I Figure Everything Is Cool

Okay. Serious window into my day…(No-one can ever say I don’t share.):

So, class…what can we tell by viewing the above photo?

• She’s having a drink. (“So, what else is new?” Jackie mutters, giving the prerequisite eyeroll. “Where’s the straw? …and exactly how many olives am I seeing on that umbrella-toothpick?!” asks Margarete.) FYI: Margarete has recently informed me that if you drink from a straw, your hands are free to type…kinda like my “Jarlsburg-theory” (not to be confused with the “Big Bang Theory”)…but covers the all-important liquid-sustenance needs….is she genius, or what??
• “She’s either just starting her first, or she’s on her second.” (Jackie again…she knows me so well, it’s scary. I’ll tell her, but I’m not fessing up to you, unless you have the proper alcohol-security-clearance, which requires that you’ve officially logged in a minimum of 20 hours of drinking in my presence. Jackie is at top-level security at this time. Don’t tell her mom. We don’t want her to worry.) Take note of the fancy-schmancy martini glass…it’s one of my favs. The statue is the last gift I got from my Mom before she died and is therefore one of my most prized possessions. It’s supposed to go in the garden, but it will NEVER leave the comfort and safety of my kitchen, where I can forever gaze lovingly at it. Adding the Cloudy Bay caps for the little birdie to drink from was inspired…don’t you think??

“What’s with the note,” you ask? Boy, nothin’ gets by you, Maxwell Smart.

Paul-The-Pool-Guy came out today to discuss our (issues)(nightmare)(leak) pool problem.You see, the pool has a “cracked pipe” (Paul’s technical term) which prevents the skimmer from properly allowing me to vacuum said pool. Why this is a problem, I’m not quite sure, as I don’t much care for vacuuming under the best of circumstances. (I’m the host who’s vacuuming my house 30 minutes before company arrives, yessireebob) So, vacuuming my pool is pretty low on my priority list, but alas…it must be done by someone.

And we know that someone is ME.

In a moment of divine inspiration (by Paul’s account), he decided that Taylor (age 16 and built like a linebacker) could dig a tunnel underneath the paving stones the previous owner artfully placed down after the three feet of solid concrete that surrounds the pool. Yes, indeed….he could dig this hole, approximately three feet deep and about 5 feet long, to expose the base of the skimmer, so that Paul can (hopefully) find the crack in the pipe…if it’s there. If it’s NOT, well then…Taylor will need to dig a trench 18” deep and approximately 15 feet long. This is Paul’s instructional note, evidently reminding Tay to “Be canet ulb”. I believe the squiggly line on the right is supposed to be the water…but I may be wrong.

The arrows are artfully-placed simulations of Taylor doing the actual digging, I believe...and I know those circles under the skimmer are telling Taylor something important, but I can’t remember what.

Uh-huh.

This is the part where you ask “Has he MET Taylor?”

Yep.

“I never said it would be easy, but it’ll save you about $1800.00 in labor if he does it,” was Paul’s reply.

Here’s the pool NOW:



Lovely. This will never do. Here’s the diving board:


I won’t say how it got this way (it was Taylor.)…suffice to say, it’s gotta be replaced.

Unfortunately, in the middle of Paul’s detailed instructions on how Taylor would need to prepare the pool area for Paul to swoop in and work his magic, I got distracted… by this voice in my head….so my IV (that’s inner voice, if anyone’s forgotten…Clinton Kelly, is live and on the scene…stating as only he can...his opinion…on…well, everything…):



Clinton: “Would you look at those shorts? Could they be any shorter? I’m trying to decide if he borrowed them from an 11-year-old boy, or he’s had them since 1975…”
Kathryn: “Clinton! Be nice. Besides, what do we care how he’s dressed? He just needs to know what he’s doing.”
C: “I’m loving the lace-up workboots with the brown socks….so classic. Do you think he has a mirror at home?”
K: “Oh, for Heaven’s sake….give the poor guy a break. He’s working outside all day…stickin’ his hands into God-knows-what in people’s skimmers…dealing with 90-degree heat in June…”
C: “That’s no excuse for not looking in the mirror. Someone’s gotta tell him that the Richard Simmons shorts are a no-no. He’s sending the message that he’s more adept at rollerblading in L.A. than pool excavation in New Yawk.”
K: “Have I mentioned how snooty you’re getting? Funny how I didn’t hear word one from you the whole time I was cleaning out the pool last year….”
C: “Hey, that’s not my doing. I’m in your head…I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.”
K: “Okay, Kelly…that’s IT. I’ll be right back…I’m gonna need to put something on my feet.”
C: “?................?”
K: “There! Now I feel much better.”


C: “Okay…now I think I’m gonna hurl.” (Gags dramatically…and...he’s gone…)

These are actually Connor’s…and I did NOT buy them for him. He won’t wear them, regardless…as he believes they are in the “pink family”…boy-code for really ugly. (Which they most definitely are.) I knew they’d come in handy someday…

As Paul was driving away (probably wondering why I got that glassy-eyed look halfway through his detailed-construction-dissertation), he called me from his cell. “OR”, he begins, “We could jury-rig something above the ground…just till the fall…and then deal with it.”

DONE. Once again…we’re golden.