Important Note: If you are a friend of the family, please do NOT tell my grandparents about this. Thanks.
It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted on the blog. There are several reasons for this:
1) I was in a pretty good mood, and when I write – I cry. In my attempt to avoid crying, I avoid writing.
2) I’ve had a busy few weeks – The Boy and I moved in together.
While this post was originally supposed to be about the move and all the excitement around it, it is actually going to be a bit different.
You see, we moved into a new apartment on a Thursday. On Saturday we went for a healthy walk around town, and split up. The Boy went to the movies. I embarked on the adventure of my life.
When I arrived at home, I opened the door, and someone was looking at me – and it wasn’t The Boy. In my infinite wisdom, aware of the fact that The Boy is not a short, dark Arab, I yelled out, “Who’s there? You’re not The Boy! I’m calling the Police!” The robber calmly walked past me, so as to not sprain his ankle, heaven forbid, walked into our bathroom, closed the door behind him (I’m thinking, dude has to go potty?), stepped on the toilet seat, and jumped out the window.
4.5 meters down.
That would be almost 15 feet.
I’m pretty sure my neck broke during that fall.
Any normal person, at this point, would do one of two things:
2) Call the police
I, of course, elected a different path:
3) Call The Boy
You’re thinking, OK, that could make sense, he lives with you, he should know. But why did I call The Boy first?
I couldn’t remember the phone number for the police in Israel.
Oooh! Oooh! Do I get the Dumb Victim of the Year award? If so, I’d like to donate the prize money to purchase Google Wave invites for all my friends and colleagues.
So I called The Boy and told him (quite calmly, I must add) that we have a burglar in our apartment (have being the operative word, seeing as the robber was still in the apartment), and that I can’t remember what the Israeli 911 is. Being French, he needed a moment to think about it, told me the number, and ordered me to get out of the apartment.
You see, seeing as I hadn’t fainted at the sight of someone in my apartment who is not The Boy, I guess I figured I should babysit the apartment to make sure no one else would break in.
While the burglar was still there.
Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 2
So I called the police, told them there was a robber in my apartment and that he just jumped out the window, and 2 cops were at my place while I was still on the phone.
As I was showing the cops the window the robber had jumped out of, and the missing glass, the male cop got a call on his radio that there was another break in at the building next door, or another one down, and went running. As he broke into a sprint (good doughnuts are really hard to find in Israel) I suddenly get a phone call from my friend who I had made plans with. Here’s the transcript of the call:
The Nugget: Didn’t you say you were on the first floor, apartment on the left?
Me: Yes (why I stopped talking here is unclear)
The Nugget: Why aren’t you answering the door?
Me: Cause I’m downstairs with the police
The Nugget: *Crickets*
The moment The Nugget came outside, the female cop who stayed with me started to run, and yelled at me to follow because they caught the robbers.
And I’m all, I can’t run, I dance ballet. At best, I can chasse the way there.
I go back to the street, with The Nugget right behind me, and pass 2 cops holding 2 suspects who were definitely not my burglar. Then I reach the third cop, exactly when The Boy got back, and told the cops that he could totally be my guy.
I told them what pants he was wearing, what his height was, the color of his skin, and his approximate age. The Boy and The Nugget took me aside to sit on the bench on the street, and I suddenly saw that there were – no kidding – about 7 or 8 cop cars and a gazillion cops.
I mean, I know I’m famous and all, but still.
At this point, any normal person who had actually gone straight to Option Number 2: Call the Police would probably digress back to Option Number 1: Faint.
Nope. I saw all the cop cars and the cops and I had an incredibly logical thought:
OMIGOSH I need to take a picture of this and post it to Twitter and Facebook.
Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 3
At this point, one of the cops came over to me and asked that we go back to the apartment so I can give my statement.
So we’re upstairs, and I give my statement to Little Cop on the Prairie, who is smaller than my molar teeth. I gave her my personal information and recounted the story. Then another cop came in (Ethiopian – this is important for later) who also took my personal information for a different report that needed to be filed, as I was finishing up recounting the steps with the Little Cop on the Prairie, and then the other cop asked me to tell him the story again.
I asked that he copy from Little Cop on the Prairie and he said OK.
The CSI Tel Aviv guy was in the apartment, dusted the door and window for prints, and found nothing but a shoeprint, but that’s fine.
I was actually calm for the entirety of the evening. Only at night, when I was in bed, my mind began playing tricks on me.
For example, at 3:30 in the morning I was thinking, “If someone breaks in during the night, my Nokia E71 is on the coffee table and it’s expensive” – so I got up and brought the phone next to me.
Then, at 4:30 in the morning, I thought, “If someone breaks in during the night, this is not the optimal thing to be sleeping in” – so I changed clothes.
Then, at 5:30 in the morning, I thought, “If this were an episode of Criminal Minds, and I actually survived the break in, the robber would come back and kill me cause he knows where I live and that I ratted him out” – but there was nothing I could do.
All in all, I’m OK now, but for the first few days after the event, I made The Boy keep the bathroom and shower doors open so I could see if someone was in the apartment, and I still have minor heart attacks every time I come home alone. I never actually had a nervous breakdown after the break in, and for the first few days after, The Boy kept asking me if I was OK and if I needed anything, and even had his mom call in and check up on me to make sure I was OK.
This post has nothing to do with the loss of my mother, other than, perhaps, the fact that I would probably have called her for the number of the police in Israel instead of The Boy. Not that I could actually know, seeing as I never had both of them at the same time.
Neither here nor there
* I always wondered, while watching cop shows, how people knew how to approximate height. In my case, I know how tall I am, and I know that the guy was shorter than me, so I subtracted about 5-10 cm, just as an approximation.
* Little Cop on the Prairie left her walkie talkie on our coffee table, and came back after a few minutes accusing me of not answering my phone. I said my phone is on, she said I’m not answering, I said my phone’s on, and she read off the number she called. I told her that she switched the last two digits and she said, “Ugh, those Ethiopian cops.” The Boy, The Nugget, and I were shocked. We haven’t reported this in case we get broken into again and need cops on our side.
* Other than Little Cop on the Prairie, all of the cops were amazing. I don’t have a single bad word to say about them – they were quick and efficient and very nice.
* When I called the cops, they told me not to touch anything. I swear, I actually said, “Don’t worry, I used to watch CSI – I know.”
Wisdom:0 Stupidity: 4
* My signed statement actually says, “I called (The Boy) because I couldn’t remember the phone number for the police in Israel.”
* For the record, and I only found this out the day after the break in, you can actually dial 911 in Israel and you will reach the police.