I am in my PJs so late in the morning that I am embarrassed to tell you how late, but I am working on my hook for the Crapometer.
I ignore the ringing of the doorbell because I'm not expecting anyone and don't want to be caught in my PJs. If it's a package, they'll leave it by the door. If it's a salesperson, I don't want the interruption.
After about twelve insistent rings, I hear the front door creak and I step into the hallway. There are two males in their early twenties, low baggy jeans, scarf bands on their heads, and over-sized sweatshirts, running down the hallway not more than six feet from me.
I shriek, "What are you doing in my house?" They turn so fast to run back to the front door that the hall rug gets all screwed up, almost tripping them.
By the time I get to the front door, their car is pulling out of the drive, but I get the license plate. Shaking almost too much to make the calls, I get the neighborhood security patrol and two deputies from the sheriff's department out to take a statement.
They say, "Common MO." The car is a stolen vehicle.
I can't seem to get back to my hook. What shall I do? So few days are left before the 15th that I can't afford these interruptions.