My pool’s been looking all cloudy the past week or so. Similar to a pond without the algae. Don’t want to put my little toe in the thing anyway. God bless my fearless husband, who came to the rescue and tackled the filter head-on. But alas, the filter defeated him. And yet, Hubbie had the last laugh, for he bought new innards for the filter and laughed madly as he tossed the old ones away.
Way to go, honey! But still the pool isn’t exactly up to pristine yet. So I go to the pool store and have the water tested. It needed bunches of dangerous chemicals, and I so bravely responded to the salesman, “Oh sure. I can do this when I get home. No problem!”
In other words, “Are you out of your freakin’ mind? Who do you think I am?” The most dangerous chemical I touch is the toilet bowl cleaner! So I call dear ol’ Hubbie and proceed to tell him what I’ve learned at the pool store. My final statement to him was, “These chemicals are scary! I should be wearing gloves and all sorts of HAZMAT gear. I’m scared. Could you do it when you get home?”
“Sure, no problem,” he chuckles. In other words, “Just like a woman.” Blah, blah, blah. And as I wait for his return from work I begin to fantasize about having a pool service do the job.
Having just read through a couple of love scenes in my second novel, and having Sex and the City on the brain doesn’t help, or maybe it helps too much, for I have this fantasy of having my own pool boy coming to take care of my pool. Balancing the chemicals, skimming the surface, brushing down the walls, making everything … clean, or dirty.
Then reality comes crashing down when I ask how much a pool service would be to take care of everything versus having Hubbie do it. Oh my! Big difference. So I decided, from here on out, I’ll be calling my Hubbie, Pool Boy. I think he’ll like that… a lot. And it may just earn him a spot in my next book…