Take Off Your Shoes
Amster and I took the boys to the beach today. We didn't get on a plane, we used barely a gallon of gas, we didn't pack sun screen or towels or toys. We piled Mr. 7 and Mr. 9 and their friend and another friend's dog into the car she's inherited from The Firefighter and drove north to Catalina State Park. The dry wash is teeming with runoff from the mountains and yesterday's rain. Amster's toe shoes were perfect. Sasha's paws were handy, too. Mr. 9's feet, on the other hand, had issues. The slip on shoes were too heavy and kept falling off. The socks collected grit and hurt his tender tootsies. The plan seemed to be to cover the soles entirely with sand and use the beach against itself. It wasn't a perfect plan, but he couldn't convince us to leave, so he gave up arguing and resumed having fun. I, comfortably ensconced on my sweatshirt, watched the world go by. To be precise, I watched the world try to traverse t...