We spent Thursday doing security things -- our ex-tenant helped us chain up our back gate and cut 2x4s to put on the inside of the windows so they can't be opened from the outside, plus we changed the locks on Wendy's floor and put in security locks so someone on the outside can't force the door when you're inside. Yeah, yeah, I know, they came in through the windows, I just don't want to ever have the doors be an option, thank you very much.

Friday my fabulous, fabulous heating guy came -- Dave the Weatherman. If you're in the Chicagoland area and need HVAC work, call him -- he's great, and gave us a great rate pretty much because he couldn't believe someone had ripped off our fireplace. He got Christmas cookies and my undying admiration. And, obviously, what measure of fame you can get from a random blog. Go Dave. Plus, Wendy got us tenants -- we'll be having Mormon missionaries move into the basement. Hopefully big ones. Samoans, perhaps. Who knows.

Digression: I'm loving the fact that Wendy thought of getting missionaries to rent. Think about it: We don't have to worry about smoking or drinking or wild parties, they're not going to have pets, we don't even have to worry about getting the rent because the missionary society pays that, and, AND, if I ever get competing missionaries at the door I can just say "No thanks, I've already got some." What more could I ask!

Today was all about security as well (well, that and baking, but that's me this time of year): Got estimates from two alarm companies -- right, question for the alarm-using folks who read the blog: hardwired or wireless system? Brinks or ADT? Any thoughts, stories, anecdotes? Let me know. -- and had the contractor come by to see what we needed to do to the basement apartment before the tenants move in. It'll be done by the end of the year. Really. Ulp.

Joe's reaction to my questions about security systems: "You don't need an alarm. You need a pot of coffee and a shotgun." Thanks. I'll keep that in mind.

Got a visit from our neighbor to the west, who was also robbed recently -- he suspects the same folks we do. I gave him the number of the detective assigned to our case, and hopefully that will help. Then I went door to door down my block with a flyer --in English and Spanish (thanks, Jorge) -- detailing the robberies and asking for anyone who saw anything to call the police. Learned about a couple of other break-ins in the neighborhood, and that other people have complained about the crackhouse up the street (Oh, that reminds me -- one of the cops who came to our house also went to the crackhouse on our recommendation -- wait, that doesn't sound good -- I mean, checked out the house because we said it may be linked to the robbery -- as neither Wendy nor I can actually comment on the quality of the crack therein -- digressing -- ANYway -- and he (the cop) came back later and said "No, i don't think it's a crack house, there was a very nice couple there who talked to me through the door." Yes, well, there's usually a very nice couple there, it's just seldom the SAME very nice couple on consecutive days. Grrr.) Plus, one of my neighbors said the guy who owns the crackhouse tries to sell them some tools -- tools that sounded suspiciously like the ones that went missing from my toolbox. Arghh. They're going to call the detective too.


And that's the saga of the Quest for Security at the Jersild household. Loads of fun.

in other news, I went to the Death of Webpoint party last night at The Billy Goat. Webpoint was the internet effort from the syndication wing of the Tribune company, and that's where I worked -- and cut my online teeth, as it were -- when I got back to the U.S. in 1996. We did some cool stuff, then some less cool stuff, then some not cool stuff, and still didn't make any money. Hmmm. I will be scarred for life from editing the horoscopes, but I had fun with ComicsEdge, Matrimony Mambo, Camp Wotsituya ("That's not a Snipe! That's a Wombat!"), the food site, the holidays site... but I'm amazed it lasted as long as it did. Oh well. It was great to see all these Webpoint folks again, and viciously mock each other (Me for my legendary interview, in which I answered versions of the same question wrong five times; Dave for the legendary Spinning Head; Eric for being a freaking everyone out in the interview because they thought he was a terrorist; Chris "The Crusher" for his legendary firm handshake that reduced Fred to submission.... Very cool.

I am now officially over the incredulous amusement at someone coming back to our house and stealing our fireplace. I'm now deep into anger. Incredible fucking anger. Ass-kicking rage, even.

Note: This may reveal entirely too much about my thought processes, the way I see my place in the world, etc. So skip it if you want to preserve the illusion that I'm even slightly sane.

So just one burglary I would be ... not fine with, but philosophical about. It happens all the time. It's the fact that they came back and robbed us again that is seriously pissing me off. I mean, what the hell kind of contempt must they have for us -- for me (because it's all about me)? Obviously they thought I was powerless, not at all threatening, and an idiot to boot. "Hey, I know, let's go hit the same house we hit three days ago, except this time let's do something ridiculously complicated, like disconnecting the gas at a place where people can see us from the street? No one's gonna do anything -- the stupid yuppiescum chicks who live here won't notice and can't do anything, and no one in the neighborhood gives a damn if we rob them, so no one will call the cops."

Now I am self-aware (self-obsessed?) enough to know how ridiculous -- insane, even -- it is to be concerned about what a bunch of most likely crackhead theives think about my personal power and such. I mean, he/she/they couldn't give a shit about me -- they just took the opportunity to steal stuff. I'm just taking it a little personally. I mean, to come back! To rob us again! Grrrrrr.

I'm getting over this. I'll let you know when I move from anger to bargaining. Or is it acceptance?

Note to self: Telling Wendy "It'll all go in the book someday" when the computer containing her book has just been stolen is not exactly the most sensitive or tactful thing in the world to say. Sigh. My mouth is just sooooo much faster than my brain.

This is now, officially, ridiculous. Someone -- probably the same someone or someones from Friday -- went down the side alley of our house, turned off all our gas, climbed in the basement window and disconnected and stole the gas fireplace from the basement. The gas fireplace. Jesus. I almost think it's funny, except that it's happening to me.

And they still left the refrigerator on the back porch. What the fuck.

So, Aaron the ex-tenant graciously came over and put in a burglar bar on the windows so they can't be opened from the outside. Hopefully this will work.

I'm now researching alarm companies. Any suggestions?

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.