Okay, not really. But kind of. You decide.
So, a few minutes after I took this photo, I turned and began the short walk back to the sidewalk and to my van. I’d brought my dog with me to the beach on a spontaneous adventure.
You see, Lola the Dog loves to ride in the car and when she sees one of my kids ready for work, she gallops over to me and barks her head off, begging to go. I decided to bring her with me to drop him off.
Then, because my daughter decided to skip her last gymanstics class, I had a free hour. My plan was to drop off my son, then head to the beach just in time for the sunset. (While I was doing this, I had a casserole baking in the oven. Be impressed while you still can.)
You should know that during the three and a half years that we’ve lived here, I have taken my dog to the beach only three other times. Or maybe two times. Only two times that I can actually recall. That’s because dogs are not allowed on the beach. And I am a rule-f0llower. (I used to be a rule-follower.)
But it’s the off-season and every time I’m at the beach I see a scattering of dogs on the sand.
Do you see how the criminal mind works? We justify our law-breaking.
And then, with nary a care, we throw caution to the wind and just do it. We break the law. We let our black hearts take over.
So, that’s how I met Officer Perry tonight at the beach. I knew he was heading toward me with his uniform and shiny badge and big radio and official hat. I would have run but I am almost 50-years old, out of shape and I have a bum Achilles tendon. And where would I go? Into the ocean as if I were a character in The Awakening (Kate Chopin)? (Does anybody understand that reference?)
He asked me where I lived. He asked if I had identification. (I did not. I left it in the car.) And then he pulled out a little notepad and asked me for my name and called me in, like a common criminal! Once he ascertained I was not wanted in seven states (or on their list of dog-on-the-beach violators), he let me go.
As if that weren’t enough for one day, when I got home, I set the oven on fire.
I didn’t mean to, of course. It’s just that since we’ve lived here I haven’t cleaned my oven. (I’ve been busy.) As you can imagine, it’s kind of grody. (Oh wait. I don’t think that’s a word.) On the spur of the moment, I turned it to the cleaning cycle after I pulled my casserole out of the hot oven.
About ten minutes later, the dog jumped up, startled. At the same time I heard a whooshing sound. I looked into the oven and saw flames.
As soon as I turned it off, the flames extinguished.
However, smoke poured out of the oven for a good long time, long enough that I wondered why my smoke detectors weren’t shrieking. My clothes smelled like I was locked in a smoker’s lounge. I had to open every downstairs window.
My oven is still dirty.
And I’m on the List of People Who Flagrantly Disregard Law At The Beach.
Tomorrow’s a new day.