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 her bare feet. Shit. (No pun intended.)

It’s a mess. Water everywhere. The whirling mechanisms inside the tank are sputtering and sizzling. Like there’s some sort of angry snake inside the tank. Hey, here’s the swimming connection. There’s a mischievous toilet tank snake (not unlike the sinister Black Lake Snake from Indiana) that is sabotaging the equipment from swimming around and around, wrapping its slinky slimy snaky body round the toilet tank's equipment.




Of course, there isn’t really a snake. But there is something Evil afloat as she endeavors to stop the goddamn hissing floating ball thingee from its running water frenzy.

She’s leaned the heavy wet lid against the bathroom door. Careful not to drop it or break it. Knows that it’s a special lid even then. The bathroom is small and crowded as everything but the shower is at the cattage.

Speaking of which, Pablo, the Big White Trouble Maker Cat starts to meow at the bathroom door to see what’s up. Or use the box. Or lick the water off the floor. Or cause general cat mayhem.

Which he does.

“Meow meeeowww meeowww!” he demands.





“Okay, Pab, just a minute,” she answers, frazzled by the hissing toilet snake.

She turns and opens the door for him just a crack. But this is enough to send the heavy toilet tank lid sliding down the wall and crashing to the floor, shattering into a dozen pieces.

It is astounding how much damage one broken toilet tank lid can cause. Not only did the lid itself break into irreparable pieces, but it also broke Pablo’s blue water bowl into a half a dozen pieces and sprayed the entire door half of the bathroom with water and bits of porcelain.

PP stares in disbelief before bursting into tears, leaning against the sink in a traumatized mess.

How the hell did this happen? How did she let it happen? She’d never done anything like this before. It was just horrible. She’d only been here at the cattage for 3 days and already she was trashing the place.

Shit. (Pun intended)

Pablo sat down and blinked up at her. “Meow?”
“Fuck you, Pablo! Look what you’ve done!” she hollers as he scurries away.

In tears she begins to clean up the mess, carefully scooping up the shards of golden porcelain into a big garbage bag. They cut right through it. Damn. What the hell was she gonna do? It was such a mess.

The landlord was gonna kill her.
Or evict her.
Or yell at her.




(PP has Landlord PTSD from her previous landlord yelling at her about her asking him to fix her broken heater. And this hadn’t even been her fault. What would this new landlord do upon learning of her incredible toilet tank lid clumsiness?)

Walking out into the moonlit yard to find a box to put the shards into, she spies her landlady standing in moony light with her little dogs. “OH, K. You’re not gonna believe this,” PP manages to speak without crying. “I tried to fix the running toilet and broke the lid and….”
K shakes her head. “I told C that it was broken. He should have fixed it. Don’t worry about it.”
Dubious, PP manages a halfhearted smile, “Okay, yeah….well, I’ll just call him in the morning and tell him about it…”





Finding a hello kitty plastic shopping bag, PP wanders back into the cattage to collect the shards and thinks, Okay. Yes. If the landlord had fixed the toilet before she moved in, she never would have had to take the lid off in the first place and then it wouldn’t have slipped off the wall and shattered into pieces.

Oh, helpful Readers! What do you all think?

A) Does PP owe the Landlord a new toilet?

B) Should she try to find another ‘antique’ lid to replace it? (The landlord the next morning had made a point of saying that he wouldn’t be able to replace it. To find the same color. That it was an ‘antique’.)

C) Or should she just take K's advice and not worry about it? Breaking the lid was an accident (or a Pablocent)

Shit shit shit.

Or as the mischievous tank swimming snake would say, “Hissssssssss!”

Epilogue
PP does feel better today.
Writing helps.
And of course, she's had a swim.
This always brings any trauma back into perspective. At least while she's in the pool. Just keep the cats and toilets out of her way!

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-—how the hell can he move a piano with a bum foot? “Did you sprain your ankle?"

“Broke it,” he puffs, “in three places.”
“Ah….” PP has no idea how to respond to this as the other two beefy guys hop down from the seat, one right out of ZZ Top’s band (Okay, PP is HORRIBLE at popular rock culture, but she thinks this is the right comparison); the other with an orange Texas t-shirt on with a steer's wide white bull horns blazing against his ample chest.




These were the guys she was entrusting her piano to?

Oh dear!

But what to do? Just cuz they were smoking and limping, did this mean they couldn’t move a piano?

PP hoped not as she watched them pull out the blankets, the little rolly box thingee and head up the stairs to fetch the piano. Trying to not panic, she hovers while they move the piano away from the wall and tilt it up on its side to reveal 15 years worth of disgusting dust mounds, one of her student’s cheat sheets (Every Great Boy Dreads French), and a squiggly toy snake and assorted dusty cat balls.

She is mortified.

“Wow! A lot of dust sure builds up in 15 years,” she giggles.
Broken Foot man grunts and grins.
“You’ve seen worse, I suppose?”
“Oh, yeah,” he answers as they ease the piano out the front door. “You wanna get a rag and dust it off for your new place?”
“Sure,” PP scurries off to retrieve an old cloth. What a good idea. Maybe they weren’t as motley as they appeared if they were concerned about spreading dust.
She swipes at the back of the piano which is encrusted in the 15 year old grime. It billows into ZZ Top’s face.
He hacks convulsively.
“Oh, sorry,” she mutters, wondering why the dust bothered him since he was a smoker.
Recovering, he leans away from her, wipes his mouth and grunts, before helping to lift the piano into the truck.



They lay out the blanket, tilt up the piano and lift it into the truck. They certainly did this professionally as far as PP could tell. At least they didn’t drop it.

“We got another pick up in Berkeley so we’ll meet you at the address you gave us in ‘bout a half hour,” Broken Foot man tells her as they all pile back into the truck.

She nods as she watches them nervously back out of the driveway before hurrying into the apt. to gather up her swim stuff (of course she’d scheduled a swim into the piano move—she was gonna head over to the Oakland Y after the piano drop off—or maybe even check out the Hilltop Y—but this is another story)

A half hour later, PP has only just pulled up in front of her new abode when the truck sputters up behind her. What’s up with that? she wonders, thinking they sure picked up the other piano lickety split!

“Can you back into the drive okay?” she asks, running up to meet the truck.
“I think so,” Texas Steer Bone Man nods as ZZ Top chomps on a Jack in the Box Burrito and Broken Foot man gobbles the last of some kind of fast food breakfast atrocity.






They went out for fast food?

This only adds to the motliness of the entire operation she thinks.
Perfect.

“The other job canceled,” BF Man tells her as if reading her mind.
“Ah…”
And so the whole process begins in reverse; they steer the piano safely into the Cottage with only knocking off the music stand. (It has a history of shakiness)

“You got a toothpick?” ZZ Top asks her, holding onto the stand.
“Ah, no….” she laughs. “Maybe back at the other apt. Though I think I packed them.” What the hell did he want a toothpick from her for? To pick the breakfast burrito out of his smoky teeth. Ugh!

But no. He wanted to somehow attach the stand back on top of the piano with toothpicks because, he told her, the screws in it presently were too short. And toothpicks were the right length? And so he was going to substitute toothpicks for screws?




Undaunted by the dearth of toothpicks, ZZ Top ambled back to the truck and reappeared with longer screws. Reattached the stand for her. Better than before!

And so, maybe they weren’t so motley after all.

Though PP thought they could do with a swim.

If only to rinse the smoke offa their skin and the fast food outta their teeth.

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 confusion!) waxes game show about the moon.




PP doesn’t understand the phases of the moon question or the reference to Alex Trebeck the Jeopardy guy. It wasn’t like Moon Phase Man/Woman had phrased his/her observation in a jeopardy question: What is the ________ phase?”

Laughing, CG jumps right in, “It’s waxing, not waning, right?”

PP doesn’t know. Always gets these two mixed up. Waxing reminds her of surfboards
and waning reminds her of nothing in particular.

Moon Man/Woman likes this answer though, “Yeah, it’s the Waxing Phase.”
“It’s a quarter moon,” PP offers, still perplexed but following CG’s lead.
“Yeah, it’s a Waxing Quarter Moon,” CG announces to everyone’s approval.

“It’s Moon Math,” PP suggests for no particular reason. Non-sequitors abound in the moonlight world of Alex Trebeck.

“I can’t even keep track of the laps I swim,” Moon Man/Woman announces.
“That’s not important,” PP asserts. “You’re swimming, that’s all that matters!”
They all laugh at this one and it’s true.

MMW leaves them. Gets into his/her car and slams the door as PP and CG head over to the Toyota and climb in.



“Did you understand that Alex Trebeck reference?” PP asks CG.
“Not at all. I just went with it.”

And she did. PP so admires this about CG. She’s got the question to the answer.

Even when she doesn’t!

Torrance Pools: Part II: Sisters

“Sisters?”

Nodding her head, Lil Sis smiles across the hot tub at the Gold Chained Adorned Sun Baked Tennis Man who’d just climbed in. PP hadn’t even noticed him. She was so engrossed in her gross story about the Belching Swimmer tale she’d been narrating. And now Gold Chain Man was interrupting her?

The nerve!

But Lil' Sis, always the polite sister, answers him sweetly, “Yeah. How’d you know?”
He nods. Self assured in his assessment. “Family Resemblance.”
“Ah.....” Lil Sis lets her voice trail off in a noncommittal wisp.
“There’s another sister in between us,” PP adds, grinning. Why not? May as well start a new story now in the Hot Tub.
“No brothers?”
”Nah.”
”Too bad,”
“You volunteering?” Lil Sis asks laughing.
Gold Chain Man strokes his gauntly tan wet chin, contemplating as he eyes the sisters up and down. Not a bad gig, he’s thinking.
“You taking applications?” he jokes.







Lil Sis cracks up.
“I don’t think so. But if we do, you’ll be the first to know.”
”Hey, not so fast,” PP eyes her sister. “There are times when a brother might come in handy.”
”That’s right!” Gold Chain Man nods in agreement, rising to a standing position in the tub, his concave wrinkly chest heaving in Gold Chain Bravado.
Laughing, Lil Sis shakes her head. “Okay, well, like I said, if we ever need a Brother....”
”Ah, c’mon, Sis,” PP cajoles, “don’t you think we could use a Brother?”
”No,” she laughs. “2 sisters are enough for me!”





Gold Chain Man starts toward the stairs to exit the tub, giving the sisters one last Brotherly Leer, “Lemme know when the application process begins!” he proclaims expansively as he slowly makes his way up the tub’s stairs, the palm trees waving in the background above his balding head,the bubbling water lowering off his back and ass to expose his scrawny tanned legs. Tennis may be good for the heart and the head, but after years of sun exposure (which PP is admittedly overly aware of), it can wreak havoc on the skin.

“Have a good swim,” Lil Sis calls after him, shaking her head as she watches him amble slowly over to the pool.
“Watch out for the Burping Man!” PP calls out, but she doesn’t think he hears her.

Lil Sis looks over at PP, eyes twinkling. “A brother, huh?”
”Nah, I was just egging him on. I’m with you. 2 sisters is plenty!”
Lil Sis nods, dunks her head under the water, and then sighs, contented.
“This is the life.....”
“Yeah,” PP grins, “especially since we got rid of our Brother and it’s just us Sisters here!”
Giggling, they glance over at the pool where Gold Chain Man has stopped in the middle of the lane and is standing chatting with Burping Swimmer.
Of course they know each other.

All PP can think of is that she’s glad that Burping Swimmer didn’t want to apply for the Brother Job.

Cuz after all. Who needs a Brother? When you've got a sister like Lil Sis to ward off all the Gold Chained Applicants!

Two Pools in Torrance: Part I: The Belching Pool

“See that guy that just got in the pool?” PP’s sis is pointing to a spastic underwater swimmer, who’s just dived into the sweet little pool at the West Side Tennis Club Pool in lovely Torrance. He’s dived into the kids’ side: the lanes (only 3 of them) are all full, with a waiting list. (Oh, this is so Club Culture. The lanes will only accommodate one swimmer at a time. Well, so do the lanes at the Oakland Y, but this is a Club, not a Y—--more on the Torrance Y later!) Thus, the swimmers place their names next to the lane they’re taking:

Lane 1: Joe Time: 5:02
Lane 2: Carla Time: 5:04
Lane 3: Roger Time: 5:05

“Damn!” PP’s sis mutters as she glances up at the clock, 5:06. “Looks like we just missed our opportunity!”
So they add their names to the Wait List:

Waiting List: PP 5:06
PP’s Sis 5:06
.

It was a decidedly weird system. But hey, when in Torrance….

So there they sit, watching the Guy that just dived into the kids’ side to avoid waiting for a lane, PP guesses, when Sis continues: “I think he’s the guy that always swims crooked. He just swims with one arm I think. So he goes to the left too far one way and then to the right too far the other way. It’s okay to swim next to him going one way, there’s lots of room. But the other way, he runs right into you.”

PP is super glad that he’s in the pool with the kids, and as they watch, he runs right into one of them. A frolicking bikini tanned girl steps on him underwater. He doesn’t notice. She squeals.

It’s the summertime pool in action!

So PP and Sis wait…. And wait…… And wait…..

”They’re only supposed to swim for 30 minutes when people are waiting,” Sis points to the board with the lane assignments. “These people are all pretty good. They’ve put their times in. Sometimes they don’t.”

PP nods, thinking how since she’s had to wait for 30 minutes she wants to swim more than 30 minutes or her usual 45 minutes since her Sis did pay 10 clams for the privilege. Which PP thought was a bit exorbitant, cheapskate that she is. But hey, Sis just shrugged, saying it was okay. So PP went along with it.

But this isn’t really the story at all. PP digresses in her Pool Detail Obsession.




No the story is that when PP does finally get her lane, and starts to swim in the very sweet little pool with the balmy water temp and the cute blue dolphin tiles, and she’s on the kickboard, flippering happily down the lane, when Crooked Swimming Man, in the kids’ side of the pool where he’s created a wide berth for himself, is doing the breaststroke which appears to be not too crooked, but when he comes up for air right when PP is passing him on the opposite side, he lets loose a huge juicy disgusting guacamole infused BELCH that reverberates across the lane and floats over the water's surface smack into PP's face in all its glorious vaporous stench.






“ARRGGGHH!!! “ PP yells across at him. But of course, by now, he’s back underwater, completely oblivious to his Obscene Gastronomic Outburst.

Quickening her pace, PP kicks away from him, shaking her head and laughing. Some people.

But hey, maybe he needs the belch propulsion to keep afloat? Or he just ate too much goddamn guacamole and chips and couldn’t help it. Or he was just a gross old guy who didn’t give a shit.

PP thinks it’s probably the last, but whatever. She’s got her own lane. No one is on the wait list. The sky is bright blue. The palms sway in the wind. Her sis is next to her.

What more could she want?

Nothing, she thinks, as she reaches the edge of the pool, except maybe the the pull buoy she’s sharing with sis.

She makes a grab for it.
“Hey!” Sis protests softly. “I was gonna use those.”
PP pouts. “Me too!”
“Oh, go ahead!”

And now it is perfect! PP gets her own way from her little sis. As she should! Being the Big Sis and all.




But more about sisters in the next installment!

BURPPP!!!!!

Broiled BART Baby

PP didn’t really need to hear about this. She’d had a pretty okay swim. Split a lane most of the time. Shared with a couple of calm swimmers. Twiddle Dee chose the next lane over. Thank God. She wouldn't have to swim in the splash sandwich again.

So when she plopped into the hot tub and DL was there Wide Eyes behind foggy glasses, rapt at the African American Princess lounging naked (duh, but sometimes swimsuits are worn), her lovely brown skin smooth, her bald head matching, her story….

Well, this wasn’t so lovely.

Evidently some businessman had forgotten his baby in the back of his car in the BART parking lot all day while he was at work and well…the baby died from the “118 degree temperature in the car.”

So awful. PP didn’t want to hear this, but then, she has no control over the conversation at Utopia. Though sometimes she wished she did.

“I can’t imagine!” DL shakes her head.
“Me neither!” AAP nods in agreement.
“That’s one of the many reasons I don’t have children,” PP sighs, “I could see myself doing something like that. Though it’d be intentional.”
PP didn’t actually say that, but she thought it. Babies scare her. They are so small and vulnerable. She can’t imagine being responsible for one.




“And his wife. Imagine!” AAP continues, “Why! She can’t even talk to her husband about it.”
”No, I guess not,” DL murmured.
“She hasta be on SOME heavy duty medication now I bet!” AAP asserted, dangling a long leg seductively into the tub. PP was distracted by this of course. It was so much more tantalizing than Drugged Mom Losing Baby to Forgetful Dad. If that’s what it was.

“It was just a infant. Only 4 months old,” AAP continues, “they can be pretty quiet at that age I guess.”
“Yeah, maybe it was sleeping,” DL offered.
“Maybe. I just don’t get it. Imagine!” AAP exclaimed again, taking her long leg out of the tub in lazy relaxation.



PP didn’t find the topic of conversation too relaxing. This is why she stopped watching the local news at 11 p.m. It was all about such tragedies. Babies dying. Teenagers shot. Families burned.
It was just too much.

This is why she came to Utopia. To forget about the wrong world out there for a few hours. Yet the world always intrudes. No getting away from this.

Even if you try to get away, it’s impossible.


Which is why AAP began to talk now of some political topic. Obama this or Obama that. It was too much for PP. She had to eat. She had to sleep. She had to move. (To a ‘cottage’ in El Cerrito! Yah! No pool,--she’ll work on the Landlady about this-- but it was its own little sanctuary with no Clomping Grad Student to drive her crazy at all hours of the day and night. )




But it was all so exhausting. She could understand how the father left the baby in the car. Sure it was tragic, and on some level beyond imagination. But on the other hand, the world was overwhelming. He was probably late for work. On his blackberry emailing his boss while running to catch the BART, trying to hear last minute instructions for a meeting on his cell phone voice mail. Then writing a report during his commute before landing in San Francisco to start his hectic office rat job.






Damn.
No wonder he forgot the baby!

Sighing, PP heaved herself out of the tub and headed for the showers. To rinse away the world’s woes?

Nah. Just the chlorine. But sometimes this was all it took to feel better again. At least until the next Tragic Hot Tub Story was told.

Green Alert

“Why’s the pool so crowded?” PP asks Burly Nice Lifeguard as she stares at the pandemonium of circle swimmers. She was so sick of the crowds! The pool had been an odious, wretched, heinous, hellish, claustrophobic, menacing Mayhem all week!

BNF shakes his head and sighs. “Actually the pool’s been closed for the last 24 hours.”
“Really? But I was here yesterday.”
”Yeah, well it just reopened.”
“Why was it closed?’
“A little kid had an accident.”
“Oh….” A Brown Alert, PP thinks. She didn’t make this up. Some smart ass at another pool, she thinks the one in Encinitas perhaps, quipped it.

Well, she’d asked. And she’d gotten her answer. So this is why the pool was so crowded this evening as she climbed into a lane and began the sinister circle swimming. Ugh. Then the two swimmers got out.

Yahoo! She had her own lane! But not for long, cause here come Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Two pasty white guys with Easter egg caps (PP thinks it’s kinda weird when guys were caps anyway. Why this is she hasn’t really analyzed and doesn’t feel like doing so now, but there it is.) So, TD and TD’s caps were purple and green respectively, their dorky white guy ears protruding outside the bright colored caps.







Oh, my. They were from hell. PP was in a Splash Sandwich with one on either side of her, making waves that nearly drowned her. Nevertheless, she got through her swim with only a minimum of water swallowed.

Exhausted, she thankfully, plops into the Hot Tub afterwards where DL joins her followed by another swimmer, a round, middle-aged, Pasty Pink Woman with many sighs of “Ahhh….this feels so good!”

PP tells DL of the Brown Alert (Gross! I didn’t need to know that!) And of the Splash Sandwich construction of TD and TD. DL cracks up just like she’s supposed to when PP tells her stories. PPW smiles over at them, nodding in agreement about the splashing and then goes into a harangue about the damage the chlorine does on the hair and skin.

DL is staring at PPW, but trying not to. PP can tell. Yet, It can’t be ignored, though DL is trying to. But not very hard.

Why is she staring?

PP can’t mention it at the time, but PPW has a giant snot line hanging under her nose. PP feels a little nauseous writing this down. But there it is. It's one of the hazards of swimming. Yet why doesn't she notice it and wipe it off? This makes her more than a little suspect.

“….and so I always take time off between swims because of the chlorine,” PPW announces.
“Yeah, that’s a good strategy,” PP agrees, trying not to stare at her nose.
“Do you?” she asks.
“Nah, I need to swim all the time. It’s good for my Brain.”
PPW stares at her for a moment, perplexed, before nodding, “Yeah, I can see that. It gets Oxygen to your brain.”
PP nods. This isn’t what she meant, but clarifying her psychological inferences to PPW seemed too arduous a task what with the distraction under her nose and all.
“Well, you two have a good evening,” PPW signs off, lumbering out of the tub and into the showers.


As soon as she disappears behind the wall of showers, DL busts up. “Did you see that?’
Giggling, PP nods. DL doesn’t have to identify it. But she does, in her own poetic fashion.
“She had a Green Alert!”






They both crack up! “It’s like I’m 6 years old,” DL gasps between giggles.

And it’s true. 6 year olds know how to call it.
If only PP had had a 6 year old during her Splash Sandwich. She was sure somehow that woulda helped with TD and TD.

Or maybe not.

Lord knows, the pool definitely didn’t need any more Brown Alerts. At least when PP wanted to swim.

Daisies from....

“Nice suit!” Liver Transplant Woman exclaims as she watches Flailing Chinese Woman wriggle, with the help of Walker Red Headed Woman, into a bright sixties style daisy suit. You know those kind of daisies that are bright colors like hot pink and lime green and sunshine yellow? Today, they dance on a background of jet black with jazzy square shortie bottoms of FCW's new suit.

LRW is right. FCW is HOT today in her daisy suit, as WRHW snaps the strap playfully on her shoulder, nodding in agreement with LTW.

Hot Tub Mama bestows her approval also, giving a subtle but powerful nod. She’s always up to the task of Locker Room Maven, no matter that she just got out of the hospital after "11 day. My diabetes. My doctor said. Blood in my stomach I cough up. A diarrhea come out all black. But better now.”

And it’s a good thing. What did they all do without her around for 11 days? Though PP thinks that she didn’t really need to hear the details of her ordeal while enjoying the Daisy Suit Fashion Show, but there’s no containing HTM.

“Where you get suit?” HTM yells out from the tub.
“She don’t speak English. She don’t understand,” WRHW shakes her head.

With a sly wink, LTW grins over at HTM, PP and then WRHW before whispering an aside, “She understands. Watch.”
“Where’d you get your suit?” she hollers at FCW, who for a moment pretends that she doesn’t understand, but then realizes she’s been found out when LTW continues to eye her, smiling a broken toothy grin at her.

Grinning her own missing tooth smile back at them all, FCW announces: “Hong Kong!” and then proudly gathers her stuff up to head out to the pool.




Shaking her head in amazement, WRHW deadpans, “Hong Kong? Hell, I get mine at Ross.”

They all crack up, even FCW, or is it especially FCW?

PP has the suspicion that she’s the one who’s gonna have the last laugh.

Hong Kong?

PP grins to herself, thinking how she bets FCW got her jazzy sixties daisies at Ross too.

In the Hong Kong section, of course!

The Carmex Angel

“You dropped this.”
Turning around, PP beholds an Angel. Her hand extended with a jar of Carmex in her pale palm.

Where the hell did she come from? PP wonders, as the soft, accented (Australian? English? PP can never tell the difference. But who cares. It’s sexy) voice lilts through the empty row of lockers. She’s tall, this Carmex Angel, and pale (Okay, PP already said this, but it does make her more angelic right?) with long alabaster limbs, a firm white bottom, and rounded breasts dancing in PP’s line of vision.

Understandably speechless, PP, nevertheless manages to mutter an “Oh, thanks,” as she takes the proffered Carmex from the Angel’s soft palm.

Carmex Angel floats down the row of lockers; PP tries not to stare, but hell, why not? Shouldn’t she get some sort of fringe benefit from braving the crowds at the YMCA Monday afternoon pool time?

But what to say? Can’t she come up with something better than ‘Thanks’?

Giggling, PP calls after her, “Good thing you found that for me. I wouldn’t have gotten far without it.” Which is true. Carmex Addiction. But that’s another blog.

Carmex Angel glances back over her delicate shoulder. She really is a vision. PP is gonna put her in her novel. But for now, CA just smiles, politely. Not joining in PP’s little joke.

She doesn’t get it?

Of course not.






Angels don’t need Carmex. Their lips are always heavenly soft and supple. No need for artificial lubricants.

PP better stop now. Before she gets out the Carmex again, and starts strategically dropping it all over the Y, letting it roll to a stop at unsuspecting angels' heavenly feet, lining the rows of decidedly earthly lockers.

Mooney Moods

”Man, I’m feeling it. The full moon. It just messes with all my fluids, you know what I mean?”

PP nods, she has no clue what FRW (aka Daphne, she later learned) is talking about, but when has that ever stopped her from nodding and pretending otherwise?

”And my last name is Mooney (or did she say Moody?). That makes it doubly worse.” Daphne laughs heartily as she settles back into the warm hot tub waters.

Laughing along, PP doesn’t know how to respond since she isn’t sure which last name Daphne really said. Though maybe it doesn’t matter. If she said, Mooney, well then there are fluids involved in this, right? Or if she said, Moody, well then there’s hormones involved in this.

PP opts for an answer that covers both—“Yeah, well, the Moon does move the tides and so it makes sense that it’d move the fluids in our bodies and psyches too.”
Daphne nods. Likes this answer. It resonates with her Mooney Mood. “Exactly. That’s a good point. Plus the other fluids. Like when I’m menstruating, hell watch out.”






“Those tides are flooding!” PP jokes.
Daphne slaps the surface of the water, grinning broadly. Oh dear, PP thinks, is she making a new friend? Does she really want one? It’s so overwhelming. She already knows too many people, esp. Mooney moody people. Does she really need another crazy woman in her life?

Of course.

So when Daphne starts in on the benefits of swimming and how she’s taken a week off and how she’s missed the water, PP knows that she’s not so crazy after all.

Anyone that agrees with PP’s Pool Philosophy of How Swimming Can Cure All Ills is a friend of hers.

At least during the full moon.

Wipe That Look Off Your Face!

"Girl, you're stressin me out with That Look!" Face Reader Woman sighed heavily after delivering this verdict. PP felt like hitting her, but refrained.

"You can see the disappointment all over your face!" she continued, turning to another woman who was sharing the locker room bench with her. “We’re talking ‘bout disappointment here if you wanna know.”

PP didn’t.

She was more than Disappointed. She was furious. Imagine! Closing the pool for some unknown Random Reason on a Tuesday afternoon right when SHE was here to swim.

The NERVE!

Yet the signage when she’d arrived said:

Pool closed on Tuesday, May 5 until 2 pm




PP has an inherent distrust of signage. Especially when it comes to pool closures. Extra especially when it comes to such closures at the Oakland Y.

So, yeah, waiting in the locker room for the pool door to ‘unlock’ at 2 pm., and believing that it might not, was making her extremely cranky. Stomping around in her pink suit, carrying her fins, frowning and cursing inwardly, (No she wasn’t saying what she was thinking OUT loud) PP was ready to explode.

Thus, when FR Woman commented upon her ‘disappointment, PP just glared at her. How the hell was she supposed to keep the ‘disappointment’ offa her face? (Her face, unfortunately, always displayed ALL of her emotions. This was something that often caused her great consternation not to mention trouble, but this day, she was trying to maintain some semblance of non-emotive decorum.)


Obviously, it wasn’t working. At least not with FR Woman.

Where the hell did she get off anyway? Telling her that PP was ‘stressin her out’? Piss off is what PP wanted to say, but FRW was bigger and looked mad too.

After all she was sitting there, suited up too, also waiting for the pool to open, and sharing her disappointment with her comrade. Maybe she just wanted PP to join in?

Like PP was gonna join in any goddamn Group Disappointment Circle while waiting for the pool to open!

"I just really need a swim!" PP managed to mutter.
FRW nodded, "I hear ya, Girlfriend. The pool's supposed to open up at 2."
"Well, it's 2 now and the door to the pool is still locked!"

FRW nodded in commiseration. She looked like she was gonna cry actually. So PP decided to go upstairs and ask at the front desk if the pool was really gonna open to avoid any actual tears.

Naturally asking at the front desk was a complete waste of time. Tromping up the stairs in her pink suit, which would usually make her self-conscious, today just added to her fury. When she reached the front desk and demanded an answer to the pool’s still closure, she was just told, “They have the go-ahead. They have the keys. They can unlock the door.”

Okay, then.....when? Today? Tomorrow? Next year? When dolphins fly?

Back down the stairs, only to confront FRW’s sad mug. “They’re supposed to open the pool any time now,” PP announced.

FRW continued to sit motionless on the bench, her disappointment partner gone now. She really did look depressed. PP wondered if she was experiencing any Pool Closure Thought Distortions, such as: “The pool will never open.” (Overgeneralization, Predicting the Future) or “If I weren’t such an Idiot I would have called first before coming all the way down here.” (Negative Self-Labeling) or “If the pool would just open goddammit, I’d be happy!” (Blaming a Situation for your Unhappiness)






PP was thinking this last one wasn’t a Distortion at all! The pool being closed unexpectedly when she really needed a swim WAS causing her unhappiness!

Stomping through the showers again, PP pushed at the door out to the pool and Voila! It was unlocked!

Yes!

Stepping into the pool arena, there were already a few sneaky swimmers in the water. Damn. How the hell did they get here before her?

Whatever. PP stole over to the empty end lane and jumped in (shower be damned) and started swimming.

Ahhh.....

See she was happy now. Distorted Thinking be damned! The water’s soft embrace always did the trick, and as she swam, she started to relax until someone got in the lane without telling her and nearly ran into her head on.

Cursing and swerving to avoid a collision, PP turned and headed back down the lane only to confront FRW resting at the wall.

“You happy now?” FRW beamed, her eyes shinning behind her foggy mask.
“Oh, yeah!” PP grinned, forgiving her the non-communication lane entry transgression.

And she was. The ‘disappointment’ had been washed away. She only hoped her Pool Joy showed on her face as much as the previous distress had earlier.

Judging from FRW’s reaction, it did.

“Stopped both of us from crying!” FRW joked as she gave PP a final nod before heading back down the lane.

Laughing, PP grabbed her fins, slipped them on, and followed her in joyful non-stressed out, gliding glee.

Diving into the Plunge! (Part II)

“Is that it?” PP pointed across the busy street where a large “P” was peaking through the trees.
“Looks like the right kinda building,” DHBF nods as he waits to make the turn into the parking lot of the “PLUNGE”

A parking lot. Now there’s a concept! And they’ve found it—PP claps in delight as DHBF grins. He loves it when she’s delighted, which frankly doesn’t happen often enough lately. But that’s another story.

Yet now with only 20 minutes left for lap swimming, it seems that the actual swim will have to wait. But maybe not. If they hurry….PP’s eternal optimism is only rampant when it comes to pools.

They park. PP rushes out. Hurries toward the entrance. It's so exciting! But oh dear! DHBF takes so long to get out of the car. PP is gonna get in trouble for this, but what the hell is he doing? Leave whatever for now hurry! The Lap Swim Clock is ticking!





She stands on the curb. Waiting waiting waiting. Finally he’s done doing god knows what in the car….

And into the office they march where a cheery Hayward kid greets them.

“Are we too late for lap swimming?” PP asks.
“I’m sorry but there’s a half hour wait,” he apologizes.
A half hour wait? What the hell does that mean? And besides, since it was 6:40, wasn’t the pool closing in 20 minutes? How could they wait a half hour to swim when it was closed? Maybe they were gonna keep the pool open just for them since they’d gone to so much trouble to find the Plunge?

“But aren’t you closing in 20 minutes?” PP asks.
“Since there’re two aerobic classes going on on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the pool stays open till 8:15.”
“Really?” PP can’t believe their good fortune. Imagine. They thought they wouldn’t even find the pool. And then when they did find it, it was gonna be too late to swim. And now it was open later? Cuz it was Tuesday?

How LUCKY is THAT?

It’s Pool Kismet!

Still she didn’t understand the half hour wait caveat.
“Yeah,” he nods, “but like I said, there’s a half hour wait.”
“I don’t understand….” PP shakes her head. “What do you mean a half hour wait?”
It’s complicated. Something about putting your name on a list. Everyone gets their own lane and when someone gets out another swimmer off the waiting list gets the go ahead.

A Lap Swimmer Reservation List?

With a Lap Swimmer Host?

How very cool is that?

Who knew the Hayward Plunge would be so refined.




But the refinement stops at the front counter as PP heads down the steep stairs to the Changing Room Dungeon. Truly. This is what it feels and looks like. Wet concrete floors, weird blue pipes on the walls pumping water through to the Plunge making an eerie gushing whooshing water noise. A couple toilet stalls where the doors close too tight so when you wanna get out, it's hard.




Yet, PP is so thrilled to be here, that she shrugs the dungeon off. Who cares as long as she can swim!

Climbing back up the sinister stairs and now up on the deck, it's a SCENE! The two aerobic classes at either end of the huge pool that must be 100 meters long and she finds out later, 20 yards across, are bouncing and grinning. Water aerobics share the same happy energy wherever you go.

Venturing out onto the deck, PP finds DHBF, and then the Pool Host!

He ambles up to them, clipboard in hand, "You guys know you hafta wait?"
"Yeah, we were told a half hour," PP nods.
He shakes his head, "Nah, it shouldn't be that long. Lemme get your names and I'll come get you when a lane opens up."

What service!

Now she and DHBF sit down on the sunlit bench and watch the aerobics class and wait for their lane. The class is full of the usual shower cap ladies and an occasional brave middle-aged man, with the instructor on deck, perky and shouting. Why must they always shout? PP wonders. Of course it is noisy in the vast dome, but really, can't they just use the 'watch me and follow me' system of teaching and NOT shout so much?

But it's entertaining. And passes the time till the Pool Host comes over and directs them to their lanes. PP goes first ahead of DHBF. (He’s such a gentleman!) Swimming on the black line, while the swimmer next to her swims between the black lines, then the next swimmer is on the black line, etc. She'd been in such a system before at the Oceanside Pool, but there was no Host there. The Hayward Plunge had all the class!

The water is cool, greenish and fun! PP's finned feet slip on the olive green tiles circa 1938 every time she turns around. She kicks on her back and revels in the golden greeny afternoon light and the atmosphere that feels like another era. Why, she doesn't even mind when Butterfly Man gets in the lane next to hers and goes at it.

She's in the Hayward Plunge. It's fabulous. Why, she feels like one of those bathing beauties from the 30’s. Must be the pool. And the kismet.

Since only a bathing beauty would have this much ‘luck’!

The Hayward Plunge? Impossible!

A couple months ago, PP glanced at the front page of the SF Chron and saw a photo of a POOL! How cool was that? How often is a pool on the front page of the newspaper? (Of course, PP would prefer this over the usual horrific news of murders, foreclosures and politics.)

Yet, on closer inspection, this Pool was featured because it was part of FDR’s Public Works Projects from the Depression era. One of the projects was building this gorgeous pool with the high hanger-like ceiling, green tiles on the pool walls, and magical fairy-tale lighting. And best of all, it was indoors.

So, PP pined for this pool, but thought, hell, I’ll never make it to Hayward of all places. Who goes to Hayward to swim when there are so many pools right here in Oakland?

Yet, the pool had been filed away in the back of her mind. So on their Beach Adventure day in Pacifica, she and DHBF took advantage of the once a year 80 degree weather, where she longed to jump into the surf but instead was sitting there under the umbrella, hiding from the sun, like an old person.





What happened? How’d she get here? Why not just jump in and frolic in the surf?

Duh. Too damn cold!

PP felt a little wistful about her lack of cold water adventure at this juncture in her life, but oh well. What’s a Highly Sensitive Kitty to do?


Later, on the way back home, right before they got on the San Mateo Bridge (After a fruitless search for the Swim School that a sign pointed to in Half Moon Bay. Why is it that Half Moon Bay is always half-assed? It seems like a good idea to go there, but then when you do, it’s always disappointing?)




Well, they didn’t find the Swim School, cuz it was Half Moon Bay, and on their way home, PP remembered that they’d have to pass through Hayward to get to Oakland after getting off the bridge.

Could they find the Hayward Plunge popped into her mind?

Of course, she didn’t know where it was. What the lap swimming hours were. How much it cost or any of the essentials, but hey, this is why cell phones might actually come in handy.

DHBF pulled over to the side of the road before getting on the bridge and PP called information, got the Hayward Plunge’s recording that stated the lap hours:5-7 p.m., M-Th. (It was then after 5:30) and the address if you pressed another button. Naturally you couldn’t talk to a person to get directions, but DHBF seemed confident: “If we have the address, I can find it.”
"24716 Mission Blvd": PP copied down from the recorded message.

Okay, but Hayward? It is a big sprawling ugly city. Where the hell is Mission Blvd? DHBF nodded his head, “It’s a main street. I bet 92 crosses it. We’ll find it.”

And off they went. Only to get stuck in horrific traffic (construction under way) after getting off the bridge.




The clock was ticking. Almost 6 o’clock. Even if they did find the pool, they’d never get there in time for lap swimming. 10 minutes to get dressed. At the very least 30 minutes to swim (though PP liked to swim for 45). This meant that they’d have to find the pool by 6:15 or 6:20 at the latest. Otherwise there’d be no swimming in this marvelous 1930’s pool that day.

The traffic crawled. The clock ticked away. 6 :00, 6 :05, 6:10; they were finally off the freeway and in the lovely rush hour traffic of Hayward.

“Maybe today, we’ll just find the pool and then we’ll know where it is for next time,” DHBF tried to soothe PP’s unspoken skepticism around ever making it in time.
“Yeah….maybe…” she murmured.

“What was the name of that street?” DHBF asks, as they crawl through the intersection.
“I can’t tell. There’s no street sign,” PP answers. And there wasn’t. In her usual optimistic paradigm, she thought, hell, that was probably Mission Street, and slumped down in her seat and the traffic came to a standstill at the longest signal in the world.

Sighing, PP glanced out the window at an overweight heavily made-up office worker on her way to Chevy’s in the idling Buick next to them.

Maybe they should just follow her and drown their non-finding-the-Plunge-in-time-sorrows?




“What’s the name of this street? Can you tell?” DHBF interrupted her alcohol infused musings. She craned her neck forward. Was it Mission Blvd?

No, it was some tree street. Acacia Street or Pine Street or Sycamore Street or some such thing. PP can’t really remember now and besides, they were never gonna make it to the pool before lap swim was over so what was the point of continuing on their quest?

Oh those Distorted Thought Patterns!

She should never let them rule…..

Because….......

~To be continued~

The Hayward Plunge

You won't believe it! Pool Host with Lane Reservation list. Under pool changing room dungeon. Finding it. Swimming in it.

There's a story, but PP is way too tired to write it now.

More when her energy resurfaces. (She's very underwater with no water in sight!)

Swimming Sheep

It’s a theme! Sheep!

First the adorable sheep in Point Reyes, and now....

Last night at the Y, a tattooed swimmer climbed into PP’s lane at the end of her swim and was waiting for her at the wall to ask if she could share the lane (Communication! PP already likes her!).

Tired and cold (the pool was freezing, but that rant has been done ad nauseum!), PP was happy to give over the lane to Tattoo Woman, but not before stopping and exclaiming over her tattoos on the inside of each arm. Initially, PP only spied one, “IS that a Sheep on your arm?”

Grinning, Sheep Tattoo Woman nodded, “Yup. That’s the Good sheep.” Then lifted her other arm, “and this is the BAD sheep.”

PP stared in delighted amazement. Good Sheep. Bad Sheep.

Which is PP?

Definitely a Bad Sheep. Or is that a Black Sheep? Are they the same?
Was the Bad Sheep tattoo black?
No, PP can’t see that it is; only that it had little Sheep Devil Horns.




PP needs some of these herself.

For when a wayward swimmer crosses over onto her side of the lane.... those horns would come in real handy.


Baaaaa!