Am I Really Spending My Summer at Bushwood Country Club?

What is better than a beer, hot dog, and baby urine in the pool?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

This is how Summer 2013 is rolling out for my family.

We belong to a local pool. It is simply awesome. It is also very Caddyshack-esque, except none of the patrons are the snooty country club types. Instead, we are all the crazy caddy’s who act like we have never seen a body of water before.

You know the scene from the movie when all of the “help” descends upon the Bushwood Country Club pool? There is a lot of excited screaming, running, and inflatable devices.

It is like this every day at our pool. Only with a water slide and mixed drinks.

The pool has about forty-eight lifeguards, which means I don’t have to worry about watching my child. In fact I have not seen her in three days. Just kidding. Not really.

And yes, once a week, they need to evacuate the pool due to an “incident.”

We have yet to find a Baby Ruth in the pool.

Every time I walk through the iron gates with two inner tubes, my daughter’s swim fins, and a pool bag that will surely dislocated my shoulder one day due to the weight, the Get the hell out of my way because I am going to Cannonball into the pool feeling washes over me. It is nice to know that the simple things in life are still kicking like karate. If you dig a cement hole in the ground and fill it with water, you can entertain the masses.

And much like roller rinks, the pool atmosphere has not changed since we were kids. Other kids (and grownups too) still high-five you when you are going down the waterslide; the tweens still walk around and check each other out, then go eat their Cheetos on the grassy hill and talk about it; and you can still get an ice cream Drumstick. Aside from the frozen Jack and Coke machine, I might as well be back in the fourth grade.

If you don’t have your summer plan worked out, or if you are tired of sweating in your jean shorts, give me a buzz, you can be my guest at the pool.

Then put your name on the list, because it is a five year wait to become a member. Apparently everyone wants to be a kid again…with a Bud Light.

What the parents do at the pool.

Am I Really Throwing Up in my Mouth a Little Due to Random Baby Names?

You can run, but you can’t hide from this baby name!

I know I shouldn’t care, and in all reality, I don’t. But North West? When I heard this was the name Kim and Kanye chose for their offspring, I laughed so hard I snarfed my coffee. That poor, poor child; she is doomed to forever be confused with a direction on a Boy Scout’s compass. Also, she will never know the glory of wearing clothing without sequins. Good thing daddy Kanye wrote the song, “Stronger” because that baby is going to need strength after all the hazing she is going to get…for the rest of her life.

Look, I am all for creativity. In fact, many celebs and people in general get an ace in the hole when they think outside the box when naming their child (think Apple Martin and Kingston Rossdale). But come on, some people take it too far. Let’s just put in this way, if my last name was Sample, I would not name my child Stool. But I bet you someone has.

We don’t all have to be named Bob, or George Foreman, a little pizzazz in a name is great. However, I would caution a new parent to not only think not once, twice, or even three times before naming your precious angel. Think about how it’s going to look on a monogrammed Pottery Barn Kids backpack. Envision it on a report card, on a pre-school cubbie, or the back of a soccer jersey. Then move forward with confidence. It’ll make you re-think that crunk name, Thrifty Juice.

Plus, it will save your child a lifetime of explaining, “My name is weird because my mom is famous. She is the one who created a line of lip gloss for poodles.”

Am I Really Looking for a 24 Hour Dunkin Donuts in the Middle of this Ant Hill?

Country decor. Also hanging above my bed.

I enjoy being outdoors. I love the fresh air, the flowers, the sunshine, and of course, the ocean. I get a little nuts when I am inside for too long, or in front of a computer. The need to run outside and stick my bare feet in the grass becomes so overwhelming, I feel like a Jodie Foster in Nell.

But I am a city person, through and through.

The other weekend, my family and I had the ultimate pleasure of attending a friend’s birthday party out in the Texas countryside. It was fantastic. The food was great, the people and southern hospitality – even better. But to say the property was “out there” would be a massive understatement. It was dark – like The Shining dark.

There were some really cool things that happened way out in Timbuktu. We saw wild deer gather on our front porch, we caught up on some lazy Saturday afternoon hammock resting, and we drank a lot of spiked sweet tea. I mean A LOT.

But I did start to get a little bit bored…and freaked out.

I kept asking to go “into town,” which turned out to be an oxymoron since the town consisted of a school and a Starbuck’s in a trailer. My new friend Julie said that she had learned to really plan her family meals in advance because the grocery store was a good thirty minutes away. Yeah, like three years in advance. And that “let’s get away from it all for peace and quiet” everyone craves is for the birds. All I kept thinking is no one will hear my screams out here if sh*t goes down.

Just another Saturday in the country.

It was then that I realized every country song is right: there is not much to do on a hot day out in the middle of nowhere, except eat, drink, sleep, and shoot stuff.

Not just a ZZ Top song.

Our residence for the weekend was described as a scenic lodge on a lake. The lodge turned out to be an unfinished wood structure on a water moccasin embellished pond. Also, there was a boar’s head in my room. The only boar’s head I have ever been familiar with is the sandwich meat.

Deer are beautiful, however, deer ticks are not. I learned about new species of insects that inhabit the earth with us, only in the country. I also learned to stay away from them because they could kill you. That was a peaceful thought.

It was a great weekend, but by the end, I was itching to go home. I needed to see people all around me and stores within an arm’s reach. Relaxing is nice, but an Open Until 2 am Wendy’s is better.

So if you are feeling like you need a break, go ahead and find your reclusive solace for a few days.

Then haul ass out of there because if the bugs don’t get you, some crazy mountain man will.

Am I Really Learning to Not Give a Damn?

Much like strawberry blonde hair or a dimpled chin, some people are just born with it.

I’m talking self esteem here.

Maybe you are one of the lucky ones who came out of the womb with Supergirl confidence. I hope so. I had to earn mine through bad hair choices, missed opportunities, and crappy boyfriends. Many women and people in general have gone through this same passage. Sadly, many do not make it to the other side, forever bound to ab-rolling and chemical peels.

I think I am almost there.

It’s a foreign and relaxing feeling to feel comfortable in one’s own skin, still care about humanity, but not care what others say or think.

Here’s a re-cap of my journey:

Elementary Years: Very outgoing yet embarrassed to “show off.” Back then boisterousness was a sin. Right up there with stealing and looking a nun in the eye. Did I mention I attended Parochial school for twelve years?

Junior High: Awkwardness, braces, and negative breast size only added to the above. Even if I did have boobs and was super confident, it wouldn’t matter. All the nuns were running a DEFCON Level 3 operation because of everyone’s hormones.

High School: The motherload of insecurity. Think about it: waiting to get asked to Homecoming; waiting to get your license so your mom doesn’t have to drive you to Snuffer’s; waiting to be free from wearing plaid uniforms; and waiting to get out of Geometry so you can see that boy in the hallway… then dutifully ignore him and feign interest in the Don’t Do Drugs poster. I’m guessing this is what Purgatory feels like.

College: Ah yes – the bubble. No actual reality takes place during these four years. The confidence level is better here, but college is still a lot like High School. Just with more alcohol and better parties.

Twenties: First real job and being on my own – 1 Self-Esteem Point. Too many movies about some chick looking, looking, and looking some more for the Mr. Right; then becoming depressed because she only dated buffoons; only to feel good about herself when she found “the one.” – Minus 6 Self-Esteem Points. I remember thinking, “Is this how it’s supposed to go down? Man, I’m not even close.” Then I would pop in Caddyshack and feel much better. I fault the media and Sex in the City for this time period.

Thirties: Much better. All neurosis about myself were transferred to my child. Worries about my acne were replaced with worries about my daughter choking on a teething cookie.

Forties (forty): F*ck it. I’m tired and it is way too exhausting to worry about anything other than what I am going to make for dinner.

I’m pretty sure by the time I reach seventy I will be driving around town flipping people off just because I have lived that long. And let’s face it, angry old people are funny.

So it took some time to get here. While I do feel as though I act like an idiot most of the time, I really don’t dwell on it. I just shrug my shoulders and say “Oh well,” as I gracefully remove the food from between my teeth. I will probably never be queen secure, but I don’t trust the overly confident. They are hiding something.

I hope others don’t have to take such a long journey as I did, but there is a sense of accomplishment of having gone through the above milestones to finally feel good in my own skin and to not give a damn what others say.

Unless someone tells me I look fat in my skinny jeans, then I will key their car.