My weekend: Went out to see Ocean's Eleven, got robbed, got my Christmas tree from Ikea, worked a couple of CCA concerts, went to a sleepover at Angie's, saw Dave and Ariel, baked more....
What? Back up? Oh, yeah, the "got robbbed" thing caught your eye, huh. Yeah, someone broke into our house -- orignially we thought someone had gotten in through the back door, which was somewhat scary as it didn't look like the door had been forced, but now we think they came in through a basement window -- and took a bunch of stuff -- TV, VCR, bike, tools, laptop computer. The only thing that's important is the laptop: Wendy is writing a book, and the latest and greatest version of said book in on said computer. Wherever it may be. This is a problem. The rest of the stuff -- feh, it's annoying, but we'll live.
We'd just gotten home from seeing Ocean's Eleven -- a fun brain-candy movie about a bunch of people robbing about $150 million from three Las Vegas casinos -- when we found our stuff gone. Strangely, this was not as entertaining as when George Clooney and Brad Pitt did it on screen. Odd. Called the police, they came out and took a statement, told us not to touch anything and wait for the property crime folks. About two hours later the property crime folks came, looked around, said we probably wouldn't get any fingerprints, and there was very little they could do. Then they told us (1) how cool our house was, (2) how crappy our locks were, and (3) there was probably a body in the basement. I'm reasonably sure they were kidding about that last bit -- it's just because the concrete floor was patched over. We figured it must have actually been for the coal bin and furnace when the house was still heated by coal. If there is a body down there, I don't want to know about it.
So we're ok -- no one was hurt, nothing was broken -- but pissed off. And no, Andy, we're not going to move to a "safer" neighborhood -- this could happen anywhere, and people get robbed all over the city. It was a crime of opportunity -- they must have seen our tenant move out so they knew the basement was empty. They took the opportunity to get in that way, took what they could and left. We've now got the back door barred with a pitchfork-type-thing, and all the basement windows are locked. And we're looking into huge-ass metal-plate fuck-off locks (I'm told that's the technical term that locksmiths use.) And so on.
As for the other stuff: I got my tree and put the lights on it, but that's it. The ornament boxes are sitting on my coffee table, waiting for me to get my ass in gear. Um, soon? I worked the door at two (small, unfortunately) concerts for Chicago Choral Artists, which sounded great. There's two more next weekend! Check the web site for ticket info! We need the money!
Angie had a sleepover, basically six thrity-something women talking about boys, making prank phone calls (you weren't home, alas, Lotti) and sleeping on the floor. The only differences from the sort of sleepovers we had when we were 12 was that no one's bra got frozen, we didn't try "Light as a feather, stiff as a board", and we all actually wanted to go to sleep. It was lots of fun -- highly recommended. I didn't sleep as much as I wanted, however, and therefore dozed (and snored, apparently) on Angie's couch while the rest of the group watched football. Worked for me. (As a side note: I may snore, but Amy Laures makes some seriously weird noises in her sleep. Really. It's pretty wacky.)
So anyway, my apartment is a complete and utter disaster area, I haden't been home most of the weekend to clean, and I get a call from Dave and Ariel from San Francisco -- hey, we're in town and in the neighborhood -- mind if we stop by? Seeing them was great (even if they are both monsterously fit and doing triathalons and marathons, and Ariel is prostelityzing the joys of physical activity and competition), but I was seriously ashamed of my squalor. I wish I could say that the theives trashed my apartment, but alas, that was all me. I know, I know: If I just cleaned on a regular basis, I wouldn't have to worry about showing off squalor when my friends just stop by. That makes perfect sense. And yet, I don't do it.
Moral of the story: Give me at least a day's warning before you stop by, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.
What? Back up? Oh, yeah, the "got robbbed" thing caught your eye, huh. Yeah, someone broke into our house -- orignially we thought someone had gotten in through the back door, which was somewhat scary as it didn't look like the door had been forced, but now we think they came in through a basement window -- and took a bunch of stuff -- TV, VCR, bike, tools, laptop computer. The only thing that's important is the laptop: Wendy is writing a book, and the latest and greatest version of said book in on said computer. Wherever it may be. This is a problem. The rest of the stuff -- feh, it's annoying, but we'll live.
We'd just gotten home from seeing Ocean's Eleven -- a fun brain-candy movie about a bunch of people robbing about $150 million from three Las Vegas casinos -- when we found our stuff gone. Strangely, this was not as entertaining as when George Clooney and Brad Pitt did it on screen. Odd. Called the police, they came out and took a statement, told us not to touch anything and wait for the property crime folks. About two hours later the property crime folks came, looked around, said we probably wouldn't get any fingerprints, and there was very little they could do. Then they told us (1) how cool our house was, (2) how crappy our locks were, and (3) there was probably a body in the basement. I'm reasonably sure they were kidding about that last bit -- it's just because the concrete floor was patched over. We figured it must have actually been for the coal bin and furnace when the house was still heated by coal. If there is a body down there, I don't want to know about it.
So we're ok -- no one was hurt, nothing was broken -- but pissed off. And no, Andy, we're not going to move to a "safer" neighborhood -- this could happen anywhere, and people get robbed all over the city. It was a crime of opportunity -- they must have seen our tenant move out so they knew the basement was empty. They took the opportunity to get in that way, took what they could and left. We've now got the back door barred with a pitchfork-type-thing, and all the basement windows are locked. And we're looking into huge-ass metal-plate fuck-off locks (I'm told that's the technical term that locksmiths use.) And so on.
As for the other stuff: I got my tree and put the lights on it, but that's it. The ornament boxes are sitting on my coffee table, waiting for me to get my ass in gear. Um, soon? I worked the door at two (small, unfortunately) concerts for Chicago Choral Artists, which sounded great. There's two more next weekend! Check the web site for ticket info! We need the money!
Angie had a sleepover, basically six thrity-something women talking about boys, making prank phone calls (you weren't home, alas, Lotti) and sleeping on the floor. The only differences from the sort of sleepovers we had when we were 12 was that no one's bra got frozen, we didn't try "Light as a feather, stiff as a board", and we all actually wanted to go to sleep. It was lots of fun -- highly recommended. I didn't sleep as much as I wanted, however, and therefore dozed (and snored, apparently) on Angie's couch while the rest of the group watched football. Worked for me. (As a side note: I may snore, but Amy Laures makes some seriously weird noises in her sleep. Really. It's pretty wacky.)
So anyway, my apartment is a complete and utter disaster area, I haden't been home most of the weekend to clean, and I get a call from Dave and Ariel from San Francisco -- hey, we're in town and in the neighborhood -- mind if we stop by? Seeing them was great (even if they are both monsterously fit and doing triathalons and marathons, and Ariel is prostelityzing the joys of physical activity and competition), but I was seriously ashamed of my squalor. I wish I could say that the theives trashed my apartment, but alas, that was all me. I know, I know: If I just cleaned on a regular basis, I wouldn't have to worry about showing off squalor when my friends just stop by. That makes perfect sense. And yet, I don't do it.
Moral of the story: Give me at least a day's warning before you stop by, or be prepared to suffer the consequences.
posted by SAJ at
10:24 PM
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