Years ago, a thief broke into my house and ransacked it.  However, when I arrived home, it took a full ten minutes for me to recognize we’d been robbed.

Why? To be honest, our little abode normally resembled the town dump.  That is to say, it already looked ransacked on a day-to-day basis. I shared the remote farmhouse with two other Peace Corps/VISTA volunteers. We three worked long hours at grueling jobs and none of us felt inspired to clean after we crawled home each night. It took us a while, but we finally figured out that our stereo was missing: an ancient turntable and clunky speakers that hissed when the volume was up beyond a whisper.

Dissatisfied with his first looting efforts, the thief returned two days later.  And, I happened to be on hand for the event.  Right after the infamous farmhouse ransacking I’d come down with a heavy cold.  Possibly all that robbery-induced stress had reduced my resistance to germs.  In any case, I’d stayed home from work that day.  At about ten in the morning, still dressed in my jammies, I ambled downstairs to the kitchen.  Right there, next to the refrigerator, stood a scraggly intruder holding my grandfather’s binoculars in his grubby hands.

My first reaction should have been fear.  I’m under five feet tall and was in my pajamas for goodness sake.  But instead, I became enraged.  My grandfather’s binoculars?  What nerve!  I had just recently stolen them from my father.

I sized up the greasy creep:  tall, skinny, shoulder-length stringy brown hair and a very bad complexion.    As much as I wanted to grab the binoculars and smack the man, I realized I might be starting a battle I’d likely lose.

So, instead I said, “You must be here to use our phone.”

To which he said, “Yeah.” Then he dropped the binoculars (I have them to this day) and ran out the door.

Flash forward to the present.  A few days ago my car was ransacked at night in our very own driveway.  Once again, it took us a while to realize we were robbed.  Are you sensing a theme here?  On more than one occasion, my dear husband has referred my car as a garbage can on wheels.  What caused us to suspect a robbery? The biggest clue was seeing various items strewn along our driveway and the street in front of our house. Normally I keep my trash inside the vehicle.

The police asked what was missing, so we sorted through the contents of my car.  Items still present and accounted for were: a thousand Bed, Bath and Beyond coupons; two tipsy black folding chairs; random dental floss picks from when my friend and husband borrowed the car years ago; three nasty gloves, none matching; a lint brush; lots of lint; two broken umbrellas; a glue stick and Scotch tape (should I ever come undone while driving).  You get the picture.

But really, since I didn’t have much of value in my car, not much of value was stolen, not even my handy-dandy Girl Scout compass.  (For you youngsters, a compass is a primitive GPS system that will never annoy you by saying “Recalculating. Recalculating.”)

Even though the burglar didn’t take much, being robbed brings out the vigilante in me.  Oh how I wish I’d heard that thief in the night.  What a thrill it would have been, pitchfork in hand, to chase him down my driveway, shouting, “Stop, you devilish miscreant!  Unhand that tipsy folding chair!”

As it turns out, we think the thief may have nabbed my Idiot’s Guide for Learning French tape and a YoYo Ma CD. So for the rest of my life, I will be on high alert for a suspicious-looking, French-speaking person listening to classical cello music.  And, trust me, I will always keep a pitchfork close at hand.