Dear Summer,

You are my favorite season of the year, and I’m sad to see you go.  I keep trying to convince you to stay, but apparently I “repulse you in swimwear.”  Whatever.  I still love you because you give me an excuse to wear flowy dresses that hide my stomach fat.

Not only do they hide bulges, the dresses allow me to get away with not wearing Spanx, which makes me more pleasant to others.  I’m far happier when I’m not scratching my crotch every five seconds and whining that my ribs are breaking from the force of nylon.  Thanks for that.

So I guess I will send you off with a farewell letter.  It’s the only thing I can do since you won’t stay in exchange for a sweet coupon book that entitles you to discounts at local restaurants.  Apparently you aren’t a thrifty shopper.  Noted.  Instead, I will send you off with a goodbye letter and count down the days until I see your lovely face again (and then curse myself for not dieting over the winter).

I guess this means I can say “so long” to the poorly behaved kids at the pool (or maybe I can yell this with excitement instead).  Looks like you will have to fend for yourself another year without having me around to give you dirty looks and remind you that you’re not special.  You’re really not.  Your mom might tell you that you’re improving with your swimming lessons, but we both know your dives suck.

Sayonara messy ponytail.  Most people wore you because it was trendy, but I wore you because I’m lazy and was excited that something messy was in style for once.  Unfortunately, other disheveled looks like rumpled dresses and stained t-shirts haven’t hit the fashion circuit…yet.

Goodbye constant stream of sweat going down my back into my pants.  You always seemed to come around at bad times, but your presence made me giggle (mostly because it tickled).  I won’t even hold a grudge against you for all the times you made my ass hospitable to swamp-like creatures.

boy splashing

See you later ladies at the pool, with bodies of women in their twenties, and faces that haven’t seen sunscreen in years.  I will miss mocking you and trying to figure out if your outfit came from Charlotte Russe or Forever 21.  (P.S.  You are not Forever 21.  You’re not even “Forever 39” despite the fact you’ve had a 39th birthday the last 5 years.  We can count and we’ve been counting both the years of your birthdays and the crows feet around your eyes.)  I think I will miss you most of all.

Until we meet again,
Lisa

As you know, I recently did a scathing letter to the forty-something mom at the pool.  You’re welcome.  But since I’m an equal opportunity hater, I’ve decided the forty-something dad at the pool also needs a letter…just to keep things fair.  Okay, it’s not that I’m necessarily a hater.  I’m not.  I’m just an easily annoyed person who pents up all her rage and irritation and then takes it out on this blog that a total of five people read.  Here it goes.

Dear forty something dad at the pool,

Yeah, I’m looking at you.  But not because of your sexy body and No Fear swimming trunks. I’m looking at you because you’re a disaster.  And you’re not a disaster the way I am…where I play it off cute and make people laugh (hopefully).  You’re a disaster that makes me both happy and sad at the same time…kind of like eating all the guacamole.  So here are a few things you should know.

1.  You don’t have a six pack.

At least not on your body you don’t.  Although you may be sucking in your gut, you will need a lot more than a simple inhalation of breath to make that thing look attractive.  Here’s a hint:  when people talk about “six pack abs,” they aren’t talking about downing a six pack in 30 minutes.  Yes, that six pack technically goes to the area covered by your abs, but that’s not what they’re referring to.  They’re talking about crunches.  Do some.  But not now.  I don’t want to see your butt crack while you attempt to work out.  Save that shit for your mirror at home.

2.  You need a trim.

I’m not talking about your rapidly receding hair line; I’m talking about your chest hair.  You could french braid it, slap a bow on it and send it off to first grade.  No one wants to see that.  I’m not saying you should get your entire chest waxed.  I’m pretty sure you don’t have enough money to pay for that much time with a salon technician (or that many days off work).  I’m just saying perhaps you should run a pair of scissors over your chest every now and again.  If I can see your chest hair floating in the pool around you like a life vest, it’s too long.  And if you aren’t going to heed my advice, shampoo that shit every now and again.  It’s getting dandruff.

3.  Your butt crack isn’t attractive.

You may like to see a hint of a woman’s crack while she’s wearing a string bikini.  Maybe you think that’s sexy, I don’t know.  However, I assure you women don’t feel the same way about your crack.  The last thing we want to see when we go to the pool is your crusty crack and the hair peeking out from it.  (Take my advice on #2 above and apply it to this as well.)  No one cares about your junk in the trunk.  Hike up those shorts and get a wash rag in there every now and again.  You’re stinking up the pool and making us all sick, and we still want to get snow cones later.

4.  Stop pretending you’re super cool.

Seriously.  We all saw you pull up in the parking lot in your 1999 Dodge minivan.  Not only did we see it, we heard it because you seem to be missing a muffler (and any understanding of what women find attractive).  So put away your fancy keys with what you call a “clicker thing” that unlocks the doors.  We’ve all got one of those.  It isn’t super cool technology that just came out.  We are also no longer taping television shows on VHS, so don’t invite the poor lifeguard over to watch “taped” episodes of Dallas.  She doesn’t know what that means and I’m pretty sure she’s calling the authorities on you right now.  You better get to that van and skedaddle before the cops arrive.

dad with kids at pool

5.   Jumping off the high dive isn’t going to impress anyone other than your five-year old.

Yes, we can all see that you’re capable of climbing the ladder to the high dive.  That’s probably because you climb ladders everyday as part of your regular job.  We’re not impressed.  We also don’t care that you can make “a big ole’ splash” and yell “cannonball” when you jump off the board.  You aren’t the first person to do that and you won’t be the last.  The seventh grader behind you is getting ready to do the same thing, and he’s cuter than you and has less credit card debt.

Do you know what’s impressive to a woman?  A 401k and a dental plan.  You clearly don’t know about the latter as you have sunflower seeds in your teeth from about a week ago.  Grab some floss and get off the high dive.  And seriously, pull up your trunks.  You could smuggle a small child inside that deep crack of yours.

So there you go.  I’m equally offensive to both men and women.  I just hope none of them read this blog, as there are a few weeks left of summer and I still want to be let back into the pool.  I’ve got several more cannonballs to do!

Love,
Lisa

Dear forty-something mom at the pool,Inner Tube in Swimming Pool --- Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis

Yes, I’m talking to you, with the bleached blond hair that only partially hides the gray, and the mammoth glass of water that I’m pretty sure is spiked with something illegal.  I’ve been meaning to tell you a few things, and with the close of summer, now is the perfect time.

So scoot your low rider lounge chair over this way and listen up.  I would tell you to take notes but I wouldn’t want to ruin your manicure and I’m pretty sure you won’t be able to spell half the things in this letter, so I will read it aloud to you.  (That means “out loud.”)

1.  You don’t need more sun.

Throw on a hat and some SPF because your skin looks like it could be sold at a bike shop as chaps and a belt.  And those aren’t freckles, they’re sun spots, and although you believe you’ve been kissed by the sun, that isn’t true.  Judging by your crow’s feet, you’ve been dry humped really hard by the sun and then left outside to dry.

Instead of more sun you need binoculars and walkie talkies to locate your children.  Do you know where they are?  I’m not their babysitter because I can’t stand your kids and I’m assuming the pay sucks.  I don’t want to be responsible for kids, which is why I keep up to date on my birth control.  You should probably do the same.

So put down the Tiger Beat magazine and locate your children.  When you find them, slap them for me.  Not necessarily because they’re doing anything bad at the moment, but because I’m sure they deserve it.

2.  Your kids aren’t adorable and I hate all of their pool antics.

You might think it’s cute for your kids to splash around in the pool, yelping and screaming.  I don’t.  Teach your kid to swim.  Flailing around in the water is neither cute nor fun to watch and your kids’ high pitched screams are going to break my vodka glass, which will result in a wrath you don’t want to see.  So get your kids to swimming lessons so they will shut up and swim correctly.  But then again, natural selection might just play out here…

Never mind.  Return to the crossword puzzle in Star magazine you find so challenging.  (And the words you are looking for are “washed up.”  They are the answer to #21 across, which asks “What’s 8 letters to describe the pathetic woman at the pool.”)

3.  Get a bathing suit for a woman over twenty.

You might think you have a smoking hot body (and you probably do), but that heat you feel isn’t coming from your hot body, it’s the early onset of menopause.  So cover up your c-section scars and don a one-piece.  Your husband doesn’t want to see your deflated boobs and neither do I.

Believe it or not, they actually sell bathing suits in the adult section of Target.  Yeah.  They actually have an adult section at Target.  Go there immediately.

4.  Stop reading “Twilight” books.

You’re not a teenager and you’re old enough to be Edward’s mom (and yes, I know he’s a 111 year old vampire).  No one cares if you’re Team Edward or Team Jacob.  You’re about to be Team AARP.  Put the book down and pick up the sunscreen.  (See #1 above for more details.)

kid in pool

5.  Stop talking with fellow moms about your “charity work.”

We all know you don’t have a job.  Your bronze skin and beach body tells us you have plenty of time to GTL just like the kids on Jersey Shore (and you’re almost as annoying as they are).  But let’s not pretend you dedicate your life to good deeds.  Yes, you may recycle and you also might donate last season’s Gucci bag to the homeless, but you’re far from a philanthropist.  If you were so charitable, you would do the world a favor and sterilize yourself so you would stop bringing more brats into the world.

And look up.  Your kid is putting his boogers on the lining of the pool.  You’ve got a real genius there…

So there you go; those are some of the things I’ve been meaning to get off my chest for some time now about you.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, me and my swim dress are going to lay in the shade with a Jane Austin novel and pretend the world isn’t full of idiots.  Oh yeah, in order to make that happen, vodka will be involved.

Love,
Lisa

day at the spa

I enjoy the finer things in life.  It’s why I refuse to buy the store brand of peanut butter.  (Don’t even think of convincing me that stuff tastes anything like Jif.)  I have become accustomed to a certain life style.  Wait, perhaps I should clarify.

I like things that make me feel good (and full).  I have no problem spending money on things that fall into those categories.  However, things that don’t fall into those categories typically fall by the waste side.  It’s why you will never see me wearing an outfit free of at least one stain or deodorant mark, and why I consider anything less than 5 years old “totally in fashion this season.”

But when it comes to pampering myself, I cut no corners.  I’m a regular spa goer and I don’t care who knows it.  (Okay, maybe a little I care, as I took a spa day recently on a Thursday, and I don’t want my boss to know.  But aside from him…I don’t care who knows it!)

I decided I needed a break from the day-to-day drudgery that is my life, which basically consists of working, complaining, and cleaning up dog excrement.

To reward myself for not totally losing my mind, and for not cursing out the dry cleaners for what I can only describe as date rape on my checkbook, I booked myself a 90 minute massage at The Four Seasons and set out for a day of relaxation and serious price gouging.  (Five dollars for a Diet Coke and it doesn’t even have alcohol in it?  No thank you!)

On my way to the spa, I called in my order for lunch.  I realized this made me look like a total douche to the staff, but I didn’t care.  I figured if I worked in a spa, I would consider all the patrons total douchebages regardless of whether they pre-ordered a salad or not.

I was prepared to deal with their judging eyes.  I was used to it, since I always request a man’s robe when I get there.  (They are so much roomier and have bigger pockets to steal the free mints.)

I arrived, checked in and headed to the locker room.  The attendant followed me, despite the fact she knew I was a regular customer.  Perhaps my stained sweatpants and disheveled hair suggested I was someone who might steal a towel or two (I was).

outside spaWhen we got to the locker area, she looked at me and said “Do you remember how to work the lockers?”

Um, do I remember how to operate something that requires only minimal finger dexterity and the IQ of one of those sweet bottles of lotion I was going to swipe?  Yeah, I got it.  I told her I could handle it and she walked away.

I switched into my robe and headed to one of the relaxation rooms to wait for my food.  I sat down and began chatting with two women who were also getting their relaxation on.  They just had massages and seemed totally relaxed (the bottle of wine they were sharing seemed to be helping in that regard).

I liked them immediately.  We began doing what I call “the spa talk,” which is where we all pretend that being at the spa is a totally normal thing and we aren’t totally freaking out inside because the bath towels smell like eucalyptus.

(Seriously, how do they do that?  And now you know why I steal.)   The “spa talk” typically includes comments about other spas and services, which is just a way for the spa goer to legitimize themselves to another spa person.  It’s like how the mafia is with foot soldiers, or how Jessica Simpson is with everyone.

We chatted for a while and then I was called away for my lunch, which was a $28 vegetarian Cobb salad with a water.  Seriously.  That’s what it cost.  I’m convinced they are in cahoots with my dry cleaner.

I scarfed down the salad in approximately 3 bites, and then to fill myself up, ate the entire basket of bread.  Did you really think I would eat just a salad for lunch?  Oh, that’s so cute.

I was then “collected” for my massage by my favorite masseuse, Mary, who is older than my mom but has hands like a Hungarian baker.  I love her and her outdated Birkenstocks (even I know those are out of style.  Get with it Mary.)

After the service I changed into my suit and headed out to the pool for some sun (and a nap).  I walked through the cafe area on my way to the pool and noticed the two women I spoke to earlier.  They were finishing up their lunches and drinking what I can only assume was another bottle of wine.

We chatted about my service and how fabulous it was.  I told them I was headed to the pool for some fresh air (and because I was gassy) and that they should join me, but sit downwind.  They agreed and collected their things.  As they did so, I looked at one of the other tables and noticed a full glass of champagne, along with an empty glass and an open bottle.

“What’s the story here?” I asked, as I slid over to the table.

“Oh, a woman sat there waiting for a guy who never came.  She drank her glass and then left,” they said, with pity in their voice for the girl who was ignored and was most likely in the bathroom cutting herself at that exact moment.

I wanted to feel sorry for her.  I did.  But all that came out was “So….where are we on this champagne?”

They looked at me and one of them said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we…”

champagne photoBefore they finished the sentence I picked up the full glass of bubbly and took a drink.  It was delicious, and definitely didn’t taste like the $2.99 gas station brand of which I’ve grown to love.

I looked up at them, expecting to see judgment in their eyes.  Instead, I found approval.  Without another word, we all 3 moved quickly, grabbed glasses and the bottle of champagne and headed to the pool on the roof.

We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking someone else’s champagne, chatting, and enjoying the sun and the pool.  The three of us realized we got along great, and had similar personalities (the similarity being that we were all awesome).

When the day drew to a close (which was coincidentally when the alcohol ran out), we said our goodbyes and parted ways.  But not before scheduling another spa day for the three of us.  No joke.

We are scheduled to return in three weeks, and this time, we are hoping two different women get stood up for lunch.  Although would it kill a girl to order a bottle of Grey Goose instead of champagne next time?  Here’s to hoping!

Deck the ballsMy husband and I are spending the holidays on a beach, avoiding the annoyances that come with the holidays, like Christmas cards bragging about the lives of people we barely know, obligatory parties where the liquor isn’t top shelf, and endless viewings of Elf.

Instead, we have discovered an entire new set of annoyances in Mexico, the worst of which is the Speedo.  These things must be considered festive wear because it seems that every overweight grandpa on the beach is rocking this look for the holidays.

I’ve never been a fan of Speedos.  I’m not talking about the brand of swimwear that makes bathing suits for Olympic swimmers. which also makes the females who wear them look like they have the breasts of eight-year-old boys.

I’m talking about the small piece of Lycra that houses a man’s junk and accentuates it like a push up bra…only it doesn’t push anything up.

If anything, it assists everything in hanging down.

These banana hammocks are disgusting, and I’m not exactly sure who finds this look appealing.  Definitely not this girl.

Normally, you can expect to see a Speedo or two on the beach while on vacation.  It’s one of the “cons” of enjoying a beach vacation.  (A “pro” is definitely the endless fruity drinks filled with liquor and the sassy men who deliver them).

But this vacation seems especially Speedo-filled, and it’s not making for a happy holiday.  Matt and I wondered why there is an abundance of Speedos on the beach this Christmas and we can only conclude that these men feel it’s the best way to celebrate the holiday while on the beach.

man divingPerhaps the Speedo for men is like the tacky Christmas sweater for women.Whatever the reason, these tiny trunks are taking the beach by storm.

Perhaps these men feel like it’s festive to show off their Yule logs in a sea of red and green.

However, the men who seem to fancy these penis pinchers are those that shouldn’t go near them at all.

It’s always the old men with flabby butt cheeks and saggy balls that seem to think this look is in style.  It’s never the hot 25 year old soccer player with the rocking abs and the tribal tattoo.

Yes, your tattoo is misspelled and it means “boring” in Spanish, but flex those biceps again and no one will care.

These old-timers stuff their crotch into these Speedos so tightly that it looks like they shoved two turtle doves into a small amount of Spandex and Lycra, and then suffocated them to death.

I look for the partridge in a pear tree whenever I see one of these geriatrics emphasizing his genitals, as I’m sure it isn’t far behind; Neither is their oxygen on wheels and the stench of old man farts and Stetson.

paradiseIf that were my husband, there is no way I would let him wear a Speedo on the beach…or anywhere for that matter.

That’s one package I definitely don’t want to see under the tree…or on my couch…or in my bathroom…or anywhere near my body or anything I own.

And yet, these men continue to jingle their bells at us all in the name of the holiday spirit.

I’m pretty sure baby Jesus didn’t envision celebrating his birthday with Spandex, elastic, and a large amount of back hair.

I just don’t see how these things are festive.  And maybe they’re not.  Maybe that’s just what I’m telling myself so I won’t be scarred forever from returning to the beach.

All I know is there better not be this many men in Speedos the next time I come to the beach.

If so, maybe I will give them a taste of their own medicine and show up wearing a string bikini and let them see how they like looking at fat rolls hanging over Lycra.

I’m serious.  I’ll do it.  But until then, I’ll just have to slam a few more drinks and numb myself from the pain of seeing a Vietnam War Vet’s scrotum wrapped around a small piece of Spandex.

Merry Speedo to you!

This weekend we attended a “white party.”  No, we aren’t racist, and this party wasn’t filled with hateful propaganda nor did it look like a scene out of American History X (although I would have been just fine if a hunky Edward Norton was there sporting the wife beater he rocked in that movie).

Rather, this party required everyone to wear white clothes to the soiree.  My husband and I have an amazing friend who throws parties like you wouldn’t believe.

He has a sarcastic sense of humor, which makes him quite dear to my heart.

He also looks like a thinner version of Santa Clause, if Santa Clause trimmed his beard and dropped f-bombs every other word.  So, to keep this blog G-rated, I will hereafter refer to this friend as “St. Frick.”

St. Frick sent out an invitation for the white party, making it clear that if we wanted to eat or drink at the party, we had to be dressed in white.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity for free food and top shelf liquor, I needed to find myself a white outfit.

Since I’m not a size 2 (and I dislike those that are), it was difficult to find a flattering white dress that covers my backside without looking like a semi.  (I will make a honking noise if you do the arm signal, but I won’t be happy about it).

064Naturally, I went to my go-to place in times of crisis….target.com.  It didn’t let me down.  I found a cute white sundress at a great price.

When I went to check out Target let me know that if I spent another $25, I could get free shipping.  I’ve never been good at math, but I figured this was clearly a bargain.

Why would Target lie to me?  So, I found another dress I liked, completed my purchase, and waited for the shipment.

The white dress arrived and although it wasn’t the cutest thing in the world, it would work as my ticket to all the top shelf vodka I could drink for the night (which by the way, is a lot).

My husband also found a white outfit, although he wasn’t nearly as lucky with target.com as I was.

The night of the party we donned our white outfits and headed to St. Frick’s house for the bash.  As we walked to our car, Matt and I realized we looked like we were either getting married, or going to our jobs at the painters union. 

068Either way, we didn’t care because we knew were going to have an amazing time at St. Frick’s house.

We arrived and parked several blocks away, and followed the sounds of pumping music.  St. Frick has the most amazing house I’ve ever seen, and his patio/pool/pool house look like it came out of the pages of Crate and Barrel.

Whenever we go to his house we find ourselves cussing profusely, cursing how awesome his house is and how lame ours is.

We arrived and saw a taco truck in front of the house.  I love tacos and all things Mexican, so I bellied up to the truck and asked for some tacos.

The sixteen year old employee glanced at me and knew he would be earning his minimum wage making tacos for me all night long.

Begrudgingly he verified the taco truck was food for the party.  Woo hoo!

We walked to the backyard to get the party started and were shocked to discover it already started without us.

We walked into the back and saw several different sized balls hanging from the second story of the house.  It looked like there were bubbles floating everywhere and it was amazing!

We immediately found the bar.  It was located in the pool house, in case you were wondering.

I felt better with a vodka in my hand, and Matt and I walked around to check things out.  As I looked around, I noticed everyone was wearing white. We looked like were were members of a crazy cult, and not friends of the fabulous Mr. Frick.

Although I knew we most likely weren’t invited to to a cult ritual, I promised myself I wouldn’t trust anyone wearing white Nikes and I definitely wouldn’t drink purple Kool-Aid (unless it was mixed into my drink of course).

After downing my vodka, I set my glass down for two seconds only to look back and discover it magically disappeared.  Either I was drinking too fast or we really were in a mythical place.

I was impressed but knew if this place could make vodka magically appear instead of disappear, it would be my happy place.

As I stood there thinking about such an enchanted place, a woman in all black asked if I wanted another drink.  I really was in heaven!

The party was in late July in St. Louis in the middle of a heat wave, so it was over 100 degrees outside.  Everyone was covered in sweat, but no one noticed, either because they were too drunk to care, or too mesmerized by the hanging balls.

I fell into a category somewhere in between.

As I felt the sweat running down my back and into my unmentionables, I started a conversation with a lovely couple noticeably sweating more than I was, which may or may not be the reason I chose to stop and chat.

We talked for a few moments until the announcement that we could begin ordering tacos from the taco cart.  It then turned to anarchy as everyone bombarded the taco truck.

I suspect I spilled a drink and punched a woman in the face, but I got a good spot in line, so I figured it was well worth the violence.

To say the tacos were amazing would just be a slap in the face to the tacos. They were better than amazing.  They were the greatest things I ever tasted, and that’s saying a lot as I’m a bit of a food connoisseur.

I enjoyed my first round of tacos but needed more.  I was too embarrassed to return to the truck because I didn’t want the teenagers to think I was a fatty, as if they couldn’t tell.

So, I went incognito and sent my husband under the guise they were for him.  Right, like anyone would believe the guy with the flat stomach was getting more tacos while his overweight wife looked on.  Whatever.

I successfully finished my second round without spilling anything.  I was beginning to think St. Frick’s house had magical powers, as I always spill on myself.  Always.

I can eat a banana and somehow stain my shirt.  It’s a gift I have.  Really.  Some people can paint or draw with anything, I can make a mess out of anything.

With a belly full of tacos and vodka (the perfect storm), I got to mingle.  Since it was dark, people were wearing glow sticks like jewelry.  Not to be outdone, I made myself a necklace and anklet, as I’m trying to bring that look back…and failing miserably.

My husband and I chatted with friends separately and then met back up to swap stories.  We sat down by the pool with another couple and dangled our feet in the water, desperately trying to cool off.

I splashed water on my dress, hoping I could then use the excuse that the wet spots quickly forming under my breasts were water from the pool, and not massive amounts of sweat.  I’m not sure I fooled anyone.

We stayed a few more hours but ultimately left when our white outfits looked like napkins drenched in water.

We headed to the car sad it was over but amazed at how cool it was.

I hope I didn’t make an ass out of myself too much, but I suppose I won’t know until all the photos come back.

I just hope we get invited back, as there is nowhere else in the world I can go where the drinks magically appear and I leave a party without a stain on my dress

I absolutely love the pool, and during the summer months, I treat going to the pool like it’s my job…well, I guess I treat it better than a job because I don’t call in sick to it nor would I ever dream of taking a vacation day away from it.

We aren’t members of a nice pool, so we have to hit up the public pool, which is comprised of the local freakshows who are just one step above running through the garden hose in the front yard in cut off shorts and a tube top.

Recently my husband and I went to the pool to get some relaxation and see how many sno cones we could eat in one sitting before getting a brain freeze. We arrived around noon and secured our favorite lounge chairs near the diving board.

We love those chairs because we watch people jump off the diving board and critique them like Olympic judges, only we prefer to see belly flops, cannon balls, and the coup de gras…a face plant.

poolWe saved two chairs for our friends, and laid down to catch some rays.

After a few minutes we were sweating more than Sarah Palin during a history test, so we decided to get in the water.  We walked over to the shallow end and jumped in for some refreshment.

As we stood there contemplating what percentage of the pool was made up of pure urine, a man came over and sat on the edge of the pool near us.

He was about 45 years old, overweight, awkward, and most definitely on a pedophile list somewhere.  As we were getting up the nerve to ask him if his parole officer knew he was at the pool, we heard the most deafening and horrific sound ever….a fart!

And not just any fart.  A long and loud fart, with pitch and tone. This fart wasn’t tone deaf at all, although it was just as loud and obnoxious as Jennifer Hudson on the Weight Watchers commercials.  (We get it.  You lost weight.  Shut up already).

Before we could laugh or give the pedophile a chance to blame it on his floral swimming trunks or the ledge of the pool, he stunned us further.

He turned to us and said “Well, that was a rather loud toot, don’t ya think?

small__3139568197I swear to you, I am NOT making this up. My husband and I were stunned, and all we could do was agree with him.  After all, it was a rather loud toot.

And who calls it a “toot” anyway? That makes it sound like it was just a little sound from a choo choo train instead of a large foghorn sound from a freight train.

Was he trying to diminish the fact that his bodily function stopped our conversation dead in its tracks?

We didn’t get to address this with him further because he swam away just as quickly as he arrived…probably using his farts to propel him faster down the lap lane.

As we watched the sea of air bubbles following him as he splashed away, we couldn’t help but comment on how free that man must feel to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
He was like the Gary Busey of Whitecliff Aquatic Center.
We decided to follow suit.  No, we didn’t spend the rest of the day ripping ass in the pool, (well, I suppose I can only speak for myself), but we decided to enjoy ourselves and not worry about what others at the pool thought of us.

It actually ended up being a pretty fun day, and we have the farting bandit to thank for that.

We would love to thank him in person, if only we knew which halfway house he was assigned to.

 

Peer pressure at the pool

Summer is almost over and I couldn’t be more sad about it. But to cheer me up (and hopefully you), I’m republishing one of my favorite pool stories from 2013. Enjoy!

***DISCLAIMER:  Sadly, this entire story is true, and has not been altered.  I wish it had been.***

I live in the Midwest, which means extreme temperatures for each season.  We don’t just have winter, we have winter that freezes the snot as soon as it comes out of your nose.  And we don’t just have summer, we have summer that scorches and boils the snot as it comes out of your nose.

Apparently in the Midwest we also have some serious sinus problems and constant nose drainage.

When the heat index is over 100 degrees in the Midwest, the only option to keep cool is to go to the pool.

Recently, I went for a relaxing afternoon, armed with my beach bag of pool necessities including trashy gossip magazines and iced beverages.

When I arrived, I jumped in the pool immediately to cool off.  As I doggy paddled gracefully in the shallow end, a boy came splashed over, looked me straight in the eye and said “Are you Jason’s mom?”

photo credit: R.O Mania♥ via photopin cc

photo credit: R.O Mania♥ via photopin cc

My body isn’t “swimsuit ready” which is why I rock the one piece with a cute little skirt.  This swimsuit was definitely a “mom” suit, so I took no offense to his question.

I advised the boy that I didn’t know Jason, nor was I his mother.

I would have thought that ended the communication, but he was persistent.

My goggles broke.  Can you fix them?”

At this point I felt a little sorry for Jason’s mom. Did she always have to deal with these random repairs?

The strap wasn’t attached to the goggles, so I reattached it.  I asked him if the repair was to his liking.

Instead of giving a polite answer, he held his pointer finger up in the universal “one moment” gesture, and went under water to test my handy work.

I hoped he wasn’t taking a closer look at my bathing suit.  If he did he would see the remnants of my lunch on it.  He didn’t notice but came up and said the fix was to his liking.  Considering he was quite picky, I was relieved.

Once again, I thought this would be the end of our interaction, but he stayed and stared.  In an effort at chit-chat, the seven year old told me his name was J.T. and it was his second day going off the diving board.  He said it with such pride it was as if he had just solved the oil crisis instead of simply jumping off a metal board.

photo credit: Yatmandu via photopin cc

photo credit: Yatmandu via photopin cc

I told him I was impressed because I was scared of the diving board.

He looked at me with a serious face, and asked: “Is it because you’re afraid the board will break if you get on it?”

Um….seriously kid?!  I realize I may have gained some weight, but did he think I was so large the diving board couldn’t support me?

After I caught my breath from the shock of his question, I responded.  “No, I’m just scared of falling.”

This answer was ridiculous to him, as the whole point of the diving board was to fall. He then became intent on getting me to jump.

He recruited his friend Jayden, who was sporting a mean mohawk.  Jayden said it was his first day going off the diving board and it was easy.

photo credit: melissaclark via photopin cc

photo credit: melissaclark via photopin cc

Any kid who could successfully pull off a mohawk was more brave than I was, so his diving board skills didn’t shock me.

J.T. thought about it for a second, and in an effort to coax me into jumping he said “I bet if you did a cannon ball off the diving board, it would make a huge splash.”

This kid was going to get cut if he kept referencing my weight.  I get it….I’m big.  Get over it.  I told him I wasn’t interested in jumping.

J.T. and Jayden then took things to a new level…a level I wasn’t expecting.  Without any hesitation, J.T. said “What are you, a scaredy cat?”  Jayden then began chiming in with his sing songy voice “Scaredy cat, scaredy cat.”

I may be fat, and I may look like Jason’s mom, but I am not a scaredy cat.  There was no way I was going to allow such accusations to fly.

photo credit: Carplips via photopin cc

photo credit: Carplips via photopin cc

I told the little terrors I wasn’t a scaredy cat.  Why did these kids care if I jumped?  Did they get a kickback from the pool?

In an effort to fully convince me, Jayden and J.T. said they would jump off and show me how to do it.  Grateful to have them leave the pool, I agreed to the plan.

They trotted over to the diving board, revealing their Spider Man and Cars swimming trunks, and proceeded to gracefully jump off the diving board.  As soon as J.T. emerged from the water post-jump, he pointed to me, and then pointed to the diving board.

It was time to pay the piper.

I hoisted myself out of the water.  As I stood in line, my heart started beating faster and I tried to keep my breathing steady.  There was no way I could back out now.  My pride was on the line, and I had to prove I wasn’t a scaredy cat…

BECAUSE I WASN’T!

Are you scared?” He asked, staring me in the eye.

photo credit: Neil Krug via photopin cc

photo credit: Neil Krug via photopin cc

Yes.” I responded to this devil child.

Is it because you’re a girl?”  This kid was clearly a masochist with his high pressure tactics and I suspect he’ll be selling timeshares in Nebraska in a few years.

No, it’s not because I’m a girl.”  I retorted.  “Are you saying girls aren’t as brave as boys?”

Not to be outdone, J.T. responded without missing a beat, and pointed to Jayden and said “No.  That’s what he said.”

Jayden was not happy about being thrown under the bus, but he didn’t refute it.  I’m not sure if it’s because he was deathly afraid of J.T. (who wouldn’t be?) or because the allegations were true.  Either way, he let it go.

It was my turn on the boards and I had a decision to make.  I could walk away and endure endless taunting for the rest of the summer, or I could buck up, pray the board held my weight, and make a huge splash.

I summoned my inner child and knew I couldn’t let these bullies get away with calling me a scaredy cat.

photo credit: Josh Kenzer via photopin cc

photo credit: Josh Kenzer via photopin cc

I took to the board, my legs shaky.  I knew if I looked down I would chicken out, so I just began running.  I ran with all of my might (which is pretty pathetic considering the diving board is only a few feet long).

I felt like I was running in slow motion (I probably was), and I swear I heard the song Chariots of Fire as I sprinted down the board.  Instead of jumping off I just continued to run until I no longer had footing under me.

I felt like Road Runner just moments after he realizes there’s no more road under his feet, assuming Road Runner wears a bathing suit akin to Jason’s mom’s.

I landed, most likely with a huge splash.  I emerged with a huge smile and laughing.  I couldn’t believe I was bulled by second graders.  The allegations of a scaredy cat still affected me in my 30s.

I swam to the edge and saw J.T. and Jayden cheering me on with a thumbs up.  I’m not so sure if they were happy I jumped or if they were reeling from the gigantic splash I made.  I decided not to ask.

I returned to my chair with a sense of accomplishment.  I hadn’t hiked to the top of a mountain or conquered my fear of snakes, but I mastered my diving board fear, thanks to two pushy second graders.

I was just hoped they stayed away from me for good, as I didn’t want them to discover my other fears.  They’d have me charming snakes in no time.

photo credit: Daniele Zedda via photopin cc

photo credit: Daniele Zedda via photopin cc