10:21 p.m. Before I launch right back into my weeping and wailing, let me first wish the lovely Miss Shelley a most happy and fruitful Shelleyness Day. What a sweet young girly she is. And smart, too. Smart as a whip. Ah, these younguns. They walk, they talk, they are poised to take over the whole entire world!

And I should note, for the record, that Shelley is either especially tall and lithe or I am especially stumpy and lumpy -- and given the nature of my week so far, I won't press for answers. But she's a girl I can look up to, I can tell you that.

Back to the wailing?

In a minute -- first, I must thank all the lovely folks who've written me and told me their own horror stories of assorted tussles with the robbing scum of the earth. I have to say that it's true what they say: misery does, indeed, love company. Sad, so sad. But true.

I've taken a certain rueful comfort in hearing that others have had "experiences" and most important, that others have lived to recount. It looks like you get over it, and you even get smarter about locking your doors and not letting down your guard. Thank you, thank you -- for sharing stories and cyber hugs. They are welcomed, and amazingly effective.

Can I wail now?

Well, all day long I've been frantically marking my territory -- but in the female way. I've been cleaning and sweeping and trimming and mopping and scouring and scrubbing and scraping. Every far corner, edge of the property, periphery, place where someone might skulk. If they trespass, I will know, because I've been shaking my whole place clean like an Etch-A-Sketch, and if someone makes a new mark, I will know it.

Damn bastards.

And I'm having a surprising reaction of anger to this whole thing. Surprising to me, at least, because I've always thought of myself as passive, benign, and mild. But today I was out in the back forty, crushing old palm fronds in my bare hands and actually considering taking a couple of the sharp, spiked stems and bringing them inside as weapons.

And then I cut my hands, my palms, my thumb pretty bad on the thorny stalks and I wisely stuffed them into the green bin and slammed the hinged lid closed. Swept some more and investigated the sidewalk outside the fence, cleaned up the neighbor's blown debris because I'm a nice person, and goaded the insane pit bull by humming at her.

There's a cold wind on the back of my neck and I feel like someone is watching me. This will pass. As will the fantasies and the plans.

We do have some fencing foils that could certainly smart if they were whipped about just right, and then there's scalding coffee. You spin around suddenly, splash it into the robber's face and yell, "Acid!" Then you make your fast getaway.

Otherwise, I'm a pacifist. Was. It will come back.