Suffer the Little Children

And then the little shits jumped in the pool all around me. 

Good God. Is it too much to ask for some placid pool time, a little floatitude, a few fucking moments bobbing in the blessed H2O without a gaggle of screaming, whining, splashing monster-misfits encroaching on my personal acreage? Around 1:00 today, after lunch with my darling friend, Lisa, I drove home in the box of hell that is my un-air-conditioned car, and by the time I pulled into the parking lot, which I swear was melting, I just wanted to take the Nestea ® plunge and divest myself of the sweat rivulets that felt downright felonious in certain crevices.

I scoped out the premises, and there was only one skinny bikini bitch out there. I rushed into my swimsuit if you can call the ambling of my fatass “rushing,” zapped out the hearing aids, and flip-flopped my way to the goods. Damn. In the time it took me to adjust the twins in their triangles and squeeze my ass into Spandex ®, three more slimsters claimed their spots around the pool. At least there were no children. And no Pool Nazi. That moniker belongs to the insane woman who lives upstairs in my building and who believes—because the apartment complex staff has allowed her to assume the responsibility of “pool monitor” so that they don’t actually have to do the job they’re paid to do— that she is the cock of the walk around here. She struts daily around the pool area, policing and annoying the bathers to be sure no one dares to break a rule; sometimes she just looks out over the land from her balcony since our building backs up to the pool area. But I digress. More about Beelzeboobs some other time.

Anyway. No children. That’s where I was. I know. I know. I’m a teacher, for heaven’s sake. How can I not love children? The truth is that I do love the tiny rascals, and I engage easily with the little motherfuckers. But sometimes, damn, I want a tot-free zone. Peace. Quiet. Thinking time. Is that too much to request? I thought not. So. I was relishing the absence of noise except for the Godforsaken tinnitus tones which are my constant companions, and enjoying the gentle buoyancy that supports my illusion that I am weightless and, therefore, worthy of love, when a dervish of neon shot past my periphery. Before my sluggish frontal lobe could even register the event, a horde of SPF-50-slathered small fry fell into the water around me like a human hail storm. And, God, the shrieking! Children can transmit a frequency known only to dogs and deaf women without their hearing aids and dolphins. Mother, it was loud. I can hear virtually nothing, even when folks yell directly into my ears. But even my sad excuses for sound organs picked up the alien pitches and delivered them to my auditory nerves, all proud like they’d done something. Well. Fuck you, ears. You never work when I want you to, like in the movies at all the funny parts. Who asked you to kick in now?

I tried to ignore the baby bombs as they landed and exploded in showers of fat drops and delighted squeals in my vicinity. But it was no use. My repose was over. I slogged out of the shallows, packed up my Kindle ®, my Coke Zero ®, and my Hawaiian Tropic ®, and trudged home. It was torture to leave all that sunlight behind. But the upside is that I know those kids’ lazyassed parents never follow the directions on the sunscreen label and reapply, especially after lengthy exposure to water. Perhaps there was burnage! Followed by crying and cool baths and aloe application, and Tylenol ® for the adults and Children’s Motrin ® for the charred kiddies and a glass of Chablis after the urchins finally shut the hell up and went to sleep.

And perhaps they won’t be back tomorrow.