First semester finished successfully for everyone. Jameson had passed all of his block exams and Anatomy Shelf, Grey was the leading scorer on his soccer and street hockey teams and I’d discovered Catherine Tate videos on YouTube. Over the holiday break, my mother-in-law and Mitch visited and I even relaxed enough to let the house cleaning go for days telling myself, “I’m not bovvered.”
We were well into semester 2 and my last day of vacation dangled in front of me like a Ferragamo calfskin handbag. Salivating over memories of professional attire and places to carry such glorious bags, I figured this was my cue to hit the beach. Grey was at school and Jameson wouldn’t be home from studying for another 4 hours so I had some time to kill. That and I was envious of the people I saw with tan lines. I lived on an island in the Caribbean and my Redmond, Washington friends on Facebook had more color from fake-baking than I had from the sun. Fail. I slipped on my swimsuit cover, shades and threw my towel and Kindle into my new pink waterproof beach bag. Grabbing the keys off the hook I headed out the door and toward our local beach, Mullet Bay.
Walking down the hill I kept sidestepping piles of dog poop. Seriously? Who let’s a dog take a dump on concrete instead of the grass and lacks the wherewithal to pick it up? I wasn’t the only one annoyed. Walking behind 3 of the twenty-something crowd who had the same idea as me, I could overhear the sneers about the idiots with the dogs. Today ‘The Elevens’ and I agreed with the bunnies headed toward the beach. The persistent poop issue was shit. Literally.
The girls, about to step down onto the sand of the beach with me close behind, suddenly stopped. Was someone actually yelling bingo? Yep, some guy was screaming BINGO at the top of his lungs. Less than a second later a coconut retriever, soaking wet and carrying a tree branch, came barreling toward us. The girls screamed and we all parted to let the dog pass and enter the golf course. Just as the group turned to continue the walk to Mullet, Bingo’s owner came running up wearing only his birthday suit. Yep. Dude was naked as a jaybird.
The doggy daddy stopped, put his hands on his hips to catch his breath and panted in an accent I didn’t recognize, “Pardon, but did you ladies see my dog, Bingo?”
Looking anywhere but AT the man sans pants, the bunnies rolled their eyes and ignored the guy. Come on, didn’t they see this in Anatomy Lab. I glanced over at the doggy daddy. Okay, maybe they didn’t see quite like this. I then realized you can’t UNSEE something.
Doggy daddy asked again, “Ladies, I’m in a rush. Either you’ve seen Bingo or you haven’t.”
Bingo came running back toward his mid-seventies father, dropped the branch at his feet and began barking. We were all glued to our spots. Doggy daddy standing in the sand telling Bingo he was a “bad boy”, the bunnies, to the guys right, now intensely focused on the dog and me on his left trying to decide if you needed to apply SPF to ALL areas if you sunbathed in the nude.
Bingo and his father headed off down the beach and the twenty-something’s and I all shared a laugh. The girls continued on to Mullet and I made a beeline for the sidewalk. I was heading home and far away from the fashion faux pas I’d just witnessed.
Mental Checklist: To-Do list upon arrival at the condo; shot of vodka, blend a pina colada and head to the pool. Oh, and pray to the Bain de Soliel there are no naked grandpas at the pool today.
