Kelly O

Since Seattle summer came to screeching halt last Tuesday, the weekend was a too-perfect time for Soap Lake . In only two hours and 57 minutes, my rain boots and sweatshirt turned into flip-flops and a bikini—the dark denim sky into a pretty baby blue one. The thermometer read 88 degrees when we pulled into the beach parking lot for a day of doing nothing except swimming and lying on the hot dirt listening old Russian women in kicky babushka-'n'-bathing-suit combos chatter incessantly at their adult sons sporting tiny Speedos, golden tans, and even golder teeth. After sunset we wandered over to the Del-Red Pub where we found something called a "pizza-taco" and this fellow, Sandy, who was still wearing a shirt. It wasn't until after several pitchers of beer that Sandy finally took OFF his shirt, showed us his bikini briefs, and then invited us to his single-wide to "run around naked in the yard.

Sandy says, "Girl, if my dick don't work, my tongue do!" Ah summer. KELLY O