharing the bad news with our neighbors, we report the car stolen to the police. Within 15 minutes, we get a call from our neighbors.

"We found your car," they say. Turns out, they were having dinner with friends a couple of miles over. The hostess was bitching about an ugly old Pathfinder that was parked in front of her place since that morning. They look out the window - and yep, there it is.

When it's all said and done, The Varmint's truck is missing one stereo and a pile of quarters from the change dish.

"Small town San Diego," says The Varmint with a grin. "Guess it pays to know people."

"You can say that again," I reply, feeling like someone lifted that truck off of my chest. "And the best part is, with that stereo gone, now I know what to get you for your birthday." 



Please enter your contact information, so we can verify you aren't a bottom-feeding spambot. We promise we won't pass it along to anyone.

I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >