Having your house broken into is a curious thing. It’s scary, and maddening. It makes me want to leave immediately, and it makes me want to stay and prove that I’m not afraid and won’t let hoodlums dictate my life. Except, wait, I want to leave for myself, anyway, wahhhh. I don’t think you can really imagine how violating it feels until it actually happens–it’s not anywhere near as interesting as you would think from watching CSI.

Tara told me she was surprised I hadn’t blogged about the break-in, because I’d told her how cathartic blogging is. But things kept changing, and how I felt about things changed even faster. Today I called our insurance to cancel the claim I’d started Friday. By Saturday, right before I found my ring, I’d decided that, with a high appraisal and the promise of a little cash to augment (ok, start) our savings, perhaps this was how the Lord was going to answer my prayers. Now maybe He was testing to ensure I would interpret things as being for my good, before answering in a way I wanted initially?

The interpretation of prayers and answers was not helped by the fact that I’d just taught the SWK lesson on prayers. Obviously, I am not an authority on the subject.

You will be pleased to hear that the St Petersburg Police Department have been ABSOLUTELY NO FETCHING HELP in this matter (ok, so usually, I do use the “real” “F” word, but I’m trying to repent damn faster). And the word “fetch” (is that in Napoleon Dynamite?) brings back fuzzy feelings from my survival trip in 1995. Anyway, back to the police.

I’ve decided we are victims of Police Priority, a kissing cousin to Police Brutality. Brutal to the morale, anyway. I’ve seen the police in Starsky-and-Hutch action, come shooting up over the grassy expanse of Crescent Lake Park in hot pursuit of juveniles allegedly smoking (and not pot either, we’re talking regular cigarettes, and no, officer, we didn’t see said juveniles anyway). Are they aware that a mere 2 miles to the south juveniles have graduated from smoking to dealing?

Oh well, who cares? I certainly don’t. Once I shake the dust off this miserable little block, I hope to never be personally affected again by the plight of those so miserably lacking in opportunities– in America, that awful land of repression, restriction, no financial aid for college, no free public education to grade 12, no advanced health care, no freedom of speech or religion or the press. Wait, I think that is some other country. So tell me again why you are sitting on the corner selling drugs?