Seattle adventures, life, home, and coffee—in no particular order
I know, I know—I need to let it go and thank the good lord that we’re all ok, but I’m still feeling incredibly violated and pissed.
I came home from work yesterday (at 3 o’clock in the afternoon when three of our neighbors were out in their yards or in the street) to find that the door had been busted open. They’d obviously used a crowbar and had kicked the door; but those assholes politely shut the door and the screen on the way out.
I immediately knew what had happened, but I couldn’t quite process it, so I walked into the living room (where a jewelry box had been dumped, empty on the couch) and started heading to my office before I realized I should go back outside. Then, I realized I couldn’t hear Jasper, and all I could think about was that they’d hurt him or taken him. And then I freaked the fuck out.
Turns out he was in the back yard the whole time, as he should have been, and he was wagging his tail and licking me like nothing had happened. I walked back into the house one more time (really? Did this really just happen to us?) before it occurred to me that I should call the cops.
I called 911 from the living room. My screen flashed ‘Emergency!’ in red while it rang which threw me off, so when the dispatcher answered the first thing out of my mouth was ‘Sorry, but someone broke into my house, and is it ok that I called you?’ Seriously, what is wrong with me?
After hanging up with 911, I panicked. Adam has guns in the house after a weekend in Stevens County. What guns were in the house and where were they? Did they find them? FUCK.
I couldn’t get ahold of Adam right away because he was on a job, but Doodle was an absolutely doll and came over to sit with me while we waited for the cops to arrive. And waited.
I finally got ahold of Adam, and he informed me that by some stroke of heavenly intervention, he’d taken his guns to his parent’s house on Saturday. This was Tuesday. The only weapon he had in the house was his pistol which was safely hidden (in his mind), but I was still too afraid to wander into the depths of the house to find out.
My next wave of panic came when I realized they’d taken my brand-new laptop. (In addition to my old, dying laptop that doesn’t have a battery and is worth about $5, but does house a considerable amount of files that have a lot of personal value to me. Have fun with that, assholes.) My laptop that housed all of my pictures. And my entire fucking music collection. And every fucking note-to-self and link and idea that I’ve had for the wedding. And my entire writing portfolio. And who knows what kind of personal information. And, the kicker? My fucking 14 page paper that’s due this weekend. THAT I DIDN’T BACK UP. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Still waiting. I went out and talked to a few of the neighbors who now probably think I’m bat-shit crazy. Nobody had seen or heard anything, and none of them had ever heard of a house being broken into in our neighborhood before.
While we continued to wait, I remembered that I’d signed up for some trial theft-protection thing on my laptop, so I ventured back into the office to find my paperwork thinking ‘aha! We can still win!’ After forty plus minutes on hold, turns out my trial had expired one month ago. They’re seeing if there’s anything they can do to reactivate the tracking, but it doesn’t sound too promising.
Adam ended up driving home straight from his job, and parked his giant crane in front of our house. He walked in the house and saw his emptied jewelry-type box on the couch. That box, which had been upstairs in our bedroom half-concealed under a pile of my clothes, contained nothing of value to a thief, but things of enormous sentimental value to Adam. It had held a note, pocket knife, and various items from his now-dead grandfather who had shared Adam’s birthday and had been his best buddy growing up. Those assholes.
Cop finally arrived, barely walked in the house, and told me point-blank there’s no chance in hell of getting our stuff back. For some reason I was expecting him to dust for fingerprints and check for clues, obviously I was way off on that. Apparently you can just break into people’s homes, steal their valuables, and walk off scott-free. Welcome to civilized society.
All in all, in addition to fucking up our gorgeous door-frame, it looks they made off with the two laptops, Adam’s iPod, my Tiffany’s bracelet (given to me by Aunt D when I graduated from high school), a Carlo Rossi jug full of quarters (really?), a baggie of Aleive I had on my nightstand (really!?! Should have taken the really good stuff from the medicine cabinet instead), and the contents of Adam’s jewelry-type box. Items totaling $1000 dollars. Maybe. I just want to shout, ‘Was it worth it, assholes?’
It’s not even about the stuff. Computer, iPod, who cares? It’s about the fact that someone forced their way into our home, in a seemingly safe and ‘nice’ neighborhood in broad daylight, and methodically went through our possessions. Some ill-meaning stranger has been in my bedroom. And my office where I spend most of my days.
And the timing of the fucking thing. Really, this had to happen mere days before my finals? Literally that morning I’d saved my other final paper (currently a mere two pages for a joke of a class) to my flash drive, but not to back it up, merely because I thought I could sneak some time to work on it at the office. I considered saving the 14 pager to the flash, but then thought, ‘naw, I’ll work on that when I get home tonight.’ I’m now kicking myself very, very hard.
So, we’re all ok, including sweet little Jasper. Our home is fine and when it comes down to it, there really wasn’t that much of value taken. We still lead an otherwise charmed life, full of good fortune I don’t deserve. But I’m shaken. And I’m still angry. And the thought of recreating that paper—by this weekend—makes me want to vomit.