We wuz robbed.

I so wish I could use my sports icon for this one. But no. We got back from work yesterday to find the door sitting open for the second time in a bit over a year and a half. Some drug-addled punk broke in, stole our PS2, a handful of DVDs from our rack (still trying to figure out which ones), and shadesong's portable CD player (sitting on the table right by the door). Everything else, including the TV, the VCR, the DVD player, and even the PS2 games, was untouched.

But the scariest thing was that Max, our declawed (not by us!) Siamese, had gotten outside. Jack, the cat with claws and an attitude, stayed inside. But Max, who couldn't survive a fight with a pillow, was out there. And I saw him sitting on the back porch, but when I went out, he bolted. It took us forty minutes of searching to finally turn him up; I finally found him skulking in the bushes outside the front door, and he bolted to the house, only to smash into the glass outer door, then take off again. We repeated this a few times until shadesong opened the door just as he was running up. During the forty minutes that I was searching for him, I don't think I've ever had such violent thoughts. If I'd have found the asshole who let him out, I'd have done things to him that would make Hannibal Lecter look like a gentleman (minus the cannibalism, of course).

But our cat is safe, and our stuff will be covered by insurance. And we found out that the current handyman (who came out last night) is a hell of a lot better than the previous one (who let us go four days without a door). You can read more about what happened in shadesong's LJ. My reaction to this sort of stress is to stay away from the computer, so I couldn't bring myself to even vent about this until now.