Mom couldn’t find her purse.

She had wedged it into a hiding place SOMEWHERE in case a burglar broke in, but forgot where her nifty new hidey-hole was.

I suggested hiring a burglar to find it.

Before I could look up the listing for Burglars, Bandits and Housebreakers in the Yellow Pages (did those get misplaced too?), my sister found the purse.

The only thing more frustrating than losing things is knowing that you stashed them away “someplace safe” only to discover that “someplace safe” means that’s “someplace safe from you.” A burglar would know right where to look.

Breaking into homes to locate lost goods could become a profitable sideline business for burglars. I could trade him my eighth-grade math paper, which always turns up, for my other sock, which doesn’t.

When I was a kid, Dad used to joke that if anyone broke into our house, they deserved whatever they snatched as punishment.

He told an uncle that the last time a burglar broke in, he left us some money and a box of food.

I hid my collection of Batman comic books anyway. I was sure that any self-respecting burglar would take those, along with the Donald Ducks, Uncle Scrooges and Archies. They had cost me a fortune — 10 cents apiece– and I wasn’t going to leave them lying out in the open for some thief to pilfer.

Today, they’d probably be worth something, if collectors don’t mind wrinkled covers and mustaches drawn on Richie Rich and Robin.

I wonder how much a burglar would charge me to find them? I hid them “someplace safe.”

On the flip side of that coin (I hid my coins, too) are all the things that I want to lose but that won’t go away. Take the 50 or so extra pounds riding on my belt — please!

There’s that lovely needlepoint that dear Aunt Mable proudly presented. She taught herself the art and craft — and it shows. I have never seen anything quite that — how should I put this — colorfully confusing.

But anytime Aunt Mable stops by, that needlepoint better be hanging on the wall.

No burglar would take it.

I carted the monstrosity to the homes of other relatives’ homes, ostensibly to show off Aunt Mable’s skill, but actually to “accidentally” leave it behind. I even shoved it halfway down The Pile on their counters and tables. Dining room tables are notorious for making things disappear.

Theirs didn’t. Not a single cousin has let me get within five feet of their door without making sure Aunt Mable’s needlepoint is tucked under my arm. How they keep finding it before I can escape, I don’t know.

Is it legal to hire a burglar to break in and steal stuff you don’t want? No one ever seems to run off with my bills. I think someone pinched the mandatory insurance form and the library book that was due two months ago. But the bills never go missing.

I read a story once about a guy who lost his garbage service. He jammed all of his trash into a box or two, covered the boxes with bright wrapping paper and frilly bows, loaded them into the back seat of his car, then parked downtown with the windows down and the car doors unlocked.

He’d sit in the ice cream store for a while with a milkshake and by the time he wandered back to his car, his gift boxes of garbage were gone.

I suspect he drove a rusty, beat-up wreck of a car. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the thief just take the whole unlocked car, wrapped trash and all?

I had an ending for this column, but I’ve misplaced it. Any burglars out there who can help me look?

Hide a message for Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.