Day 126: Get Your Shit Back. Part II.

The case of the shady sublet is now coming to a close. Thank god. The drama, stress and anxiety is enough to drive anyone insane. Just thinking of that creep packing my suitcase exploding with my things makes me sick. I have certainly learned to never do such a stupid thing again in my life by assuming that all people are normal, somewhat trust-worthy and operate as I would. Having been a sublet myself, I have never, ever went through someone else's things. For one, other people's things skeeve me out and two, nothing is more violating than having someone go through your things with their grubby little paws. With that being said here is the less than shocking conclusion to the worst sublet story of 2011.
My brother Andrew received a phone call from 'Nicolette' who was crying hysterically into the phone saying that she is sorry for the mistake she had made and hoped that we wouldn't take legal action. After 5 minutes he had to cut her off. "Look, I'm on the treadmill. Call my mom." Dial tone. Thanks Andy. Always a help. An hour later while my mom was watching 'The View' and simultaneously reading page 6 of The Post, the phone rang and it was 'Nicolette' who was pulling the same 'Poor Me' act. The 'Poor Me' act never went well with my mother. If anyone knows that, it's me. "Mrs. Coquine?" a weeping voice on the other end cried. "Yeah?" my mother responded. "Hi, this is Nicolette. The girl who took your daughter's things in Paris." she said nervously. "Oh, the famous Nicolette, Katie or whatever you want your name to be today. Yeah? What do you want? Are you ready to act like an adult and give her back the things she worked hard for!?" she bit. "Yeah, I will, um - I" Nicolette tried to speak but my mother cut her off. "No, you listen here. People work for the things that they have, not to be robbed by some little girl. Is that how your motha raised you? To steal things that don't belong to you and to disappear making my daughta's life a livin' hell? While you're dancing in the desert at a drug festival? Yeah, my daughta told me about Burnt Boys!" Burning Man, Mom, Burning Man. "I know, I know - I would like to," Nicolette said, "Like to what!?" For the record, I had asked my mom to remain calm during the transaction but her hot-blooded Italian genes would not allow such rational thinking. 
'Nicolette' had arranged for her brother to meet my mom to give everything back. I didn't blame 'Nicolette' for not wanting to meet my mother to exchange the goods, I'd be scared too. My mother proposed to have the exchange done by her brother at our Italian grocery store Vincenzo's Trattoria. "I have to get some prociutto anyway and talk to Vincenzo's son about a platter, so have him meet me there." she told 'Nicolette' like she knows who Vincenzo is. Before ending the call 'Nicolette' told my mother that we should be thankful that she is giving us the stuff back. In a way yes but seriously? 
My mother dramatically showed up at Vincenzo's wearing big sunglasses, a scarf top and yoga pants. She almost had the undercover look down. Oh mom. I would have totally done the same thing (minus the yoga pants)! I guess the apple doesn't fall to far from the tree. 'Nicolette's brother whose name went from Brian to Bill to now David called my mother on her cell phone. "Hi, Mrs. Coquine. This is David, 'Nicolette's' brother. I have your daughter's stolen clothes." he said with a monotone on the other line. "Ok, I'm waiting here." I instructed my mother to be nice to him. He didn't do anything wrong and felt that 'Nicolette' already got a good talking to and that we should conduct this as civil as possible so we can all move on. He showed up in a navy blue Mercedes SLK and my mother was standing with stacked arms with a clipboard and the list I had emailed her. He parked the car, and an Asian man came out. Katie is not Asian nor does the name Nicolette (enter super Italian last name she provided here). They sent in a fake brother to do the exchange who was certainly not Katie or 'Nicolette's'. At this point, whatever.
David opened the trunk to his convertible and pulled out a gun. Ok, I'm just kidding! Although I was fearing that. No, he pulled out the large stolen suitcase and presented it to my mother where she had him open it in the parking lot and go through each item as she read it off on her list. "Marc Jacobs Fall 2007 Stone Joseph Bag!" she shouted militantly. "Here!" David held it up with fear. My mom dramatically checked it off the list. "Dior Cannage Quilted Hobo!" she yelled. David frantically looked around the suitcase while my mom peered at him through her big Jackie O's. "Ma'am. What's a hobo?" he asked meekly. "Oh, they're adorable," my mom proceeded to explain, "They're big carry-alls, not much shape but really perfect for day trips and city outings!" She smiled. "Oh that does sound nice." David agreed. They stared at each other in awkward silence. The Hobo was not in the suitcase. My mother made a note "Not there - must have sold it." David saw her note and felt inclined to apologize on behalf of his 'sister'. "I'm sorry for all of this, ma'am." he said. "It's not you fault, David. You have been put in an awkward situation where you have to hand over hot items. It happens." my mother said not able to resist her natural maternal instincts. David gave my mother everything that he had which was about 95% of my things, they shook hands and parted ways.
My mother called me via Skype shortly after the transaction to relay the events and told me that there were vintage sweaters of my grandmother's that were in there that I didn't notice were missing because they weren't on the list but the Dior Cannage, Marc by Marc Jacobs strapless dress and Lola perfume were missing. Of course the most expensive thing was not in there. The Dior bag. While the other Marc bags were expensive, being so avant-garde, they'd be hard to sell. The Dior on the other hand practically sells itself.
Frustrated, I called Kitty who was getting fit for her wedding dress. Kitty is about to get married in 2 months but always has time to pick up my phone calls to talk me through my mini-dramas. God bless her. "Look if that little bitch doesn't come forward with the rest of your things, I will drive to Smithtown myself, skin her and make you a fucking Dior bag and while I'm at it, a pouchette for me!" Gross. Just as I was going to indulge in more complaining, Kitty cut me off, "Fuck, I have to go, I just got a text that one of my bridesmaids is pregnant. What's wrong with people? Can't they be horn dogs after the wedding? After the wedding people!" Click. Ok, bye Kitty. Kitty is hardly a bridezilla, she just wants things done a certain way ; simple, no pregnancies, no bullshit hence why she planned, organized and managed everything herself because she didn't trust us (especially me!) to operate to her standards. Every bride has their own style and Kitty certainly does.