B&E for Beginners

Last weekend my car was broken into.

Let me preface this story by saying none of my former cars, nor my parents’ cars, have been broken into.

Why? Because in the history of the Zengels, we’ve driven shitty cars. Turns out, criminals don’t want to break into shitty cars, they tend to break into either really common cars (Toyota Camry) or top of the line cars.

I drive a Toyota Matrix. A simple hatchback with plenty of dings and dents that let people know that my car is now a city car. When I park in sketchy areas, I’m not afraid that someone’s going to steal my car because it’s so run-of-the-mill. I WAS afraid of having my GPS or XM radio stolen because those are typical hot ticket items.

A friend of mine grew up in Center City Philly and regaled me with stories about not-so-typical hot ticket items. For example, she kept her EZ Pass tag in her glove compartment because thieves were known to break into a car and steal the pass from windshield. She also kept her registration sticker (that typically would go on her license plate) in her glove compartment because thieves had been known to use wire cutters and literally cut her neighbors’ license plates, take the stickers and glue them onto their own plates (thus not having to pay the registration fee when theirs expired).

Growing up in a small town where my parents rarely locked our cars, it was kind of a shock to the system when my Gertie the Matrix had been ravaged.

The tip-off that my car had been broken into was my GPS/cell phone charger dock laying on the ground outside of the driver’s door. Also, my CDs, papers, etc. were strewn about the floor on the passenger’s side. [For those out there who keep your car a mess, maybe you’re actually a deterrent for B&Es and they think your car has already been broken into.]

Panic set in.

I saw that my XM radio dock had been ripped from the dashboard where it had been GORILLA glued. This is the stuff you see in commercials where a guy’s construction hat is glued to a beam and holds him up. I mean, kudos to you, thief. You must work out in order to be able to rip that adhesive bond.

But it wasn’t stolen, merely dangling by the wires that are threaded through the dashboard.

Surely then, they must have stolen the faceplate of the XM radio?

But a quick inspection to its hiding spot told me it was still safe and sound.

Since my GPS is broken and on Justin’s table awaiting his unfound fixit skills, and my phone—which doubles as my GPS—was in the house, there wasn’t any GPS the thief(ves) could steal. And since we already found the cradle for the phone, that wasn’t stolen, either.

Justin and I were puzzled.

XM dock. XM faceplate. GPS dock. check, check, check.

My windows hadn’t been broken. It didn’t appear that any of my CDs were stolen. Even an errant credit card I had stashed for emergencies hadn’t been found or stolen (thankfully — now I carry it with me).

So…the only thing I could note that was missing was…a jar of change that I had recently emptied of quarters to vacuum my car. Which left…about $0.47 in nickels and dimes.

Some advice to the thief — maybe stick to the high-end cars rather than the sensible ones. Because frankly, if I had the money for a high-end car, I would probably have more than $0.47 in my change jar.

As Justin said, it really was a best-case scenario for someone breaking into my car. Nothing was really damaged or stolen, and on the upside, unlike my friend in Philly who had this happen to her, there wasn’t a homeless person sleeping in the back of my car curled up on my sleeping bag.

My Morning Commute

This morning, after finding yet another $40 parking ticket on my windshield, I thought the worst part of my morning commute was over. But no.

As I turned the corner and proceeded to drive up the block, I squinted to see something in the road. Keep in mind, this was at 5:15 am en route to my spin class.

I was about to honk and go around the vehicle in the middle of the road when I realized there was a person there, waving me to slow down. Not just anyone, a SWAT team member in full gear. Um, ok, Mr. SWAT, maybe not wear all black if you’re going to direct traffic during whatever kind of bust this is. Also, sure, I feel like maybe you have the authority to make me stop. And break my neck, if need be.

As I was sitting there, I realize there was an A-TEAM-esque armored van in front of me. And like ants erupting from an anthill, there were SWAT team members pouring out of the armored vehicle with AK-47s, dressed all in black. With my mouth agape, I sat wondering, “Really? Is this really happening right now?” And then I saw the final piece of the puzzle: 2 battering rams.

After all the SWAT team members had moved up the alley, I proceeded to get the hell out of Dodge. While exiting speedily, yet cautiously, I notice some Boston locals at the Dunkin’ Donuts, sipping their brew, leaning on fences and watching the drama unfold. Just another day here in South Boston. No big deal, just like watching the Fourth of July parade.

Seriously. I’m serious.

The best part is that as I was driving away, I was thinking, “Yes, drive away. For safety’s sake. Even though you kind of want to see what happens. If you get shot by random gun fire in a shoot-off, Safety Man is going to be so mad!”

The Garbage Scoundrels

Typical for any third child, I grew up playing with a lot of hand-me-down toys and wearing a lot of hand-me-down clothes. Regardless that some of those hand-me-downs were my brother’s. So instead of a cutesy pink and purple bike that I longed for, I had a boy’s Huffy stunt bike.

But long before the stunt bike, I had a black Big Wheel tricycle that used to be his. BLACK. I had long blonde hair, ribbons, and I was driving a boy’s Big Wheel around town like nobody’s business.

One summer day, happily playing in the yard, I parked my Big Wheel next to the dump (aka, the garbage cans at the top of our yard) and ran off to do God-knows-what.

When I returned, the scary garbagemen and their thundering trash eating machine were coming up the block and were nearly at my house.

Paralyzation kicked in. I was frozen behind some shrubbery as I watched them grab my only means of transportation, my symbol of freedom, and toss it in the mouth of putrification.

As they drove on to the next house, I continued to stand there, immobile, icy sweat forming on my five-year-old skin. With my tricycle gone, I knew I would have to face the only thing meaner and more intimidating than cigar-chewing, stain-mottled garbagemen (ok, maybe they weren’t, but this is how I remember it).

My dad.

Now, to anyone who has met my dad in the past 10 years, he seems like an easy-going retiree intent to spoil his grandchildren with candy corn, jellybeans, and M&M’s pulled from his pockets.

But growing up with him was an entirely different story. In short, my siblings and I were scared of him. Loud, angry tangents about lying politicians, curse words sprinkled through dinner table diatribes about how construction workers were useless, union workers were overpaid, “Pennsi” drivers (their house borders NJ and PA) were the bain of his existence, and too many others to count.

But there were recurring themes — honesty and hard work.

So when a toy that he spent hard-earned money on was left out carelessly next to the garbage and taken away with the trash, I dreaded the tongue-lashing, the “Dammit, Heidi!” that would come with it.

But I plucked up my courage, peeked my tear-stained face around the ferns next to our house, and confessed my sins in a torrent of apologies and sobs.

To this day, I’m not sure if my dad was already starting to soften, or if he was just so taken aback by one of his kids seeking solace and appeasement for their grievous behavior.

Whatever the case, my dad gave me a few “there-there’s” and before the sun went down that day…
I had a brand new Cabbage Patch Big Wheel.

It was PINK. It was PURPLE. It was covered in FLOWERS.

And I loved that damn bike until my knees smashed against the handlebars.

My siblings still bring it up. “The day Heidi was dumb enough to leave her bike out for the garbagemen and Dad went out and bought her a brand new one.”

Sometimes being the youngest has its advantages, like owning a piece of my dad’s tender little Grinchy heart.