I just checked my voicemail because the mailbox is full, and I’m expecting a call from a guy about a refund, and you know that I don’t want to miss him. Voicemail is useless, unless it’s about a refund. Then, it’s vital. I mean, if I wanted to hear your voice, I’d call you. Text me, for heaven’s sake. Or send an email. It’s so wonderfully immediate and impersonal and ignorable. At any rate, as I was scrolling through the messages hitting “7” every time I heard it pick it up, I paused for a moment and listened to a message from a Sergeant Geskuda (jess-KUDE- ah) of the Tredyfferin/Easttown police from “at least 7 days ago.” I couldn’t get the exact date because that would have required that I press at least a dozen buttons, and while these multifocal contacts are pretty awesome, they’re not that good when I’m looking at the numbers on my Blackberry. Anyway, this sergeant was responding to a report of a jewelry theft that I made on July 11. He had some questions. So, he expected me to remember stuff from like almost 8 weeks ago. I can’t remember what I fed Daniel for breakfast on Thursday, but okey-dokey.
I had to think about that one for a moment. And another. And one more. Then it all came back to me. My Michele watch, my Pandora bracelet and my diamond earrings had gone missing from my vanity one Sunday night in July right after the Saturday on which Jay left me and Daniel at a party in Browns Mills, NJ (edge of the Pine Barrens) thrown by awesome friends from WORK. In a fit of pique because I didn’t want to work things out with him, he stormed out of Martin and Cheryl’s house and went out to sit in the monster truck to talk to himself (not kidding here, folks, he really does have arguments with himself where his arms flail and his lips move and he kind of speaks in different voices like he’s the people having the fight). There he sat for some time, while people coming and going from the party wondered aloud who the tiny little man in the enormous black truck was arguing with when there was no one else there. I pretended not to hear all that commentary, enjoyed the Cheryl’s magnificent blueberry martinis and hoped he’d just drive off and end my suffering. But I don’t have that kind of luck.
He returned, came right over to me and demanded we leave that minute. And so, of course, everyone knew I was with the “talks to himself” guy, which is definitely a boon to anyone’s career. And apparently, in the imaginary fight he’d had with me in the truck, the outcome was that we’d leave together. He planned to leave us there, alone, 125 miles from home, he told me later, to teach me a lesson. What lesson, I still don’t know since he did not elaborate and I did not ask, so I suppose I am just destined to keep being abandoned at parties thrown by co-workers until I do learn whatever it is. Note to self: henceforth take your own car to parties, especially ones that are far away from your residence.
So the next day, all my favorite jewelry vanished while Jay was home. Alone. With the cat and the dog. Watching yet another True Blood marathon because he thinks he’s a whole lot like Eric Northman. He also thinks he’s a lot like Hank Moody in Californication, which is a whole other post that’s probably much funnier than this one since he and Hank could not be less similar. Suffice it to say, much like our cat, Finny Foo Foo, he has delusions of grandeur. Unlike the cat, in whom it’s cute and kind of entertaining and sort of endearing, it’s sad and kind of weird and sort of pathetic in a middle-aged man. And while he is something of a flawed tragic figure, he lacks the depth, breadth, humor and ability to engender sympathy that those characters have, not to mention the hotness and the bank. And I’ll bet neither of them owns a truck three sizes too big for him.
Finny Foo Foo, accused jewelry thief.
Definitely NOT Jay…
Also, NOT Jay…
What does this have to do with Sergeant Geskuda? Well, the jewelry vanished, and Jay’s response to my panicked “Have you seen my jewelry????” text the next morning (I think it was a Monday) was, “No. Maybe the cat took it.” I asked the cat, but he just yawned and scooted under the bed (that I was later accused of stealing). And so I went to the police and filed a missing jewelry report. And Officer Spirito said that it was a shame that these things happen and asked if the cat liked shiny things and flashed me a dazzling smile that made me forget I had a cat. Or a jewelry-thief of a domestic partner. Or a son, or a grocery list that needed attention. Or, pretty much, anything else in life. Then he said that he was sure Jay had taken the jewelry and that I should move out, which I was already planning to do. We didn’t talk about much else, because Officer Spirito was simply breathtaking, and I was almost glad my jewelry was gone because I’d gotten to spend 5 minutes basking in his undivided attention.
(I’d totally insert a a photo of Officer Spirito here if I could find one anywhere, but I can’t. I will definitely keep looking (or add from one my non-stalking – see below). But it’s the junior hottie, not the senior, that I met.)
On Tuesday, while I was moving crap out to my car, this lady who broke her back and therefore could not dogsit Jay’s pyschobulldog when we went down the shore was in the front area of the Main Line Berwyn apartment building where the mailboxes are located looking frantically for a package. TOTAL NUTSO SEARCHING DESPERATELY IN A FRIGGING NECK AND BACKBRACE. She was telling this older man with a hearing aid in each ear and skin cancer on his nose and ear that Kathy, the landlord Jay hates and accused of stealing my jewelry once it became clear that I was not buying his cat theory, told her a package arrived and she’d better get it. Hmmm…I stopped and very obviously eavesdropped. The package was nowhere to be found in the big empty space of the entry hall. I seemed to be the only one cognizant of this.
The lady loves all bulldogs, even Baldrick (prolly only cause he has yet to bite HER, which is really the only reason to like him), and I had to hear all about that, and then I mentioned I had some jewelry go missing, too, that weekend. Just mentioned it in passing to make conversation and distract from my blatant eavesdropping. Not filing an insurance claim or anything, just lost it. And she went on and on about this chick on third floor with a ginormous criminal record for petty theft who’s gone into lots of apartments and stolen jewelry and laptops and other stuff. She’s been to court in Philly and Delco and Chesco and some Sgt. Geskuda knows all about her. On and on these two went about the lady who takes stuff.
I said I thought Jay took my stuff and I was really sad, but they were all “NO! NO! NO! It was Lee Ann Sharkey!!!!! She’s in 307 or 308 or 310!!!!! She took it!!!” And I’m like, “Hmmmm….I don’t think so. Pretty sure I lost it or it was the boyfriend.” But they were sure. Certain. Convinced. Totally positive, and they wanted to call the T/E cops. And then they did. And I stood there, sorta shocked-like, while they called and got through to voicemail to report this woman I’ve never seen or met of stealing all my jewelry. And I wondered there, for a minute, if shit like this only happens to me, or if it happens to other people and they just don’t talk about it.
It’s hard to believe that things could get worse from that point, but worse they got.
I went in and called Jay because clearly the situation was not insane enough, and I needed his addled input to further muddy the cloudy issue and because surely another conversation with him would reveal the location of my missing watch. I told him the story of the foyer and he was all, “See what the cops say cause I can sue Kathy the landlady (his apparent archenemy in this pyschodrama that was now unfolding without my input or guidance) for your watch and bracelet.” And I was like, “But what if it’s lost? Or at the Y? Or you took it?” “That did not happen. It was her. She was probably working with Kathy. Kathy had a duty to protect us from known criminals and they’re probably a theft ring together”…and a bunch of other shit I did not get cause by then I’d drunk half the box of wine in the fridge and taken a Xanax. Or two. And he totally forgot to tie the cat into the whole theft ring scenario, but by the time I remembered that I’d already hung up on him.
So they left a bunch of messages for poor Sgt. Geskuda, who was unfortunately/thankfully/luckily on vacation for 2 weeks starting the day before. And I was supposed to wait for a call back from Officer Spirito, who should definitely not be a cop but a model or a golf pro or a tennis coach or something like that where he could make use of his obviously-ogle-worthy appearance. In fact, thinking about him now, I may start speeding in T/E to see if I can get him to pull me over. Or stalking him. Yes, maybe I’ll stalk him. Him and Chris Christie. Though they look nothing alike, I am a little in love with each (because how you can you not love a governor who tells people that their tans are maximized and to get the hell off the beach and said “pooper scooper” on national television?). And stalking would give me something to do when I’m not dating and Daniel could come along. I just have to give it another name cause he’ll tell people and I don’t need my almost-five year-old telling people he went out “stalking” with mommy last weekend.
And now Sergeant Geskuda is on the case, or was on the case “at least 7 days ago”, and weeks after we’d moved out, and I’m just gonna keep drinking cause really, right now, what else is there to do but duck, avoid, cover and wait..and I am sooo not calling him back.
And this is my life.