Showing posts from July, 2009


That evening, tuckered out in front of the TV, PP savored the discovery of yet another trashy t.v. show: Holly Hunter as a sassy trashy bleached blond detective in Saving Grace who while investigating the murder of a 99 year old gamblin man, had to tell her best friend how her husband had betrayed her. Then the best friend had the predictably teary, yet slightly warped, nervous breakdown during which she made Holly promise not to ever sleep with another Married Man, which PP thought was a bit unrealistic given Holly's obvious appeal.

At the muted commercial break, after all this intense dramatic dialogue, PP realized, unlike Holly, she hadn’t spoken to anyone all day.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had had a conversation with a composed young swimmer while taking a shower. Now PP is definitely NOT thrilled about the plethora of kids allowed to use the WOMEN’S locker room at the Hilltop Y. This is something that she’s appreciated immensely at the Oakland Y---no kids under 18 allo…

Hilltop YMCA Zoo

It was a ZOO! At least on a Friday night. (PP had swum last Sunday and it had been a swimmer's Paradise. Her own lane. No screaming kids. A lovely waving lifeguard.)

Yet, on this particular Friday, well, it was anything but a swimmer’s paradise. Unless you're an 8 year old fish.

And she was.

When initially her father (PP assumed he was Dad--who else would be taking an 8 year old swimming? Okay, maybe a brother or a cousin.) But Dad. This seemed right. He was encouraging, but serious. And so was she. In her little Speedo navy suit. Bright pink goggles. Hair pulled back in a pony tail.

She was ready to go.

Yet PP was dubious when she first spied a kid. A kid? Wants to swim in her LAP lane?

Yet, the Dad was so nice, "Can we share your lane?" A shy smile on his friendly round brown face; a weed-like tattoo on his bicep that was surprisingly non-intimidating. Maybe because of his daughter. How could he be a big tough trouble- maker with a sweet little fish at his si…

El Cerrito Pool Shower Secret


It’s a secret. Or at least it was to PP. Till she got in the know.

She’s new (again--she did swim here quite a bit when Dashingly Handsome BF lived in the Richmond Annex) to the El Cerrito Pool. A lovely pool, but alas FREEZING! (At least the two times she’s swum there recently.)

This is too bad since she can walk to it from the Cottage. But then again, walking isn’t everything. As all of you swimmers know.

So, she swims. She freezes. It’s late afternoon, early evening. The shadows of the big pine trees spread across her end of the pool to protect her from the evil sun. (Well, almost. There is a smite of sunshine at the lifeguard end that she tries to swim around by going really close to the wall. But hell, this is a bit much. Even for a sun scarred PP!)

In any event, she’s got Goosebumps up and down her arms & legs, and can barely finish her workout cuz she’s so cold. Disgustedly, a young fit Young Fast Young Asian Girl gets in the lane with her to share. Passes her every …

Got it!

PP's Luddite computer brain has figured out how to not use the Netscape email anymore. (Totally by accident. She has no idea how she did it.)

So....onward ho all stories tangentially and literally water immersion connected.'s such a relief. Whatever would she have done without her backlog (waterlog) of 250 plus swimming stories?

Pool ponder for the day:

Why the hell did PP ever choose swimming as her obsession? It is kid-infested in the summer! Arrrgggg!



If PP deletes her stupid Netscape email cuz she's not using it anymore and this email is her 'primary email account' for this blog, will she lose access to PoolPurrs if she deletes the Netscape account?

Is PP worth $9.95 a month?

Any advice/action/comment would be much appreciated.

In the meantime, PP is going to the pool!

Swimming in ants and cats at the Cottage

At first it was just a couple scouts. Sniffing around the cat’s kibble dishes. PP gets out the Windex and delights in drowning them. (Is this evil? No. Ants are evil. Unless you’re an ant. Then you’re very small and helpless. And a bad swimmer. Though PP must grant that she may not be such a great swimmer either in a pool of Windex.)

She moves the cat dishes. Into the little area that crowds access to the coffee maker, drawers of ramen, tubs of kibble. Oh it’s all so stupid!

Why does the Cattage have ants now? PP hates hates hates ants! They are simply the most pesky persistent pests around. Why do they exist even?

PP sees no reason for their existence. They just create ant chaos and PP frustration.

Plus they can’t swim.

But maybe this is the key.

If PP can somehow lure them into the bathroom and up into the toilet bowl, then she can drown them and flush them out of her cattage. (The toilet has no tank lid still—the landlord has mysteriously not called her back about replacing the antiqu…

Toilet Trauma

It’s not exactly a swim story, but then again, PP is certain that by the time she finishes writing it, there will be some tie to swimming.

There always is.

You all know that she’s moved into her fabulous ‘cattage’ in El Cerrito, complete with sweet patio garden, cat climbing-up loft and unbeknownst to her, an ‘antique toilet.’

Midnight. (Isn’t it always when some trauma occurs?) The toilet won’t stop running. It won’t flush all the way. The water is swirling swirling in ineffectual spasms.
So what does PP do?

What any long term renter would do given the toilet's obvious ineffectiveness to shut up and suck up. Take off the tank lid and try to fiddle around with the stupid floaty ball thing in order to make the suction-up thing stop sucking.

So she does this. Takes off the lid. Carefully. It’s heavy. Very heavy. And a lovely mustardy golden color ("Appropriate color," says JL when she first used the bathroom) As PP lifts the lid from the toilet a gush of water cascades onto he…

The Motley Crew

They were a motley crew as the cliché goes. Piano Movers. What a gig.

PP is moving (if you don’t already know—she’s been whining about it for weeks. All that’s saved her little bit of sanity has been, of course, swimming.)

But today, the piano is moving! To the cottage in El Cerrito. Which, by the way, is only 5! Blocks from the ‘legendary’ (this is what the Lovely I sighed enviously when told of the cottage's prime pool locale) El Cerrito Pool!

Yet the crew that backs up into the drive to pick up PP’s precious piano seemed dubious at best--definitely NOT swimmers! 3 big smoking guys are crammed into the front seat (who smokes anymore? PP thought it was only on Mad Men that smoking was so pervasively matter of fact) Clouds of tobacco smoke waft out of the passenger side as one of them grunts out. He’s enormous. At least 6’5 or more, with a lime green t-shirt pulled over his round bursting paunch and a black foot cast on his right foot.

“Wow!” PP exclaims when she sees the foot cast-…

Alex Trebeck Asks the Moon

“Oh, look at the moon!” PP exclaims as she follows Capt G out of the gym and into the night parking lot. “It’s so beautiful!”

“Yeah it is,” CG agrees, sighing happily after their idyllic evening of hot tub, steam room, pool, (It was 'crowded'! There were other people in the pool besides PP and CG—a swim team, another swimmer, a dad and his son playing catch. PP and CG had to even share a lane for 10 minutes. Imagine! But then the Swim Team got out, and they each got their own lane and it was lovely to be outdoors in the evening golden light shadowing through the pines.)

But back to the moon, which really was luminous.

“Alex Trebeck says, what phase is the moon in,” a voice echoes behind them.

Turning around, PP sees a tall shadowy figure that has followed them out into the parking lot; still has his/her (PP couldn’t specify the gender) towel wrapped round his/her waist as he/she (This system of pronoun reference, while usually a pain, is perfect for gender identification confusi…