Jacuzzi

A good friend came over last night to protect me against a Craigslist goof that wanted to buy an old car radio from me. It was my first transaction using that site, and since she's a pro at wheeling and dealing, I thought it would be good to have backup. Even though I haven't seen the movie, I imagine she's the Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch to my Will Ferrell in The Other Guys, or perhaps vice versa. Anyway, sold! And now I have booze money for the weekend...or I can keep my lights on and air conditioning running in my condo for another couple of weeks...or I can buy booze and just use the complex's pool to cool off. Either way I win, and perhaps a few lucky friends do, too.

Speaking of pools, I have one where I live. I've heard stories about its existence, and perhaps even have seen the sun shimmering off of it every now and then, but haven't used it in the almost year that I’ve lived at this complex. Oddly enough, whenever I feel so inclined to take a dip, I go to my friend's place and swim there (or just bob like a buoy). Or at least until last night. After the successful transaction, we treated ourselves to a Dixie cup wine tasting and some swimming and Jacuzzi-ing in the warm midsummer night's air. How fitting that just weeks before I move, I discover that treasure. Downright romantic - wish you were there, and by you, I'm talking to Patrick Dempsey and his flowing dark brown locks, so don't anyone else get the wrong idea. Anyway, it was lovely. We had some good laughs, some alright wine, and a few bubbles (mostly mechanically made), which is pretty usual for us, minus the wine and the mechanics.

Our conversation eventually led to our old age...both of us in the realm of our thirties, which apparently is the age where a female should be, at least, one of the following:

A.) In a serious relationship, engaged, or married

B.) Divorced, or about to be divorced from at least their first marriage

C.) Have a bun in the oven, a loaf in the crib, or a whole wheat field full of kids

D.) If none of the following - living with one or multiple roommate(s)

E.) If not that, living with their parents

F.) All of the above

Such tempting options, and we sure as hell feel like we're missing out!  Not.

We kind of resent the fact (and she'll have to pardon me for speaking for her, but I will anyway) that if we're not a, b, or c, then as women of a certain age it's baffling that we are taking care of ourselves and living on our own. Thanks for the credit, peeps. Both of us are college graduates, have fully insured cars, are in jobs that pay more than minimum wage (score!), which, for the most part, pay our bills...and on time. Imagine that shit. We are practically any Kato Kaelin's dreams come true (again). And, every Kato needs a chick with her own pimp crib, right? Well, look no further (but keep walking, thankyouverymuch).

I am well aware of the fact that once I hit thirty, George Clooney won't consider dating me. And let me tell you, I'm going to disappear in a pile of tissues over that. But what else sucks is that 30 is the age where a woman's eggs begin to shrivel and die (or since we're talking about eggs, they scramble, become tough, brown and inedible, and get fed to the dog, if you will), mustaches and goatees must be added to your waxing bill and actually figured into your monthly budget, people (aka "doctors") have to feel on your naughty bits regularly and not in a good way, and that may be the only "play" a single woman gets for months (perhaps, years?), your underarm doesn't stop waving and your face doesn't stop laughing or frowning long after you do because the lines and wrinkles get deeper and the skin starts to become shot like petite-size pantyhose that get wrangled onto a queen-size body day after day.

Look, I shave my armpits and legs and shower at least 98% of the time which is almost every day of the year, I don't wear cargo pants and Birkenstocks (everyday), or carry around cardboard signs on sticks and bullhorns to remind people that women have been given the right to vote. That's not what this is about at all. The mind just boggles at this perception that I, nor my single (and fucking fabulous, I might add) gal pals can't stand on our own two feet.

Actually.....I just would really like it if my grandma would stop thinking I'm a lesbian just because I'm the only one in my family that hasn't had a husband and at least one child at my age. I might be vegan, but I like my sausage know-what'm-sayin' (nudge, nudge)? And I really don't want to have to field her inevitable question, "do you pee standing up, too?" in a supermarket checkout line, or in front of wait-staff at a restaurant, which is where most of her inappropriateness shines its brightest.

Hmmmm. Apple meet tree.