Saturday night, my housemates and I invited over a few friends. More than a hundred people showed up. We weren't surprised. The five of us who share a three-story Kramer house on East Washington Street are like the center of a wheel; our spokes lead to, among other things, The Observer, the ski team, Hall President's Council, London Program spring '99, Austria program '98-'99, the senior CHEG class and the art department. When we each invite a few friends, we expect a hundred people.

But some idiot Saturday night made us rethink ever hosting a party again. See, somebody took $200 in cash from my roommate's second-floor bedroom. The loot wasn't exposed; it was deliberately hidden in a sock drawer. Sure, she probably shouldn't have had a giant wad of liquid assets bumping uglies with her knee-highs, but that certainly is not the point. Someone simply should not have been snooping for dough in a dark room behind a closed door.

We left our bedrooms open so people could put their coats aside. We allowed access to our upstairs bathroom so the small-bladdered wouldn't be forced to write their names in the snow. We trusted our friends and our friends' friends not to take advantage of our hospitality. Most people didn't; you are the ones we trust with our home and our friendship.

It was just one person — probably someone we don't even know — whom we trusted a bit too much.

It's not the money, really. It's the vomitous feeling that our vulnerability was exploited. Do we realize how open we leave ourselves to theft when we blast Bruce on the stereo and don't post a bouncer at the door? Sure. Do we half-expect a pool cue or a bar stool to be missing or broken in the morning? Of course. But we also expect the people we host to have the decency and dignity to stay out of those things that obviously are personal — the things we stuff away in closed drawers.

To whomever took our money: If it was a couple bucks you needed for a cab back to campus, we would have paid. But if it was the thrill of finding a stash, you disgust us. You took our sense of safety and ruined the memory of our night. Instead of chatting about which crazy dancer strutted across the picnic table, we retraced our steps, wondering when our guard fell and we allowed a thief through our collective defense.

We aren't the only ones. Cameras, movies, CDs, coats and jewelry disappear from off-campus houses and apartments all the time. Police reports seem illogical; we invite the robbers, show them the goods and let them walk out unscathed. We don't know who they are, but we will not stop trusting our friends because these thieves can't respect the gracious hosts who let them sing, dance and hang out until the sun rises or the well runs dry.

To our friends: We hope you had a wonderful time Saturday night.

To our robber: We hope you buy yourself something real nice.

• Robbed