Searching for Bobby (not Fischer)

Today should be a joyous occasion. Mike and I should be celebrating National Happy Sidewalk Day wherein we rejoice in the fact that our crumbling, decaying, and probably extremely dangerous sidewalk has been replaced by beautiful, silvery smooth concrete. (Thanks, dead Roman inventors-of-concrete dudes!)

mmmmm....Concrete Joy.

Instead, I am looking for a kid, probably around 8 or 9, by the name of "Bobby." Because Bobby took it upon himself to scribble his DAMNED NAME into my BRAND NEW SIDEWALK.

I am also looking for his comrade "J*s*l*e" who (I hope because of extreme fright at being caught) either couldn't spell his name right or who is so friggin' inept that he cannot even vandalize property correctly. (Seriously, what are the public schools teaching these kids?)

Bastards!

These creative youngsters also decided that History must not forget the day the Robinsons got a new sidewalk so they also carved the date into the corner.

Uncreative bastards!

The concrete had not even been down more than 12 hours.

I mean, if you are going to vandalize, you should at least have some sort of meaningful manifesto-type symbol, right?

So naturally I was hopping mad (I hate it when people touch my things) and called around to get sympathy from my sister (thanks, sister) and my mom (no luck there-"that's what kids do!" she says). They were touching my things, mom!!!

If it hadn't cost so much, I wouldn't have been as upset. But replacing the concrete means that we had to put off remodeling our icky kitchen for another year.

I did talk to the police, who said I was probably overreacting.

Erg.

I talked to the Concrete Man (I never got his name-as far as I know, that IS his name-it's printed on his truck) who said that he thought the marks would fade over time.

Erg.

I complained to almost everyone I came in contact with today.

Erg.

So I have turned into that creepy woman who constantly peers out her window, looking for evidence that kids are misbehaving. Looking, watching, and waiting for "Bobby." And "J*s*l*e."

On the plus side, at least now I have a hobby.