Our house was burglarized today. I was only gone about an hour and a half, and when I got back from Olive's swim lesson, I came in to find the back door molding on the floor. We've been having our front door refinished, so my first reaction was, "Why did they take that off? And how did they get in here while I was gone?" Then I thought, "Did that crazy cat knock that molding off or did it just fall?" Then I saw splintered wood around the back door, which was closed, and I thought, "That ain't right. Must get out. NOW."
The girls were still in the car because that's how I roll - I usually come in first to drop off the stuff and scare off any crackheads who may be in the house (really, I am that paranoid) - so I just grabbed the diaper bag and walked right back out, got in the car, and drove up the street. I called T-Bone to see if he thought I was crazy, and he said no and that I should absolutely call the police. I apologized to the 911 operator and to the police when they got there moments later - I'm sure that this is probably nothing but I do have my children here so I wanted to be positive that no one is in the house and yes I am completely neurotic especially when it comes to safety, etc.. My neighbors were now all out and coming up the street to see what all the fuss was about, and I explained what I had found and what my suspicions were, and about that time, one of the officers came out to say that they had "cleared" the house but that it looked like someone had been inside. Great. They wanted me to come in and see what if anything was missing, and I'm thinking, what ISN'T going to be missing, sure that the whole house would be wiped clean.
It seems that the crackheads kicked in the back door with ease, and without breaking the glass, and went straight to our bedroom downstairs. At first I couldn't tell if anything was missing, partly because I was a little keyed up and partly because I was horrified that I hadn't made the bed this morning. Sorry, cops. Then I saw a candlestick out of place on the dresser, and I was totally creeped out. I even said so. In our bathroom, they went through an old girlie ashtray I keep my throwdown jewelry in - a few pairs of earrings, a stray bracelet, and the like - as well as my very nice men's TAG Heuer watch that needs a battery. Stupid crackheads missed that. I ran to the closet where I've hidden the lion's share of my good jewelry - stuff that isn't necessarily expensive but that I would absolutely lose my shit if it ever got lost, and it was all there. And so was the pair of granny underwear that I threw on the floor when I changed into my bathing suit earlier. Which I was still wearing by the way, with a wet t-shirt and towel wrapped around me. Had to apologize to the cops for that, too.
I went upstairs to check about the obvious electronic stuff, and I really don't think the crackheads had the time or the sense to even go up there. I brought the girls in, and T-Bone arrived shortly thereafter, his eyes quite wide and his voice a little shaky. It's not everyday you come home to three police officers in your house, dusting for prints, and asking if you own any weapons. No, no I don't. And this is a perfect example of why I don't. If I did: a) it wouldn't have helped in this situation because I wasn't even here; and b) the crackheads may have found it and stolen it and killed somebody with it. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn without my glasses on anyway.
The cops kept asking about different items that I might have forgotten about, and when one of them said, "engagement ring," my heart sank. My ring is a little silver band with a heart-shaped amethyst stone from James Avery, and when T-Bone and I talked about getting married and rings and all that, I told him I didn't want a RING ring, because we were already borrowing money for law school, and I didn't think we needed to go further in debt for a ring, and I'm not a grown-up jewelry kind of gal anyway. So, we settled on this perfect, precious ring, and he gave it to me on a glorious night in New Orleans at the Old Absinthe House. I took it off recently to clean it, and with the swim lessons and all this week, I had put it in the girlie ashtray. And the fucking crackheads got it.
I held it together until the cops left, and then T-Bone and I had a "moment" in the garage. The girls were blissfully unaware and not at all afraid that there were police officers in the house. Peach was most impressed that the one in charge was a woman, and she told her about the time she met two female firefighters on a school trip to the fire station. I know she knows that something is up, but I'm not going to say any more than she asks.
I have spent the rest of the day Cloroxing anything I think the crackheads might have touched and running many different scenarios through my head. What if we had been home? Were they here when we got here? Were they watching the house? I am so mad and so creeped out that strangers were in my house, in my bedroom, where I sleep with my babies, that I can hardly see straight. Yes, it could have been much worse, and stuff is stuff, and all that, but I am still furious. Which is another great reason why I don't own a gun.
The girls were still in the car because that's how I roll - I usually come in first to drop off the stuff and scare off any crackheads who may be in the house (really, I am that paranoid) - so I just grabbed the diaper bag and walked right back out, got in the car, and drove up the street. I called T-Bone to see if he thought I was crazy, and he said no and that I should absolutely call the police. I apologized to the 911 operator and to the police when they got there moments later - I'm sure that this is probably nothing but I do have my children here so I wanted to be positive that no one is in the house and yes I am completely neurotic especially when it comes to safety, etc.. My neighbors were now all out and coming up the street to see what all the fuss was about, and I explained what I had found and what my suspicions were, and about that time, one of the officers came out to say that they had "cleared" the house but that it looked like someone had been inside. Great. They wanted me to come in and see what if anything was missing, and I'm thinking, what ISN'T going to be missing, sure that the whole house would be wiped clean.
It seems that the crackheads kicked in the back door with ease, and without breaking the glass, and went straight to our bedroom downstairs. At first I couldn't tell if anything was missing, partly because I was a little keyed up and partly because I was horrified that I hadn't made the bed this morning. Sorry, cops. Then I saw a candlestick out of place on the dresser, and I was totally creeped out. I even said so. In our bathroom, they went through an old girlie ashtray I keep my throwdown jewelry in - a few pairs of earrings, a stray bracelet, and the like - as well as my very nice men's TAG Heuer watch that needs a battery. Stupid crackheads missed that. I ran to the closet where I've hidden the lion's share of my good jewelry - stuff that isn't necessarily expensive but that I would absolutely lose my shit if it ever got lost, and it was all there. And so was the pair of granny underwear that I threw on the floor when I changed into my bathing suit earlier. Which I was still wearing by the way, with a wet t-shirt and towel wrapped around me. Had to apologize to the cops for that, too.
I went upstairs to check about the obvious electronic stuff, and I really don't think the crackheads had the time or the sense to even go up there. I brought the girls in, and T-Bone arrived shortly thereafter, his eyes quite wide and his voice a little shaky. It's not everyday you come home to three police officers in your house, dusting for prints, and asking if you own any weapons. No, no I don't. And this is a perfect example of why I don't. If I did: a) it wouldn't have helped in this situation because I wasn't even here; and b) the crackheads may have found it and stolen it and killed somebody with it. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn without my glasses on anyway.
The cops kept asking about different items that I might have forgotten about, and when one of them said, "engagement ring," my heart sank. My ring is a little silver band with a heart-shaped amethyst stone from James Avery, and when T-Bone and I talked about getting married and rings and all that, I told him I didn't want a RING ring, because we were already borrowing money for law school, and I didn't think we needed to go further in debt for a ring, and I'm not a grown-up jewelry kind of gal anyway. So, we settled on this perfect, precious ring, and he gave it to me on a glorious night in New Orleans at the Old Absinthe House. I took it off recently to clean it, and with the swim lessons and all this week, I had put it in the girlie ashtray. And the fucking crackheads got it.
I held it together until the cops left, and then T-Bone and I had a "moment" in the garage. The girls were blissfully unaware and not at all afraid that there were police officers in the house. Peach was most impressed that the one in charge was a woman, and she told her about the time she met two female firefighters on a school trip to the fire station. I know she knows that something is up, but I'm not going to say any more than she asks.
I have spent the rest of the day Cloroxing anything I think the crackheads might have touched and running many different scenarios through my head. What if we had been home? Were they here when we got here? Were they watching the house? I am so mad and so creeped out that strangers were in my house, in my bedroom, where I sleep with my babies, that I can hardly see straight. Yes, it could have been much worse, and stuff is stuff, and all that, but I am still furious. Which is another great reason why I don't own a gun.
4 comments:
Omigawd! Dude! That is AWFUL. I am so sorry this happened to you. And especially that they took your ring -- damn! I don't even know what to say. That just sucks so bad. I would be creeped out, too.
I am SO turning on the security system from now on when we leave the house. We've gotten really lazy about that but we're paying for the damn thing so we may as well use it.
That sucks. I am so sorry - what a creepy feeling. Kudos for you for noticing and acting on it.
Holyfuckingshit. I'm calling your ass right now.
Oh, La Turista. I am so sorry about this. I was burgled twice as a child (two different houses, two different cities) and I remember well that feeling of violation and disgust. Our burgleries were the same--crime of opportunity, nothing of real value taken, but a lot of sentimental stuff gone because it was ripe pickings. (My great-grandmother's rosary beads, my grandfather's retirement watch). It's hard to feel safe again. I need to give you a call about this.
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