As the temperature creeps towards 90 degrees on the first of many hot days, I turn my thoughts inward and count my blessings:
I’m blessed to have an air conditioner in my bedroom. I’m blessed to have air conditioning in my car. I’m blessed that I’m in generally good health that’s not threatened by extreme heat and humidity. But most of all, I’m especially blessed to have FWPs.
That’s Friends with Pools.
In the high heat of summer there is nothing better than a friend with a pool. And I’ve been blessed with several.
Yes, there are other ways to beat the heat. You can hide in the movies. You can cruise through the mall. You can head to the shore in hopes of a cool, ocean breeze. But as far as I’m concerned, these options all pale in comparison to being invited to a friend’s pool.
I’m not knocking the beach, but overall I am definitely more of a pool person. The beach usually involves travel. Currently, it’s only 20 minutes to the beach, but growing up in New Jersey, it took me at least an hour to go “…down the shore.” (In New Jersey you don’t go to the beach…you go down the shore). A day at the beach involves sand chairs, umbrellas, coolers, towels, bug spray, sun screen and boogie boards. Parking is expensive (unless you have a sticker) if you’re lucky to find a space at all. You have to time your visit carefully (high tide for surfing or low tide for the little ones) and heaven forbid you get all the way to the water’s edge only to discover that the beach has been closed due to a “red tide” or, in the case of beaches closer to Boston, something much, much worse. And if the beach is open, the tide is right, the green heads aren’t biting and there’s no great white shark swimming off shore, you have to stay for the whole day to make the whole exhausting production worthwhile. And then there’s that pesky part of the trip that stays with you forever: Sand. When I get home from the beach, there’s at least six pounds of sand in my car, my bag, my hair and eventually every corner of my house.
The pool, on the other hand, requires little more than a beach towel, some sunscreen and a token offering to the pool gods that invited you (bags of chips, Starburst or Oreo cookies will do). Even if your host’s pool is not heated, it’s guaranteed to be warmer than the frigid New England ocean. There are no rocks to hurt your feet and no crabs to bite your toes. At the pool, it takes only a glance to verify your child’s whereabouts. There’s no undertow or riptide that might carry them off to parts unknown. FWPs usually have lounge chairs conveniently located poolside, and a patio set with umbrella if you choose shade over sun. The pool has amenities like telephones, refrigerators and best of all, clean bathrooms mere steps from the water’s edge (at the pool there’s no question where your kids will pee. At the beach? Well, that’s anyone’s guess). When your kids get unruly, you can threaten to take them home and actually mean it, because home is only a mile down the road and you don’t have to spend an hour packing up all the paraphernalia you brought.
Yes, it’s wonderful to have friends with pools, but it’s important not to abuse the privilege. They’ll throw out that blanket phrase, “Come swim anytime,” but a wise friend waits for an invitation. Remember, they are the ones who spent untold amounts on concrete, liners, landscaping and fences. They are the ones who had their lives turned upside down for months while backhoes and dump trucks invaded their yards. Think about everything you do to prepare your house for a friend’s visit, and then imagine doing that every single day. That’s what it’s like when you own a pool.
So be respectful of your FWPs. Wait for an invitation and leave before your kids become a nuisance. Bring snacks, extra towels and the occasional bottle of Patron. Remove snapping turtles from their pool when they call you in a panic. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll have a cool place to hang during the hot days of summer.
It has come to my attention that there are certain arguments which can never be settled. Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Evolution or creation? How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?
And of course, the argument that ensues in the back seat of my mini-van every time we travel through town:
Pet Smart? Or Pet’s Mart?
They are building one of those pet supply superstores here in town. Every time we drive past the construction site, my kids spy the store’s logo on the banner hanging from the fence.
“Is it Pet Smart…or Pet’s Mart?” one asks.
“It’s Pet Smart,” the other answers. “See how the word Pet is in red and the word Smart is in blue?”
“Yes, “the first argues, “but see how the bouncing ball in the logo looks like an apostrophe? I think that means that it’s Pet’s Mart. You know, like a mart for pets.”
“But,” comes the rebuttal, “because the word smart is all in blue, it means that it’s a store for smart pets. Get it? Pet Smart.”
Now, I’m all for heated debate, but you would think after driving past the construction site daily, and having this same discussion over and over, one child would concede to the other. But no, they each have their mother’s stubborn streak.
While holding an instant message conversation with my out-of-town sister, my kids started in on the debate at the adjacent breakfast table. I typed, “My kids are having an intellectual discussion about whether it’s Pet Smart or Pet’s Mart”.
My sister immediately typed back this response: “It’s Pet Smart. Their website is petsmart.com.”
To which I replied, “Yes, but if you look at the bouncing ball logo, it looks like an apostrophe, which would make it Pet’s Mart.”
Good God, it’s hereditary.
The advertising executives that created the Pet Smart/Pet’s Mart logo must be geniuses, devising a name designed to spark repeated heated debate in cars all across the country. And yet, no one has answered the most important question of all: With Petco a mere one mile from the construction site, does our town really need a Pet’s Mart, a PetSmart or whatever the heck you want to call it?
I’m still waiting for my answer to that one.
