Bigfoot

Two evenings ago when I went out to my car to run an errand at REI, I was dismayed at what I found. A few hours later I posted to NextDoor (as did someone with apparent fog-control concerns).

Car break-in: Just want to let you all know that someone broke into my car (no windows bashed, yet the car was locked) in the last 24 to 48 hours. It had been parked in my driveway. Contents of the glove compartment and the center console were strewn about the seats and floor, and for some reason they took off the cover of the fuse box. No valuables had been in sight, so I don’t know what they were after. I can’t tell for sure whether or not anything’s missing because I don’t recall what I had stashed in the glove box/console. I don’t THINK there was anything of interest in there. I have reported this information to the police.

Upon discovery of the intrusion, my first—and misguided—reaction was to run back into the house, grab a tub of disinfecting wipes, and scrub down all surfaces that the evildoers must have touched. It’s such a violation when strangers maliciously invade one’s private world, even if it’s only the inside of a car, that I was overcome with the urgent need to rid the area of the perps’ presence. That drive to decontaminate made me gather all my scattered possessions, from maps to face masks, and hurl them into the trash bin. Later, when I reported the incident over the phone to the cop, I confessed that I had unwittingly destroyed any evidence, but that was no problem, he said; they don’t have time to come dust for fingerprints for something like this, and anyhow, the criminals may have been wearing gloves. And by the way, had my security system captured the action?

Security system? Who can afford something like that? No way.

Then I got to thinking: What if the burglars come back? Or what if I’d left a house key in the console for an emergency? I don’t think I did, but…

And so yesterday afternoon, I reluctantly made the pricy investment in a trio of wireless cameras that I’ll try to install myself before I go East. Molly had advised me on brands. Eleni and Jason gave me guidance on the best locations to place them, based on photos I texted them of possibilities. (Man, does my house need a new coat of paint!)

I also replaced the burned-out bulbs on the four floodlights at the back of my house, and tomorrow I plan to visit the mechanic to find out if anything was removed from the fuse box. This has all taken up too much time, cost too much money, and caused too much anxiety. Alas. But as three-year-old Molly once wisely philosophized, “Life is life.” Indeed.

Life is also mysterious. The strangest thing is happening to me: as I continue to shrink dramatically in height, my feet appear to be growing. It’s like I’m melting into a puddle. 

I’ve worn a size 8 for over thirty years but on my recent hiking trip, my big old 8.5 sneakers, once roomy, crushed my toes so badly that one nail is destroyed. What’s up with that? In my beloved Merrell Jungle Mocs that I’ve comfortably worn daily for two years, my tootsies are suddenly jamming into the front with every step. This phenomenon has precipitated yet another unwanted expense: giant shoes.

Boy, was the Kensington Farmers’ Market crowded this morning. It used to be that 9:00 to 10:00 was the senior hour, but youthful shoppers abounded. It used to be that masks were required, but no longer, obviously. And forget the prior observance of social distancing rules. People squished up right behind me in every line. As I already told you, I’m concerned about the Delta variant and the rising number of cases among the vaccinated, so I guess I may not go back for a while. That sucks, because they’ve got great food that I can’t get anywhere else.