How I Spent My Summer Vacation…

Who can forget the dreaded essay upon returning to school each fall? My summers weren’t all that entertaining growing up in Liverpool, NY. We’d take the same exact family vacation to Niagara Falls every year, without fail. To be perfectly honest, I’d make things up to sound more interesting to my classmates. My essays were 100% Grade A bullshit. I feel a little bad about that juvenile deception, so I decided to be forthcoming and completely honest about my summer this time around.


I didn’t do anything particularly exciting. I haven’t been at my job long enough to be eligible for time off, so I had to make do with the crappy pool at my apartment complex as my tropical destination. Remember the great poolside shenanigans that happened on Melrose Place? Sexy people everywhere engaging in hot, erotic sex romps after sundown? Yeah… It was nothing like that. However, one of my neighbors was having a sexcapade with her windows open one Tuesday afternoon while I was sunbathing, and I briefly considered dialing 911 because there was an outside chance she was actually being brutally murdered. I’ve never heard screams quite like that. I can’t lie, I was borderline jealous. My pool is more like Melrose Place if it was on PBS or Telemundo. Nobody’s hot at all, in fact quite the opposite. They could likely film the ‘Biggest Loser’ right beneath my balcony. There’s a very large Spanish speaking contingency, which I don’t have a problem with necessarily. However, things can get a little dicey when you’re attempting to eavesdrop with little or no knowledge of the Spanish language. On one sweltering day, this fossil of an old man called me ‘Mi Vida’, which I was sure had to be some sort of horrible insult. Then it hit me… Did this asshole just call me a milkshake? Yes, I was 20% sure that’s what he said and I didn’t like it one bit. I am NOBODY’S little milkshake. I was feeling pretty sassy and damn near ready to light this wrinkled pervert up, when something told me I should probably be at least 30% sure before I launched into one of my fits. I googled it, and come to find out, it means ‘my life’. Aww… that’s sweet. For clarification purposes, don’t ever refer to someone as ‘batido’. It could get you killed. Not everyone appreciates being compared to a highly caloric, dairy based treat. My Spanish friends eventually lost their pool privileges one Friday evening when West Side Story broke out by the chaise lounges. Evidently, Pedro was none too happy with his sister mingling with a white boy. I still see them by the mailbox from time to time.

The pool boy is at least 50, and he has the most kick-ass gray mullet I’ve ever seen. He wears a home-made fluorescent green wifebeater with ‘POOL STAFF’ written crookedly across the back in black sharpie. Truth be told, he’s probably just a homeless guy that shows up every day and nobody has the heart to ask him to leave. It likely saves management $6.50 per hour in wages. He’s hardly a master with the pool skimmer, as I sense he’s ridiculously stoned on a daily basis. He always manages to smack me in the head with it in a futile attempt to rid the pool of stray leaves and bugs. He asks my name every time he sees me, and I’ve never told him the same one twice. It’s fairly commonplace to chain smoke at our swimming hole, which I find a little bizarre. It’s always nice to have your fresh air compromised by second hand smoke. Pool boy has become friends with Slim Jim and his lovely 300 lb bride, the Cheeto Lady. Jim is a frail looking, string bean of a fellow who is constantly eating Slim Jims. The three of them smoke Lucky Strikes, eat, drink PBRs, and undoubtedly live off the government. I’ve never considered Cheetos to be a poolside necessity, but I haven’t ever seen this broad without them. I picture Slim Jim saying, “You ready for the pool? Grab your sunscreen and Cheetos. You know how you’re always burning… and eating.” She’s a peach of a woman who insists on straddling the lounge chair, and she’s not shy about her milky white, cheese curd-like body. She’s the woman you see in the cookie aisle at Target on the motorized scooter, barking at her twig of a boyfriend to reach the Oreos on the top shelf because she’s disabled. On what planet is fat a god-damned disability? There’s now a one-legged man hopping around in the parking lot because her fat ass had to snatch up the last good parking spot. That should be criminal if you ask me. All in all, I’m ready for summer to be over, primarily because I want all of these people to be forced into wearing more clothing. I can only hope that they all hibernate for the winter.


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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

September 2010
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