Damn punk

"Honey! C'mere and take a look at this!"

It was early-ish Sunday morning, and my husband had just went out the back door to leave for a NYC daytrip. Not 30 seconds later, he was back inside (much to the dogs' delight), and beckoning me outside.

"Some punk spray-painted the tree and some of the grass. Weird, huh?"

"Whoops," I said. "That was me. Remember, I painted the new kitchen cabinet doors yesterday?" (In my personal protest to not wanting to have to put in overtime at work over the weekend, I got showered and dressed really late on Saturday so it wouldn't make any sense to go. I then spent the rest of the day/evening painting kitchen cabinets, vacuuming, doing laundry, organizing the contents of the cabinets I was painting, and anything else I could think of doing . . . in order to justify staying at home.)

"Ohhh. I was gonna say. . . . Yep, same paint color, now that I think about it. Glad we that got figured out.

At least from the back door the spray-painted bit on the grass could pass as shadow or something . . . it isn't like the garage down the street that has "2nd street bloods" sprayed on it in bright red two-foot high letters with the legibility equal to that of an eight-year-old. I could get fancy with it, though. Go all out . . . make a tag of my own. Something relative to the East side, decorating, cooking, and jewelry.