It happened twice and didn’t think a damn thing of it. Come home from work, stop to get the mail and there wasn’t anything there.

“Huh… that’s odd… guess I won’t peruse Anthropologie on the crapper and design a fictional party…moving on…” And that was the end of it.

(Also? SHUT UP. You totally do it too.)

But I should have thought about it. We’ve lived in this house for FOUR YEARS. And I get more crap in the mail than anyone ever should. I’m on EVERY mailing list that exists. There is ALWAYS mail.

And then it started. Patrick went to get the mail one gorgeous Saturday morning while we were in the midst of planning an absolutely wonderful day on a gorgeous morning and our little cocoon of safety and trust exploded.

Sure, when it started with Lowe’s and Radio Shack I could be funny and try and chalk it up to Patrick in a fugue state decided to suddenly shop. But then it was Citibank. Apple. Wal-mart. Over and over. Someone using his name. Birthday. Social Security number. Someone out there who knew all this about my husband.

It wasn’t me. How was that possible? I’M the one who puts it all out there. The oversharer who writes first and thinks later. Why wasn’t it me? Because someone stole our mail. They were at our house. They discarded my Sephora mailers and the Pottery Barn catalogs. Somehow they found what they needed with my husband’s name on it. And they proceeded to try and systematically ruin his good name.

We think we were lucky. We caught it fast. We tried to play detective and we set up a camera to try and catch them coming back. No luck… unless a bumble bee happens to be the culprit.

I had grand plans to try and make this something to laugh about, I really did. But the truth is, it just feels like such a violation. The police are no help. We’ve been told repeatedly to file a report so that there is a documentable trail of this whole mess but nobody will listen. We got a post office box. We are watching our credit reports with eagle eyes.

But mainly I’m just angry. I’m really, really angry.