Pool Party

I had a horrible cold last week that left me exhausted and drippy. So like a character fresh from a Jacqueline Suzanne novel, I headed to Palm Springs this weekend to dry out.

I have lived in cities all of my adult life and have never owned a car, which means weekend trips always involved some kind of public transportation. Now that we live in the ‘burbs, we have Tony, our trusty steed, who takes us where we need to go. This made for a rather revolutionary weekend away.

It's not that I've never been on a road trip before (see the drive through Florida, Spring Break '98), but I've never been on a road trip with my husband in California.

When I was younger, my parents and I would venture into New York City once a year to see a show and walk 5th Avenue. At the end of the long, exciting day, my mom would come into my bathroom with a bottle of Sea Breeze and some cottonballs, so I could "clean the city off my face." On Friday afternoon, as we drove through freeway after freeway with the windows down, I felt a burning need to "clean the freeway off my face." Something I am sure to get over in a few more months of living amidst the smog.

When we arrived in the desert, I felt very calm and very dry. And after a solid 7 days of nasal discharge, dry was a welcome feeling. We collapsed into a king bed (oh how I've missed you) and slept off a hellish week.

The next morning, we headed to the pool to have our life forces sucked dry by the desert sun. Luckily, no one else was (foolish enough to be) at the pool that day, so witnesses to my new maternity bathing-dress remain at one.

I've never been a big ocean person - after countless wave incidents involving both involuntary nudity and water in my nose - but I am a total pool freak. I love the pool. And I especially love the pool when CinS and I have it all to ourselves.

Please don't get the wrong idea. We don't do anything naughty in the pool. We just like to play games. Games that look really foolish when played by chubby adults.

When I am in better form, I usually initiate a handstand contest and/or back flip contest. CinS enjoys cannonballs. But we always play Mousetrap. Mousetrap is a game where one person (the Mouse) swims through the other person's legs (the Trap) without touching their opponent. With each successful pass, the Trap's legs close a bit, until the Mouse can no longer pass through untouched.

As I'm sure you can imagine, we look ridiculous playing Mousetrap, as we are over the age of 10. But I promise you, it's way more fun than pool volleyball or whatever other "adult" water games you're playing.

CinS and I will be moving out of his parent's house and into our own place in about a month, and our new place has a pool as well. But I doubt that we'll ever be able to replicate the empty, aquatic bliss of our weekend in the desert. We will have to be civilized. We will have to enter the pool from the stairs. We will have to dunk our heads only occasionally, just to cool off. We will have to discuss world politics and art history while listening to Brazilian Jazz.

This blows.

I'm now counting the days until my unborn child becomes a master underwater swimmer so CinS and I can play again, shame free. But there is no way she is taking my Handstand Grand Champion title. No way in hell.

Hey! Hey! You! You! Get Into My Car!

As a new Angelino with no automobile, I am trapped and desperate.

CinS and I went car shopping (rounds 1 and 2) last weekend, and despite rolling with the Blogtari SWAT team, we left empty-handed. Perhaps 3 aggressive Persian men and an exhausted pregnant chick eating free dealership popcorn was a bit overwhelming to the Honda dealers of Los Angeles.

Because I have no wheels, CinS has been driving me to work every morning for the last 7 days (not that I'm counting). I know it sounds very decadent and Hollywood to have a personal driver, but I'd much rather have the freedom to run some errands during lunch than get carted around in a busted 1990 BMW.

My favorite part of the trip to work each morning is the running commentary. It is further proof that my husband is turning into my father, who finds it hilarious to describe in painful detail the sandwich computer system at the Wawa every single time we pass a Wawa.

Just because I know you wish you were along for the ride, I'll give you a sample:

"Did you know this is the longest traffic light in Manhattan Beach? I did an
experiment in middle school. It's been proven by the scientific method."

"That's where my car (said busted 1990 BMW) is getting detailed. It's gonna look
like new." (doubtful)

"I worked at that Blockbuster for 2 days. Technically, I never quit. I wonder if I'm still an employee."

"What are they going to do with all those neon signs (at the now closed liquor store that will be turned into a Rite Aid)? How can I get them? I need to call the Rite Aid. Oooo! Is that a car in the parking lot? I'm totally going to talk to them today."

"I need to go back to Frys."

I'm sure that was not nearly as entertaining for you as it was for me, but I thank you for indulging me.

To avoid the guided tour of the 2 mile drive from my in-law's house to my office, I decided to drive the busted 1990 BMW to work yesterday. I thought it would be liberating.

For anyone who has had the pleasure of driving with me, you may recall that I rely on the car's "elderly Asian woman" setting for my seat placement. Yes, I drive with the steering wheel in my lap and my nose pressed against the windshield.

But I guess there weren't too many elderly Asian women rocking a Beemer in the early 1990s, because I could barely reach the pedals yesterday. The seat back is also permanently reclined so I had to hunch over the wheel and stretch my feet to get going. LIBERATION IS MINE!

So CinS and father are going to yet another Honda this afternoon to barter beads and chickens for a mom-car. Let's hope that the new two-man tag team can outwit, outplay, and outlast the dealers of Cerritos.