Make ‘Em Cry

As you all know, PP is a big fan of small children. She loves to hear their screeching in the pool, the showers, the sauna?

Hello?

It’d been a hellacious swim. Not just because of the birthday party filling the pool at Hilltopia with 30 plus gleeful 6 year olds. (Though this was ultimately what set her off.)

No. She had to share a lane with Multiple Kickboard Butterfly Kick Man. (Is his name self-explanatory?) This resulted in the requisite washing machine wave action which every lap swimmer just loves to pieces. Turning to breathe and inhaling huge gulps of water instead of air.

After he got out, Flailing Swedish Accent Woman got in. PP likes her, but FSAW gets on her back, and does a mighty flailing Elementary Backstroke that can be lethal if you don’t watch out.

And So. PP was really looking forward to the QUIET of the sauna. The Birthday Party’s noise level is beyond description. Just imagine 30 plus hyper 6 year olds screaming at the top of their little lungs while bopping each other on the head with the brightly colored noodles. There was laughter. There was joking. There was crying.

You get the picture.

In the sauna, PP lies down, sighs in relief. It’s QUIET!

But not for long. She hears the echoing screams of several of the Party-Goers pile into the showers. Damn. Why the hell do they come in the women’s locker room? Why don’t they use the kids' locker room like they do in Oakland?

In Oakland, these kids would be toast.




“Here’s the Warm Room, Cameron, come on in here…..” The soothing mom voice enters the sanctity of the sauna. PP opens one eye.

Horror of Horror. Soothing Mom is bringing her 6 year old BOY into the women’s sauna! PP can’t believe it. But then she can.

Mothers know no boundaries.

PP rises, “You know, you can’t bring kids in here.”
Soothing Mom ignores her, “Sit down over here, Cam….”
PP tries again. She is NOT taking a sauna with a 6 year old boy!
“NO ONE UNDER 18 IS ALLOWED in the SAUNA!” She tries not to shout, but it’s a close call.

SM glances over at her, perplexed for a moment. Was someone actually telling her she couldn’t bring her kid in the Warm Room?

Yes.

She doesn’t respond to PP at all. No apologies. No acknowledgement whatsoever of PP’s presence. Though she did hear her since she backed out, her arm around Cameron, “We can’t go in the Warm Room today, Cam. I….”

"WHAAAA!!!!!! EERRRRGGGHHH!!!! ARRRGGGHHH!!!!" Cameron screeches at the top of his lungs.

It’s an Impressive Tantrum.




PP is quite pleased that she’s elicited it.

Her day is always satisfying if she can cause one child to break down in tears for no good reason.

Who was it that sang, “Make ‘em Laugh?” Wasn’t it Donald O’Connor in Singing in the Rain?





Well, PP has a slightly different take on the lyrics, “Make ‘em Cry! Make ‘em Cry! Make ‘em Cry!”

A New Mistake

Since PP is so pressed for time and focus and energy this quarter (What the hell ever possessed her to teach Research Writing of all things on top of her writing center job?), she’s just going to give a brief summary (this will be a good exercise for her) or a pivotal piece of dialogue (without context—see you can tell she’s been reading way too many woo woo research papers.)in this blog entry.

Why is she doing this besides her time crunch?

Aren't you all just dying to know what’s been happening at the pool and in Utopia?


“Are you okay?” PP asks, suddenly concerned when Dunking Under the Water in the Hot Tub Woman comes up for air, but can’t catch any. Coughs dramatically till PP and DL are forced to stop chatting about cats.
“Yeah,” she DUW grins, still choking. “I put my face right next to a jet and I choked.”
“Oh,” PP nods, thinking how this is just one of the many reasons she doesn’t dunk her head under the water in the hot tub.
“It was a New Mistake,” DUW shakes her head.
“A New Mistake?” DL’s eyes get big and shinning. “I love that!” she exclaims, then looks over at PP and starts to giggle and giggle and giggle and giggle.


“I have a good cat story for you,” DL announces as they walk the tread mills. (This isn’t the same cat story as above if that matters.)
“Okay,” PP nods as she watches the Millionaire Matchmaker snap her whip.
“You know how D got these two kittens. Well they’re not really kittens anymore….”
“They’re teenagers, right?”
“Yeah. That’s right. And one afternoon, D was in the kitchen and she noticed that the Tortie was chewing and chewing and chewing on something and you know what it was?”
“No.”
DL grins, “A BIG FAT WHITE WORM!”
”UGGGHHH! GROSSS!!!! DISGUSTING!!!”
“Yeah.”





“How was your swim?” DL asks as they climb into the hot tub, DL making ouch it’s so hot faces as she sticks her toes in.
“It was crazy cranky,” PP answers.
“Why? Was it crowded?”
“No, not really. But the lanes are so narrow that it can feel crowded and then when Sidestroke Giant Man kicked me, scratching my hand with his Big Toenail…”
“EUUUU!!! GROSSS! Where?”
PP stretches out her palm and turns it over, looking for some tell tail evidence. But frankly can’t even remember which hand it was at this point.
She points to her left hand anyway, showing DL a spot between her thumb and index finger. Nothing’s there.
But DL nods, “I don’t even know what Sidestroke is.”






“Sandy, you know what Sidestroke is, don’t you?”
“Yeah, sure of course.”
“It’s very relaxing, right?” PP asks as DL lies down on the hot utopia bench.
“Yeah, it’s that. But it’s also one stroke where you can keep your head out of the water. You don’t have to worry about that breathing aspect.”
“That’s a good point,” PP nods.
“When I was a kid, I literally had to learn to sink or swim. My dad threw me in the water and I dog paddled or sidestroked cuz these were two where I could keep my head out of water.”
“Wow!” PP exclaims, thinking this is pretty wild. “How old were you?”
“About 3.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s like chopsticks. You learn to use them if you’re hungry.”
PP tells them about her experience in China when she had to use chopsticks her first night there and all the waitresses lined up against the wall of the Garden Moon Restaurant and stared at her, laughing and pointing.
“The White Devil,” Sandy nods.

PP just stares. Did she really say that? Should she say anything back?
Nah, cuz if she did, well, she would surely commit another New Mistake.

That Sucks!

“That sucks!”

PP grinned to herself under water as That Sucks Swimmer shook his stringy mass of graying locks in disgust.

“Now there’s two lanes,” he moaned, shaking his head as the lifeguard struggled to attach the heavy lane line to the underwater hook.

PP’s relieved though. She’d been swimming in the ‘family section’ of the pool since there were no screaming children and smiling parents at 9 pm on a Thursday evening. She swam by the wall. Far away from the rest of the in-the-lane swimmers. Plus it was warmer. There were little wall heaters lining it. Gushing out warming streams each time she passed.

Then another swimmer got in the Family Section. She caught PP’s attention cuz she was completely clothed. Long black pants. Long sleeved shirt. Black shoes! Shoes for chrissakes! What’s that about? Was she practicing her stroke in case she fell off the cruise ship?



It was weird.

So, when That Sucks Swimmer approached, crazed and cranky, scanning the middle of the ‘family section’ thinking that he could swim between PP and Clothed Woman, PP made a conscious effort to swim more in the center to discourage him.

He glared at her as she swam down the almost middle of the lane. His stringy long black-gray locks hanging round his swarthy angry mug.

PP had seen him swim before. He was a Major Splasher and she did NOT want him swimming next to her, esp. if there were no lane lines.

So, when the lifeguard spied That Sucks Swimmer fuming on deck, he actually got off his ass and put in another lane line. Which PP thought was astounding, given that it was 9 pm and the lifeguards so rarely do anything to make the swimming experience more efficient and enjoyable.

But That Sucks Swimmer?

He was pissed off over the lane line addition?

Why the hell was that?

PP thought she heard him mutter how ‘Now there’s only 2 lanes.” Like there’d been more before? Technically there’d been NO lanes, or at best 2 lanes with a choppy ocean in the middle.

TSS got in with Clothed Woman. Began his frantic freestyle. Head lifted out of the water with each breath, vast veils of stringy grey hair covering his face every time he tried to take a breath. How did he breathe, she wondered.

Maybe he’d drown in all that hair!

Or all that That Sucks Frustration.

Either way, PP didn’t care, cuz she got her OWN lane at the wall, with the little heaters, and NO one else dared enter into her lane domain.

Still, she did wonder why TSS man had thought putting in lane lines so he could swim was something That Sucks.

Maybe he just needed to take a Cruise with Clothed Woman. Get away from it all. Jump into the sea. Swim with the turtles. Get attacked by a shark.....





Now that would really Suck, wouldn't it?

Dice Man—Take 2

“You ‘bout finished with your 400 laps?”, Dice Man chuckles.
PP giggles. She’s a sucker for gross exaggeration.

“This one here,” DM nods toward PP as he chats up Beefy Swimmer Guy whom he’s sharing a lane with, “she’s something else. I try to keep up with her, but no way. She just zooms ahead. I think I can catch her, but her arms just pull her ahead of me no matter how hard I try.”

BSG grunts, unimpressed, takes off down the middle of the lane in a show-offy butterfly.

“You remind me of Esther Williams,” DM continues.
“Really?” PP grins. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in years.”
He laughs. “Yeah, my mother, she was a sucker for Esther Williams. Those were quite a production, those movies….”

“…and she smiled the whole time!” PP interrupts, thinking how this is where his comparison with Esther would stop.

DM nods, serious. “Why I remember when we were kids, I had a twin brother, (PP wonders what the story is here with the “had”—Did the twin brother die? Run away? Become estranged?)”we’d go to the picture show. 'Show' that’s what we called 'em back then. And for twenty-five cents, oh now I’m dating myself,” DM laughs, shaking his head, “we'd go and spend all afternoon at the theater watching The Lone Ranger, or Roy Rogers or the likes of them…”





His voice trails off. Wistful. PP thinks that the brother did die. Some tragedy when they were young. Maybe a car accident. Or a lethal lingering terminal illness where all the family and friends shook their heads in disbelief. “He’s so young. Too young to die… if only the bone marrow had been a match.....”

Do you think PP watches too many Soap Operas?





“You really are a nice person to share the lane with,” he says suddenly, interrupting PP’s Tragic Twin Brother Soap. She nods, remembering how he’d said the same thing last week after the Dice Counting Laps Discussion. So she says the same thing back that she’d said last week. Likes the parallel universe of it: “You’re a nice person to share the lane with also.”

He nods, leans over, stares down at the dice, gives it a turn, then takes off down the lane, his left side flailing a bit more than his right as he breathes.

Sighing, PP climbs out of the pool, chilled a bit from standing around bullshitting. She glances down at the dice, notes that it’s on number 6.

Bending down, she turns it.... back to 1.

Hah! Not really! But she wonders if he woulda remembered that it’d been on 6?

She’ll never know. About the dice and the laps.

The Twin Brother?

She’s gonna hafta work on getting more about That Story!

Dice Man

"What’s up with the dice?” PP stops at the wall, grinning at the swimmer sharing her lane.

He's stopped at the end of the lane, contemplating one green dice (is di the singular?). The dice sits on the edge of the pool, surrounded by kickboards, pull buoys, flip-flops, puddles of water.

“I use it to count my laps,” Dice Man looks at her like she’s crazy. Doesn’t everyone use dice to count their laps?





PP, on the other hand, is mystified never having been much of one for games. Wasn’t Yahtzee the one with the dice? But she can’t remember other than the game was around at her Grandma Birdie and Aunt Tea’s place. The Dodger game blaring on the TV always taking precedence though. She can still hear those two old ladies, "Those goddamn Dodgers! What the hell was that?"




“How does that work?” she asks Dice Man.
He slowly turns toward her, serious. “Each side has numbers on it right?”
“Uh, right….”
“First there's the number 1 then turn it over, for the number 2, then turn it over again for 3, etc.”
“Yeah, so how does that work with counting laps?”

He shakes his head. She’s so slow! “I roll the twice and then half it again for 15 laps.”

PP nods slowly, trying to do the math, never her strong suit. How does 1+2+3+4+5+6 times 2 and then half again equal 15? Doesn’t it add up to a lot more than 15?





“The problem is,” he continues as she gives up trying to understand, “that I start bullshitting with people and then lose track.”

Aha! PP thinks. He’s just bullshitting her. The dice isn’t for counting laps at all. It’s for starting conversations with unknowing swimmers who should be doing laps instead of talking about them.

“The other problem is that the kids will find it and swipe it and then I’m lost.”

“Stupid kids,” she mutters.




“You’re a very nice person to share a lane with, you know?” Dice Man beams over at her as he leans on the pool’s edge and turns the dice over.

“You’re nice to share a lane with too,” she answers, not knowing how else to respond.

Yet he was she thinks, as she gets out of the pool and heads for the showers. After all, what better lane sharer could she have than one who provides such a thought provoking story for the blog?

Saffola Girl

“Is that baby oil you’re using?” CC asks; PP can hear her pert nose wrinkling in disgust.

“No,” Non Baby Oil Rubber answers. “I can not use Baby Oil. My skin. It is allergic. It’s Saffola.”
“Really?” CC asks, not keeping the shock out of her tone.

Saffola? PP thought to herself. Isn’t that what you use to deep fry chicken? Was this woman preparing to deep-fry herself after the sauna?

“Yes,” Saffola Woman continues, “I was using Olive Oil, but then I saw on Dr. Oz how it can enter your skin and you can smell like it,” she giggles.





PP thinks, Is it better to smell like fried chicken rather than a Greek salad? Personally, the salad seems better, but then there's no accounting for taste as the cliche goes.

“Have you tried Tetri Oil?” CC suggests, “It’s kinda got that mentholy thing going, so it might not be too good for your skin either."

“What’s Tetri Oil?” PP asks, trying to keep the Oil Conversation alive.

“It’s this kinda oil that’s actually really nice for dry skin. But like I said, it’s got that mentholy scent, so it’s kinda strong.”
“I could try it....” Saffola Woman offers, reaching for her Saffola and smearing some more on top of her thighs. “But the Saffola, it work pretty good!” she declares, slapping her thighs with a resounding smack.

PP can’t get the image of deep fried chicken out of her brain. The way you boil a big pot of oil and then drop the floured pieces of chicken into it: the thighs, breasts, wings. Then watch them all sizzle and splatter, floating about in the hot oil.





How disgusting was it to slather Saffola all over your naked body in sauna?

But wait, maybe it’s a cultural thing? Like maybe some cultures might believe that preparing your skin for deep-frying is a good thing?

Saffola Woman lies back, sighing contentedly.

CC gives PP that look. Like she knows exactly what PP is thinking. Cause she’s thinking the same thing.




They leave Saffola Woman alone. Discuss the hilariously unintentionally funny movie 9—how Penelope Cruz was the only thing worth watching, except for Kate Hudson in her sparkle mini dress. “I thought of you when I saw her dancing that go go,” CC laughs at PP, “you’d look dynoomite in that dress!”







Saffola Woman rises, collects her stuff, and exits. No scent left in her wake. Saffola must be oderless until you throw the chicken in it. But now, PP can’t contain herself any longer. “Saffola Oil!!!!????" she shrieks. "Isn’t that what you use to cook with? Like Crisco?”

“Yeah,” CC nods, wiping a bead of perspiration off her delicate red headed forehead, “you deep fry chicken in it and....”
“That’s what I thought!” PP exclaims. “Disgusting!”

CC laughs, then rises, “I’m about fried in here myself,” she jokes. “You ‘bout ready?”
“Yeah,” PP sits up, following her out into the locker room.

Later, driving to Fat Apples to pick up ollaliberry pies for her friend’s birthday party, CC comments, “I hope Saffola Girl didn’t hear you.”
“I don’t care!” PP laughs. “What the hell does she expect using Saffola in the sauna?”
”I know, but later, after my shower, I think it was her, this woman was giving me the Extended Eye Contact, and I thought, what’s up with you, Bitch. And then I thought, oh shit, I wonder if she was Saffola Girl giving me the Evil Eye.”






PP laughs, “Probably. I’d watch out if I were you. Saffola might start oozing out of your pores.”
“Gross!” CC shakes her head. “What I don’t get is how people can think it’s okay to use the stuff they do in the sauna. Don’t they get it that the oil sinks into the wood and then it’s there? It never leaves?” She shakes her head. “People do the weirdest shit in the sauna.”
“Tell me about it,” PP nods. “I’ve written a book about it.”

“I don’t know where I learned the etiquette, but it just wouldn’t occur to me to use oils in the sauna and let them seep into the wood where other women would be sitting later. Different cultures have different ideas of hygiene though. I have this friend, who said he was visiting some third world country, I forget where, and it’s not about relaxing in the sauna, but it’s about getting clean.”
”I don’t think Saffola is a cleansing agent!” PP jokes. “At least she’d given up
Olive oil thanks to Dr. Oz.”

“Yeah, and it took someone on TV to get her to stop.” CC shakes her head as she makes the left turn onto Hwy 80.

“Thank goodness for Dr. Oz!” PP proclaims. “Otherwise, we’d all smell like Italy!”
“That wouldn’t be so bad though,” CC jokes as she floors the Acura, zooming past about 6 cars lined up in the slow lane.
“Be Italian!” PP starts to sing, ala 9.
“I didn’t really like that song in the movie,” CC frowns.
“Really?” PP grins. “I thought it was great! All the sand flying out of the tambourines and Fergie’s cleavage.”





Laughing, CC takes the Carlson Exit, as PP smiles to herself.

Wonder what Fellini would think of Saffola Girl?

She'd be worth at least one fantasy, right?

The Zen of Heat

“Ahhhh….it feels so good!” she sighs, letting her towel fall softly down in response.
PP nods, agrees, “Yeah. I’m so needing this. My neck has been killing me all week and I think it’s cause the sauna’s been closed.”
“That’s right!” Relaxed Towel Woman says, “We don’t need pills. We don’t need doctors. All we need is this sauna……it feels so good….” she sighs again.

And so does PP. Her neck, back, and shoulders all begin to melt. The constant nagging pain begins to evaporate.

Was all she needed this entire week was an afternoon in the sauna?

But what about the Zen Springs? Why didn't its magic last longer?

DHBF was so sweet. On New Year’s Day, PP was in Neck Agony. Whining and whining. DHBF comes up with the idea to go to some hot tubs, but of course all are closed, except the skanky ones on University and the Zen Springs in Downtown Oakland.

Zen Springs?

PP was dubious, but what the hell, it couldn’t hurt any more right?

“You have sit,” the soft-spoken young Asian man motions to a wooden bench when they walk into the quiet Zen of the Springs. “I make room ready.”

“Okay,” DHBF says, but doesn’t take a seat. Neither does PP. She has to go to the bathroom of course.

When SSYAM returns, she asks where the bathroom is. He looks at her, embarrassed. “It is occupied,” and nods toward a closed door in the little hall.

This distresses PP just a little. Only one bathroom? And how many ‘spa rooms’ were here at Zen Springs?

Well, it couldn’t stay occupied forever, right?

Right.






So in the meantime, SSYAM shows them their readied room. It’s super cute with soft lighting, a brand new spa type of hot tub, and a little sauna room.

“You push on Red Button for the jets,” he instructs. He’s already started the water running into tub, then asks, “You want Sauna too?”
”Yes, please,” PP’s eyes light up. She can’t wait to get some HEAT!
He turns on the sauna. It’s stone cold now but hopefully will heat up between the time PP uses the bathroom and when she takes the first plunge into the hot tub.

She takes another peak out into the hall. Whew! The bathroom opens up.

Relieved, (almost) PP hurries in. It’s all oriental. (Yes, she knows this is politically incorrect, but it is.) With a greeny bowl for a sink, bamboo in a tasteful planter, a welcome cat on a shelf underneath a tasteful print of pink and blue kimonoed ladies playing lutes in a gazebo.




Now relieved, (really) she heads back to the room, and fiddles with the new agey sound system. She chooses the most flutey recorder-like sound track and turns the volume just right. Greensleaves. Of course. Then messes with the lights. A dimmer switch up and down. Soft and loud. She chooses soft.

DHBF is already undressed and in the small tub. He’s very tall so he takes up most of it. This is okay, though, since PP is small. It’s a cozy tub. And it’s hot. As she sinks into the tub, soaking her poor aching neck, the hot water begins to work its magic. She thinks back on the day: the chocolate cream pie for breakfast; (Nations was the only place open on New Year's Day); the little nap after the pie (pie will do that to you); and now this: Zen Utopia.

"Ahhhh…....." she sighs, grinning over at DHBF as she slides her legs under his.

Lost and Response

“Can I help you find something?”

Shaking her head, PP smiles, “Oh, thanks. It’s nothing really. Just an earplug. I just don’t know where it could have gone.”

PP had been drying her cap where she stores the earplugs after swimming when one of them popped out. She’d been scanning the disgusting floor at Hilltopia, but it had completely disappeared.

Helpful Woman nods, her round wrinkled pale face sympathetic. “Yes, I know what you mean. I once lost an emerald green earring. It just disappeared. I searched and searched all over the place. Even in the emerald green stripe of the rug,” she laughs. “But it was just gone.”





”Well, that was something valuable,” PP nods, still frowning as she tries to squat down to examine the floor. Her neck is killing her today. So the angle isn’t quite right for an optimum examination.

“It was nothing really,” HW shakes her gray wet curls in front of the mirror before attacking them with the brush.

“I’m always losing things,” Scraping Walker Woman joins in. She’s party to all locker room discussion, esp. those in front of the mirrors since she’s splayed out on the concrete floor adjacent to them, forever trying to put on her clothes. “And then I find them again but it’s too late,” she chuckles.
“You mean you replace it and then find it later?” PP asks.
“That’s right! Why once I had a boyfriend...”

PP’s mind races. She once had a boyfriend? This was amazing enough given her present condition. But then she hadn’t always been this way, crippled by a car accident, leaving her with botched surgery legs. And so, yes, she certainly could have had a boyfriend. But then?

She lost him? And then replaced him? And then found him again, but it was too late? He was history? Too bad, Jack. You disappeared and I searched and searched for you, but when I couldn’t find you, I had to find another boyfriend!

“And my checkbook was missing,” she continues. Again, PP starts to imagine. The boyfriend stole the checkbook? He was a no good slacker thief who’d stolen her checkbook? But SWW doesn’t explain the transition between the boyfriend and the checkbook. “And so I went and canceled my account and you know where I found it?”






PP glances over at HW who’s still trying to detangle her wet hair, but manages a response, “No, where’d you find it?”
“On top of the refrigerator!” SWW laughs loudly as PP tries not to show her perplexity.

“I once had a boyfriend,” HW takes up the theme, a little late, but hell, it’s more organic that way. “And he always asked me why I had to dry my hair after swimming and I told him, ‘If I don’t, then I get an earache, goddammit!' He didn’t last long.”





“Yeah, me too,” PP echoes, thinking about the earache part and not the boyfriend part. “If I don’t dry my hair right after swimming it’s all over for my ears.” She thinks of mentioning DHBF and how he’d certainly get it that she has to dry her hair after swimming to avoid an earache. But the moment is lost.

“Here I am, talking to myself again,” HW laughs. PP hadn’t noticed her talking to herself. Maybe the remark about the Clueless Earache Boyfriend wasn’t supposed to be part of the general conversation?
“I should make a New Year’s Resolution,” she continues, laughing. “To stop talking to myself.”
Laughing, PP nods as she steps back from the counter, feeling a slight bump under her flip-flop. “Hey!” She lifts up her foot and behold, the errant earplug. “I found it!”

HW had been talking to another woman, who’d joined them, about watching someone the other day using two hairdryers when PP interrupted her. HW had been expressing her surprise and admiration for this practice. But she takes PP’s interruption in stride, pausing for a moment, before grinning over at PP, “Happy New Year!” she exclaims.





Beaming, PP picks up the earplug and rinses it off thoroughly in the sink, “Yes, it is!” she agrees, now that she doesn’t have to make a trip to the sporting goods store to replace her earplugs.

“Yes! Happy New Year!” SWW joins in, unsteadily rocking on the floor as she
pulls on a skin- toned knee sock.

“Happy New Year to you all!” PP calls out as she heads back to her locker, tightly clutching her swim cap closed to keep safe the new found earplug.

Merry Christmas

“Merry Christmas,” she sings out across the lane line as PP turns at the wall. It’s Scraping Walker Woman, happy and buoyant in the water now, wishing good cheer.

“Merry Christmas,” she sighs, her round dark eyes a mixture of resignation and knowing; she wraps her towel round her ample mounds as PP leaves the Sauna. “For one week, we have no Sauna,” she’d bemoaned, yet not letting this loss stifle her holiday spirit.

“Merry Christmas!” they all holler into Utopia between giggles, as DL and PP smile in rapt delight. Three generations of Ethiopian Women, grandma, daughter, granddaughter, all rubbing sea salt on their rich dark skin, their faces masked in green avocado salad.

“How do you say “Merry Christmas in Ethiopian?” PP asks. They tell her, too fast, between more giggles. PP doesn’t even try to repeat it.

“It comes one week after,” the granddaughter tells PP, as DL takes some Sea Salt from their favorite Green Mask Woman.

"It feels nice," DL murmurs as she slowly rubs it into her rich olive skin.




“Merry Christmas!” PP hears one woman to an old friend, as she dresses in the locker room at Hilltopia after her swim.
“Merry Christmas,” her friend replies, warmth and song in her tone.

“My sister, she at home," the first woman explains, "she can’t believe that I come here to the Y on Christmas, but I tell her why not? All I do is sit at home. Doing nothing. At least here I do something.”

Warm Song Friend laughs, “Your sister doesn’t know how addicted we are!” They both laugh together; it's all music now.

Merry Christmas, PP thinks to herself as she sits in her loft later in the afternoon, wearing Grandma Birdie’s pink fluffy sweater, remembering those Christmas mornings so long ago when Birdie and her sister Aunt Tea were already there, arriving way before the sun came up, to surprise PP and her two sisters on Christmas morning. The smell of PP’s Mother’s homemade Cinnamon Christmas bread later wafting through the air after the presents had been rifled through, the paper strewn all over the carpet in front of the Christmas tree, Birdie and Tea tired but happy as they drink coffee and sample the sumptuous bread.




And so, PP wishes you and all of yours a Merry Christmas. May you swim, laugh, eat and love this holiday.

And go ahead, wish a stranger “Merry Christmas” when you’re out and about this holiday season. You don't have to be in the Pool, but if you are, all the better!

Russian Beauty

“I know it’s one of these,” PP laughs as she searches for her locker. She’s marked the lock on the back with a Victorian Kitty sticker for just these occasions. But this means she has to lift up all the locks and inspect the backs of them.

It’s a little awkward, esp. with an audience.

The audience, a lovely dark haired Russian Beauty, laughs with, not at PP. Already many points in her favor. (The laugh, not the beauty. Though the beauty doesn’t hurt.) And who knows if she’s really Russian. She has a lovely accent that could be Russian. And Russian is so romantic, right? Rachmaninoff? Tolstoy? Tchaikovsky? Siberia…? Okay, not the last one, but you get the drift. It’s not often that one meets a Russian Beauty in the Hilltop YMCA locker room.

“I always take the same one,” RB remarks, smiling sympathetically as PP continues to inspect the backs of locks. PP’s completely spaced out: hungry, tired, relaxed. The usual aftermath of a swim and a sauna.

Which makes remembering where your locker is more of a challenge.

“That’s a really good idea,” PP answers RB, “Wish I’d thought of that…”

“Sometimes this also happens to me with my car,” RB continues, her accent oozing empathy. “I don’t know where I left it in the parking lot. And then I walk out and I can’t find it. It’s very alarming.”

”Oh, yeah, me too!” PP agrees, trying to stifle her frustration at not remembering which locker she’d used. But hey, evidently, it was a good conversation starter.

"Why, I sometimes am sure I know where my car is but since it’s so small and everyone else’s car is so HUGE, I can’t see my car behind these monster cars. And then I think. Oh no! Someone has stolen the Geo!” PP laughs as she continues to lift up lockers. “But who would want to steal a Geo, I ask you?”





RB nods, serious. “You never know. I, too, have had that fear. My car. It is so small. And where is it? What if someone has taken it? Whatever will I do?”

In her Russian Empathy, she’s in the parking lot, trying to find her car. PP can hear it in her voice.

Finally, PP lifts up the Victorian Kitty Locker. “Aha! Here it is!” she exclaims in relief, beginning to dial in the combination.

And with the locker open, now the business of getting dressed. The lotion. The clothes. The shoes. The hair.

RB is also concentrating now, though PP can’t help but steal a peak at her curvy pale thigh as she smoothes the lotion in.



They don't speak again. The crisis over.

PP heads off to dry her hair, and when she returns, RB is gone. Had she really been there at all? Commiserating over lost lockers and stolen cars?

It all seems like a figment of PP’s imagination.

Except for the faint smell of lilacs in the air.

Russian Beauty lotion? (This delights PP on many levels, number 1 being that RB was completely ignoring the posted signage warning):

Please refrain from using Scented Products
in the locker room.
Other Members may be allergic.
This may cause physical distress beyond the YMCA's capacity to help.
The YMCA can not be held responsible.

RB didn’t care if someone keeled over in a coughing fit because of her lilacs.

And this makes her even more Romantic.

Why?

PP has no idea, but it sounds (and smells) good, don’t you think?

Bad Man!

“She a cocktail waitress. That mean she not smart. He pick woman who not smart.”
“We don’t know that she’s not smart just because she’s a cocktail waitress.”
“Then why she do that kind of job?”
“She may like it. Or she may even own the bar. We don’t know. What we do know is that most men pick women who are ‘under’ them, not as smart as them. What do you ladies think?”

DL and PP grin at each other; DL’s big brown eyes wide with delight under her steamy wire rimmed glasses. The women at Utopia.
They know how to discuss!

“I think she dumb woman.”
“What are you guys talking about?” PP finally interrupts.
”We’re talking about Tiger Woods. His mistress who’s a cocktail waitress. T thinks that she’s not very smart because she’s a cocktail waitress.”
“Or she’s not very smart cause she’s Tiger Woods’ mistress,” PP laughs. Then reconsiders. “OR she’s very smart cause she’s Tiger Woods’ mistress.”

“Yes! She get all kind of TV now. The cameras are all on her!” T says, sitting up and adjusting the plastic hair clip that holds her towel together in front of her. (You all remember her? The Towel That Never Slips Woman? Well, this is T tonight, making the case against stupid cocktail waitresses.)

“That’s true. She’s in the limelight now,” Super Swimmer Woman agrees. “But Tiger, now that’s another story. Did you all hear how he won the blah blah blah award?” (PP didn’t recognize the award, so she doesn’t register its name.)
“He should NOT get award!” T scoffs. “He cheat on his wife. He pick stupid cocktail waitress to do that. He does NOT deserve award!”




“Well, I don’t know about that….” SSW grins, or at least PP can hear the grin in her voice. “What do you ladies think? Do you think that one's Talent should be judged by one’s personal life?”
“Hell no,” PP asserts. “Why, look at all the writers who are ‘awful’ people: alcoholics, womanizers, thieves. Yet their work is genius. I absolutely don’t believe that a person’s work or talent should be judged negatively because of their personal transgressions. Look at F. Scott Fitzgerald. Hemingway. Dorothy Parker….why the list goes on and on….”

SSW nods, “Exactly. Talent should not be judged by Personal Transgressions. I agree with you.”

“BUT HE A BAD MAN!” T cries.

“That may well be, but he’s also a very talented golfer and so he should be rewarded for that. Not punished for it.”

T shakes her head, adamant in her belief. Maybe it’s a Cultural Thing? In Vietnam, if you’re a BAD MAN, then off with your head.

PP on the other hand, enjoys a Bad Man every once in awhile. Especially if he's under her.

Or as Bad Girl Dorothy Parker quips:

I like a martini.
Two, at the most.
Three, I'm under the table.
Four, I'm under the host.

Ownership

“Wow!” PP pauses at the wall, looking up from her tunnel vision swim focus at the empty Oakland Y pool, “There’s NO one here!” she hollers at the two lifeguards flirting in oblivious abandon.

They laugh, forced to acknowledge her for a moment.

“I’m going to swim in EVERY lane!” PP laughs. They laugh. Loudly this time.

Then PP does it. Really.

Dives under each lane line, swims down the lane, then dives under the next lane line and swims down the lane.

It’s like a dream she wishes would never end.

Her life out of the water is in such turmoil. Her Evil Landlord walking in on her while brushing her teeth to show HER cattage to prospective buyers. “You have to give me 24 hours notice!” she’d shrieked at him, shaking.
“Didn’t you get my email?” he asked, sheepishly, knowing damn well that duh, she hadn't.
“Email!! I don’t look at the email every day. You need to give 24 hours notice,” she repeats, her shock at his trespassing into her private domain gone wild. Who the hell does he think he is? The Landlord. That's who. He's exempt from common respect and courtesy--the law? If it's for the tenant, well then, he's exempt from that too.




He backs out, tail between his legs; she sends him a copy of the California Civil Code 1954 detailing the basic right of a tenant to 24 hours notice before a landlord enters the premises. He responds, incensed by her ‘legal’ blow with a threat of eviction. How dare she throw the law in his face? Doesn't she know that it doesn't apply to HIM? After all, it's his property. What does he care if she's paying rent and thus is protected by a (minimum) of laws guaranteeing such luxuries as peace, privacy and comfort.

PP reads his threat and tries not to cry.

Why was she being 'punished' for asserting her rights? She hadn't done anything wrong. It wasn't like she was some deadbeat who never paid her rent. No. She pays her rent on time every month. Keeps the cattage sparkling clean. Is quiet and respectful.

How the hell did she go from being the Ideal Tenant to one being threatened with eviction in only 24 hours?

Hell, he’s lucky she didn’t call the cops on him for breaking and entering.

Asshole.

See what happens when PP is out of the water? The Landlord PTSD all comes flooding back into her brain and onto the page.

But for a moment, last night, diving under the lane lines, she’s blissfully and joyfully breaking all the swimming in lanes rules. When she gets to the ‘Walking Lane,’ she stops, grins over at the lifeguards who are half watching her crazy swim but mostly back to their more interesting flirtation. “Can I swim in the Walking Lane?” she calls out.



“NO!!!” they both shriek, terror in their voices. How could she even think of such a transgression? So what if there’s NO one in sight. It’s against the rules.

And so, she doesn’t. Break the rules. And they laugh with her a moment, before going back to their fun.

Diving back under the lane lines, PP thinks, yeah, some may 'own' property and lord this ownership over lowly tenants, but as far as she's concerned, Pool Ownership rules.

And for just 5 blissful minutes, the Downtown Oakland YMCA was absolutely HERS!

Appreciation

“I really appreciate it,” she murmured, smiling shyly as she finished tying the bright blue, gold and red leafed turban round her head.

PP nodded, spaced out and tired, but Turban Woman was right. The YMCA was something to appreciate. Esp. after these long arduous days of soothing students, fighting landlords, and cursing traffic.

Without the Y, PP would be completely insane. (Okay, she heard that!)

Yet appreciation is often something that is so clichéd and/ or overlooked in our lives today. Of course there’s the goddamn woo woo ‘affirmations’ where you’re supposed to write out what you appreciate about yourself. (I am beautiful. I am smart. I am loyal. I am stupid. Oh, maybe that last one isn’t really an affirmation, even though it often feels like it)



Hell, PP doesn’t appreciate anything about herself, unless it’s her ability to not appreciate.

Ah, but she gets muddled here.

“And you teach all day, too,” PP had answered Turban Woman, who’d given her another sly smile.

“Yes, I do. And that’s what really makes me appreciate it here. Often I don’t think I’m going to make it after a long day, but then when I do, I always am so glad that I did!”

She giggles softly, turning to her display of skin products laid out on the counter, selecting some eye thingee that PP has no clue about, and carefully applying it round her brows. She has such a calm almost mystical quality about her. Like she’s in another realm altogether and not in the Oakland YMCA’s locker room at 10 o’clock at night. Maybe teaching 8th grade science does that to a person?

Or maybe some people are just like this? Calm. Mystical. Appreciative.

Sigh.

PP wishes she could be more like this sometimes, but at others, well, she’s glad she’s got the gift of complaint.

It makes for a much better, blog, don’t you think?

So, when we’re all feeling like there’s nothing to do but gripe and whine and complain, we can remember TW’s nod to how there is much to appreciate.

Or at least pretend to.