The Pool

We are failures at upper middle class suburbanites. We do not have a personal pool (which is a lot like a personal quesadilla in that jumping wholeheartedly into either the morning after a bout of heavy drinking is a surefire way to cure a hangover, but one has significantly less cholesterol than the other). No, we have to avail ourselves of the "semi-public" pool at the Klub, which is convenient for the fact that we can proceed to get ourselves hammered while being brought drinks by undermotivated high schoolers, and inconvenient for the fact that we have to be around a bunch of assholes the entire time. Please note: we are not discussing the irony of me discussing the assholes at the country club pool when my husband and I, for all intents and purposes, appear to be one of them. This isn't supposed to be some sort of self-realization or any crap like that wherein your intrepid author realizes she is no better than the people she has willingly associated herself with, knocking herself off her ledge of smug faded-hipstery self-satisfaction into the murky depths of "oh my god, I'm one of them."

Some of your typical asshole varieties at the country club pool:

• Wasted golfers - these are the guys who've been out knocking around balls all day (ha ha ha, it's a double entendre, stupid golfters) and getting plowed in the sun. You can easily recognize them by their fratty attitudes, blatant slurring, domination of the main pool to throw a football back and forth while calling each other derogatory slurs questioning the others' sexual orientation. These are the guys you hated in high school, and bad news, they all have lots of money and are still totally self-entitled and douchey.
  
• Mommy cliques - I think these are less of a country club mainstay and more of a Mainstay of Suburbia, but at the country club, they're even more horrible. There's always the One Super Tan One, who is hellbent on acheiving the texture and color of a perfectly ripe date, and she tends to be friends with the Trophy Wife Trio who have, as their accoutrements, Chanel sunglasses and horribly behaved children (I'm looking at you, kid who stole our frisbee for like, two hours until I had to come get it back from you all while being glared at the one person who wears heels to the damn pool)
• Creepy older daughters of former trophy wives who are giving all of us the creeps, thank you very much - these girls usually land in around about 16/17, and they are only visible during the summer. They are prone to sharing iPod headphones with their best friends, wearing incredibly skanky white bikinis, and sitting on the laps of friends of their fathers and flirting like 35-year-old women. Am I jealous of their figures? Yes. Am I jealous of the clear emotional problems these girls are setting themselves up for? Not so much.
  
• The occasional freak - this is us and the occasional other person, like that lady who's got an entire thigh tattoo (rock on, ugly tattoo lady, let's get falafel or something). We go to the pool to get wasted and goof off. Not only do we have this incredible knack for being the best cocktail viral marketers at the pool (my husband orders a Bloody Mary or I decide to get a daquiri, there's a run on them. Damn, do those trophy wives love their liquor through a straw), but we also make up really lame games. There is one that we've got that is pretty sweet - get a couple of the kickboards that the swim team uses, and stack 3 of them on top of each other. Sit on the kickboards, in the deep end, and the goal is to get the other person off the kickboards without losing your own. It's not easy, okay? We're the goofy ones who coordinated an ad hoc synchronized swimming routine with our niece and nephew the last time they were down, in the middle of the pool. Conventions be damned, I say. I'm not paying $7 for a margarita to just sit there and slowly get cancer. For god's sake, I can't even smoke.
  

The pool opens this weekend. Lo! Summer begins.