I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places by Lisa Scottoline

wasn’t that funny. So let’s skip that part:
    [Intermission music while a bad thing happens.]
    Fast-forward to my attacker running away with my bag and me screaming loud enough to make people living in thirteen-million-dollar town houses feel like they need more gentrification.
    A group of about six young people heard me and came running to help. A blond woman led the pack. “We heard you, are you okay? What happened?”
    â€œI’m fine, I’m fine,” I said.
    In retrospect, a pretty inaccurate self-assessment. But when you think you might die, and then you end up not dead, anything short of a gunshot wound is “fine.”
    I told them what happened, that I needed help finding my glasses, and I needed someone to call the police. They were incredibly helpful, somehow finding my glasses in the wet leaves. I put them on my face.
    The world looked dirty, squashed, and very crooked, but that seemed appropriate.
    â€œMy friend is calling 911 now. Do you want to use my phone to call someone else, maybe your mom?”
    â€œNo way,” I answered. “I have to calm down first.”
    While we waited, the blond girl introduced herself, which was so nice and normal, it actually did calm me down. Then she asked something very sweet: “Can I give you a hug?”
    Boy, did I need one. The girl’s name was Natalie. I only wish I had gotten her last name so I could find her and thank her.
    In the next minute, the police car pulled up. The officer rolled down the window and shouted, “Get in the back, we’re going to look for him!”
    I hopped in like an obedient dog.
    I had never been in the back of a police vehicle before. My first thought, for real?
    There’s not a lot of knee room.
    I’m only five-five, and I winced as my bloody knees knocked the partition on every turn.
    Seriously, tall people, rethink a life of crime. It’s very uncomfortable.
    One of the officers turned around and said, “Now I know this is difficult, but I want you to look out the window and see if you see the guy who did this.”
    I tried to look out the window, but it was streaked with rainwater. I pushed the button to lower it, and nothing happened. I jammed my finger in it a few more times.
    Oh, duh, I thought. The back windows are locked.
    To keep those criminal children from hurting themselves.
    Rainwater aside, the main issue with finding the perp was that I hardly caught a glimpse of him. He came up behind me, knocked off my glasses, and pummeled my face in, so you know, not ideal eyewitness conditions. I told the officer as much.
    â€œJust look for a guy holding your purse!”
    My brain provided the amusing image of a thug strolling along with my fashionable tan handbag.
    Reality has no such sense of humor.
    After several fruitless tours around the surrounding blocks, we circled back to the street where it happened, so that I could try to give them an exact address of the crime site. And then I realized …
    This happened right outside of the Sex and the City house—the brownstone HBO used for exteriors of Carrie Bradshaw’s apartment!
    As a fan, my emotions were mixed.
    When Carrie was mugged in Season 3 of SATC , the criminal stole her shoes.
    I was wearing cute shoes, and he didn’t even notice.
    We gave up on finding the guy and they drove me to the police station to “take my statement” or do whatever official crime-victim stuff they skip over on Law & Order .
    As soon as we walked in, one of the policemen with me, Officer Green, piped up. “You know, you should cancel your credit cards.”
    I was shivering, bleeding, and soaking wet—canceling my cards was low on my priority list. “Um, okay, but I don’t have my phone or my account number or anything.”
    He asked me what bank it was with and I told him.
    Meanwhile, the other, Officer Moon, gave me a form to record everything that was stolen and its value. My hand was