Meeting Pool

I never imagined it happening to me.

OK, that was not a good opening--too suggestive.

Two years ago I moved to PA from Cleveland. Being new to the area, with a new job, etc, I wasn't ready to make the big commitment to buy a house. Not to mention that I was nowhere near ready to sell my house in Cleveland, three doors away from Lake Erie. (Is "door" a unit of measure? I guess when it relates to proximity to a Great Lake, it works.)

So I was on the hunt for a rental property. Rental properties, as we all know, can really suck. Especially when you need to find a place that allows dogs. And I'm not about to give up Mo for a nicer domicile. But this story is not about how I found my dwelling. It's about the crown jewel feature of this particular property, a jewel that until this month was cloaked in a canvas shroud (and populated by dead spiders of massive proportion.)

The landlady (I don't know why that's a funny term to me, but it is) was skeptical about allowing her tenant to use the pool, what with maintenance, liability, and what have you. However, with Steph (that's the old lady, if I were a biker. Since I'm not, I guess I should choose another term. Like POSSLQ. Maybe not.) Anyway, with Steph on board and providing the full-court pressure, the landlady relented and allowed us to open the pool.

Now, I've lived on or around lakes my entire life, so I never saw the need to have a pool in one's backyard. And I always kind of considered it the height of decadence. (My 52-inch television is, of course, far from the height of decadence.) I admit to feeling a twinge of guilt to have such a tremendous resource right outside my door. I picture Scrooge McDuck.


And yet, with the mercury consistently topping 90 degrees, and the humidity that comes with living in Southeast PA, I really don't feel all that bad.

BTW, to all of you who have not yet come to visit: the fresh strawberry daquiris and golden margaritas (made with fresh squeezed OJ) from the Poolside Tiki Bar are not to be missed.