Tortilla blues

There's something about a tiny pool shaped like a tortilla chip and a dozen teenagers that doesn't quite work. After our 8+ hour drive and eating at one of the delicious New Mexican restaurants, the boys wanted to unwind at the pool. SO and I flipped a coin to see who the unlucky chaperone would be. Me, of course.

But they were already there: a large group of hormonal, squealing girls and their equally hormonal though less giggly boys. I think they were a traveling choir, coming from God knows where. I'm pretty sure they were a singing group of some kind. Oddly, one of the boys continued to sing a phrase from a song that was popular when I was in college.

"Josie's on a vacation far away, come on in and talk it over..." At the top of his lungs.

Sarah Vowell does a hilarious bit for This American Life about the difference between choir kids and band kids. I'm sure I can't do it justice, but she says there's no way a band kid is going to start humming the harmony he usually plays on his baritone, while a choir kid doesn't hesitate to break into "How do you solve a problem like Maria" in the hallway while switching from 5th hour to 6th, and half a dozen of her friends will join in as well.

One girls was so loud, I kept giving her "the look." It usually works with my kids, but she was unaffected. She even called me "the woman," which annoyed me to no end. "Don't splash the woman!" she said in a baby voice that set women's rights back 30 years. I really despised her. She didn't want to get her hair wet, so of course, the boys immediately dunked her. Mascara ran down her cheeks like a bruise.

When my tender ears couldn't take it anymore, I rounded up the boys so we could shower and go downtown to walk around the plaza. I had a better time talking to the Santa Fe Public librarians. They were much more composed and called me "young lady."

My pride was soothed.

Public pool, dead ahead!

Had lunch today with Gouldie and The Boy. As we finished our sandwiches, he interrupted to ask breathlessly, "After we're done, can we go to the store and buy -- can we buy -- can we get..."

"Yes?" The anticipation builds.

"...a wheelchair?"

Explosive laughter.

I think I'll get one, too. After our field trip to the public pool yesterday, I'm in need of another way to get around. I stepped on a plastic Titanic replica and bruised the arch of my foot. What was once a fun kid activity is now an adult death trap.

To pass the time in the dog days of a San Antonio summer, my parents would drop us off at the local public pool. We'd spend hours there, jumping off the diving board, doing the "NESTEA Plunge," playing Marco Polo, and basically annoying the hell out of any grown-ups who happened to cross our path. This being the South Side, where few had air conditioning and fewer had private pools, we were generally packed in the water shoulder to shoulder. I don't remember ever swimming -- it was more like bobbing up and down. Once the lifeguard whistled all of us out of the pool due to a passing lightning storm. Instead of waiting around for Dad to pick us up, we decided to walk home -- without shoes and in the blistering heat. We swaddled our feet in towels to protect the tender soles. God, what a bunch of idiots.

So we're at the pool yesterday, and as soon as we get there, in goes Sport. He spends the next 7 minutes cajoling me to get in. I, however, like to do things gradually. LegoGuy grabs his plastic Titanic and they re-enact the sinking. While they are occupied, I sneak in and start a leisurely swim down the middle of the pool. Along the way I'm assaulted by two red-headed girls who nearly cannonball into me from the side, a teenager with magenta-colored hair who is rooted to the bottom and refuses to budge as I come closer, and the chubbiest 5-year-old kid I've ever seen, gripping onto a noodle for dear life. There's no room to swim. There's barely room to breathe.

Before I know it, the boys have spotted me and are racing toward me at top speed, begging me to "Watch this!" I stand like an iceberg, watching the inevitable. Everywhere I turn, LegoGuy and Sport are there, plunging the tiny Titanic under the water, subjecting its victims to infinite drownings and resurrections. At one point, I let down my guard and start to walk toward the shallow side to take a breather. That's when I step down hard on the stupid ship. No, I didn't swear. Out loud, anyway.

Wheelchair, anyone? Or at least a tranquilizer.