Only in the Gazeebo

When I was younger, one of my favorite television shows was "Baywatch". It was something about the flawless forms of the lifeguards that amazed me. I remember being mesmerized by Pamela Anderson as she ran on the beach with her red "Baywatch" rescue bowie as her fake breasts seemed to gently and rhythmically bounce with every long stride. Her breasts mesmerized me not because I was turned on by them, but more-so because the only breasts I had seen up until that point had belonged to my 85 year old grandmother, whom I had accidentally walked in on while she wrestled with her hammock-like bra as her very own pair of enormous, sagging "Pamelas" flopped voraciously from left to right, resembling large bells. I once read that Pamela's diet consisted of liquefied veggies and diet shakes to keep her body in shape. Even David Hasselhoff seemed to be eating nothing but eucalyptus leaves, which to me seems astonishing seeing as how most of the foods I consume are prepared from either a box with an animated white glove that promises a delicious meal, a giggling overweight dough-boy chef, or baked by a colony of questionably homosexual elves that live in a tree.

In my mind, lifeguards represented the opposite of everything I found frightening and repulsive. It was for this reason that I was so perplexed by the lifeguard I encountered at my friend Chris's swimming pool. He seemed to be in his late 20's, yet still carrying a grotesque layer of baby fat and a massive beer gut. In fact, he most closely resembled the character "Ralph" from The Simpson's. Chris' apartment complex is inhabited entirely by a colony of wealthy retired Jews and Wasps that seems to create unparalleled levels of tension. It's more like living in Hitler's military compound as opposed to multi-million dollar penthouse apartments, as evident by the unnecessary number of signs and rules posted every 5 feet along the clubhouse walls. In the locker room, there was a box of "sanitary wipes" in case you felt the need to poop before going into the pool, which I can only assume were meant to be used because of the white sign that read, "In the event that feces is present in the pool area or within the pool itself, we are obligated to shut down and evacuate the pool for immediate disinfection. This creates a bio-hazard threat to our guests. In order to prevent this from occurring, please use sanitary wipes before going in the pool." This sign lay directly adjacent to a large, red stop sign on the door that read, "STOP!! Have you showered? Please shower before entering the pool area!" This was strange to me, as within the first ten minutes of being at this pool, I was fully under the impression that none of these rich people have ever pooped before in their life. Ever. But if they had, surely they pooped nuggets of gold that did not require sanitary wipes. On the off chance I'm wrong, there is most likely a magical clubhouse fairy that swoops down from the rooftop with a bottle of Windex and a tube of diaper rash cream to take care of all the dirty work.

It became quite obvious that Ralph the lifeguard was given full authority to enforce all clubhouse rules, and this probably included a rectal examination to ensure all hygienic pool procedures had been followed prior to setting foot on the pool deck. Of course, being who me and my friends are, we casually walked into the pool with a cooler of beer and sangria. One of the things I love about Chris is his inability to care about the stupid, unimportant shit in life (i.e. irrational and ridiculous rules). "Here, take my iPad and read this excerpt from Anthony Bourdain's book where he talks about snorting coke off a tranny's penis" he said to me, as I looked over and noticed a handful of elderly couples staring us down. Just as that was occuring, Ralph waddled toward us and began by reciting more rules: "Hi guys. If you're going to drink liquids or food, they must be consumed in the gazebo directly behind you. If you are to talk on your cell phone, you must exit the premises and speak in a low voice so as not to disturb others. I do hope you've taken advantage of our sanitary wipes available in our locker rooms, as we wouldn't want to shut the pool down for any sanitary reasons, if you know what I mean." At this point, I felt like I was at camp and I wondered if he had given the same speech to everyone else. And besides, if anyone was most likely to shit themselves in the pool, it certainly wouldn't be those 85 year olds swimming in diapers...
We nodded to him and he walked away. Of course, our instincts told us that surely Ralph had meant we couldn't drink out of glass bottles around the pool, but he never said anything about red cups.

A few beers later, Ralph approached us, armed with the mean towel lady as backup.
"OK guys, I told you earlier you weren't allowed to have any liquids unless it was in the Gazebo. You are CERTAINLY not allowed to consume alcohol anywhere on the premises, and I'm going to need you to take that out of here immediately" he says, all while mean towel lady stands there shaking her head in a scolding manner. "Oh, well I saw people drinking in that other corner of the pool over there and so I thought it'd be OK" said Chris, motioning to the far corner of the pool where two decrepit World War 2 veterans were either lying dead or sunbathing. Well, it was not OK and Ralph and the towel lady were having none of it. We moved our party to the gazebo, where I frantically downed 2 beers in the span of 3 minutes, which had Ralph coming back for more.
"OK what's the deal guys? I told you to get the alcohol out."
"But I thought we could drink in the gazebo?"
At this point, Ralph is turning red and the veins in his fat neck are starting to show. "ABSOLUTELY NOT! The gazebo is a place of relaxation where you can consume juice or other beverages, but not alcohol. And please DO NOT throw these cans in my trash can" he said, as he began sifting through banana peels and dirty napkins to fetch our crushed beer cans. I wondered if he had gone to Ikea and purchased these extra trash cans with his own money so that he could one day dictate what pool-goers could and could not throw away in said trashcans. Simultaneously, I was overwhelmed with the sudden urge to fill his trashcans with used tampons acquired from a homeless woman or overweight bus driver from a third world country. While Ralph scolded us, a senile old woman walked into the gazebo, sat down right in the middle of our circle, and began gently humming and rocking back and forth. I couldn't really believe any of this was happening and, naturally, I began to laugh, which pissed Ralph off even more. "Well if we can't have beers, can we have popsicles? What about popsicles? Is that ok? I really want to suck on a popsicle. Yes? popsicles?" I was slightly disappointed that Chris hadn't repeated the word "popsicle" more times, along with adding a strong lisp. Through grinded teeth, Ralph replied, "Yes. Popsicles are fine, but ONLY in the gazebo." Messing with someone like Ralph is like poking an overturned autistic midget with a stick. You know you shouldn't do it, but you can't help but continue. "What about an abortion? Can I have one of those here? In the gazebo? If I use the sanitary wipes?" I asked. Following this, Ralph threatened to kick us out, which I found amusing because I pictured him grabbing all five of us by the ear and escorting us out of the pool while wearing floaties, a white sunhat, and oversized flip flops purchased from an Old Navy outlet.

Moments later, Chris returned with an enormous box of popsicles and a frozen beer mug filled with cranberry juice, which was only to be consumed in the gazebo and used as a passive aggressive tool for taunting Ralph. I offered the senile old lady a popsicle, but she seemed more interested in intermittently passing gas and examining the mothballs in her sweater pockets. I didn't say anything, as she was well within her rights to pass gas within the confines of the gazebo. Had she been a couple of feet outside the parameters, I would have had to fulfill my duties as a responsible pool patron and kindly tell Ralph that the old lady was not only passing gas, but that I also suspected she had not used any sanitary wipes that were so thoughtfully offered in the restrooms. I'm just trying to look out for the ladies in my group, as I would hate for them to catch some sort of yeast infection and be baking loaves of bread from their beavers all night just from swimming in infected pool water.

As I gathered my things to leave, I waved at Ralph, his nose covered in zinc oxide as he sat atop his lifeguard chair, watching over the one 99 year old woman floating in her noodle in the shallow end that read "Caution: 3 feet deep. NO DIVING!" Inside the clubhouse, I happily waved at the mean towel lady before stepping into the elevator, just as an older woman and her friend rushed to make it before the doors closed. As the three of us stood in the elevator with the doors still open, I could hear the towel lady scream, "HEY LADY! THOSE ARE OUR TOWELS! DO NOT TAKE IT WITH YOU! YOU DID THIS LAST TIME AND I WON'T STAND FOR IT ANYMORE!". I looked over to see the petrified old woman clutching her balled up white towel, apologizing profusely and probably on the verge of a stroke or explosive diarrhea. "I'm sorry! It's just that I had a little accident and I was going to take the towel to my apartment to wash it. I'm so embarrassed. I wasn't trying to steal this, I just don't know the protocol. I was going to bring it back down later this afternoon!" I turned and mumbled to her friend, "Did she use the sanitary wipes?".

I couldn't help but feel troubled about the irony of the situation. Here was this old woman, who probably survived the holocaust and came to America and most likely popped out 5 kids from her papaya, leaving her looser than a wizard's sleeve which then lead to her husband cheating on her with a more youthful woman, followed by a divorce and years of therapy and stress that caused stomach ulsers and irritable bowel syndrome, which in turn led to her accident on the towel, all of this only to be taken out by one of Hitler's little helpers running the towel distribution cartel. It doesn't seem fair, a world run by Ralph and the towel lady. Which is why if I lived in this place, I, too, would post signs every five feet enforcing my new rule: ALL SOILED TOWELS MUST BE DISPOSED OF IN THE POOL TRASH CONTAINERS ONLY! While it's not exactly a trashcan full of used tampons from the vaginas of day laboring third world women, I think it would do.

~ F.A.G.

Bringing Sexy Back

I’ve come to accept I cannot wear skimpy clothes. My body as a whole is far too supple for the likes of public beach viewing and would most likely scare away the nearest toddler, sending them running face first into his or her mother’s bosom. This may be all for the better, since I’ve recently found that children are far more annoying than I ever imagined. What happened to some good ‘ol fashion spanking or being chased with a wooden spoon the way my crazy South American grandmother used to do? In an effort to be a more progressive nation, America has done away with tolerating physical threats towards children so instead, innocent bystanders such as myself have to deal with misbehaved children that run rampant in society like wild boar at a carnival, with distracted parents that carry a look on their face to be interpreted as, “What do you want me to do about it? I can’t beat them, so please suggest an alternative. Otherwise, fuck off and deal with my dirt-smothered offspring.” I’m all for progress, but why not at least keep one thing from the earlier times that may benefit us? My 2nd grade friend, Christina, once slapped me in the face for pinching her butt in the lunch line. Never did I ever go anywhere near her butt, or even her, ever again. See? Children can be easily trained, much like an angry and intolerable Chihuahua with a Napoleon complex.

For the moment, though, I’m OK with the obesity epidemic in America, as it makes me feel more comfortable to be out in public and, in particular, the boardwalk at the beach. That’s the straight beach though. The gay beach, in line with popular stereotypes, is a breeding ground for men with eating disorders and an unfathomable ability to go for days without consuming a morsel of food. This is what makes it so difficult to go to a gay beach, where men think it’s OK to swim in their Hanes underwear from the 4th grade and the Lesbians, in turn, think it’s fine to wear board shorts that reach down to their chubby, hairy knees. The paradox that can be observed between lesbians and gays at a beach is simply astonishing, like watching a herd of lions and elephants migrating to a river bed in unison on the Discovery Channel. It’s not a sight you see everyday.

I’m not really being overly critical of myself, as I know that everyone has their problem areas and mine just so happen to be my entire body from the neck down. Thank god for attractive faces. Nevertheless, I try to do my best when it comes to working out and staying fit, but unfortunately God/Allah/all the Hindu gods and probably even a little bit of Buddha's vengeful side just decided that my fate would be to have a body full of stubborn fat cells that refuse to completely vanish no matter how much I starve and work out. Let’s face it, I’m a Fat Asian Girl. It’s a curse, but I think I’ve finally come to accept it. Not enjoy, but definitely accept. In today’s term, I suppose my body type is average. Certainly, though, I’m not sporting six pack abs and Mario Lopez legs. Still, in my imaginative head there’s hope. Every time someone asks me to a pool party or plans a beach vacation months or weeks in advance, I enthusiastically and optimistically think to myself, “Perfect. This gives me 6 weeks to starve and work out and take laxatives and become bulimic and undergo small doses of liposuction if need be. But goddammit I will have a 6 pack and toned legs and a perky black girl ass by that deadline.” Of course, it just never works this way. Instead, now I’ve resorted to desperately hoping that during one of my midnight nature walks I often take while under the influence, a vampire jumps out of a tree and bites me in the neck, converting me into one of their kind wherein I will never have to consume anything other than blood in order to survive. I can be thin and hot and desirable just like those fuckers in the Twilight movies. I think I can live with drinking blood if it means I can rock a scantily clad outfit on a crowded beach. For now, I’ll accept the curvaceous undertones offered by my body and rock it like it’s hot. Secretly, though, I’ll be jealous of the gays and yoga freaks with their Gumby-like bodies and be wishing in my head that winter comes early this year, so I can hide under layers of frumpy lesbian-ish sweaters and scarves that conveniently cover neck fat. Although, I recall an invitation to a pool party in two weeks, so until then I shall only chew gum and slap myself in the face with a picture of Cristiano Ronaldo every time I think of eating.

Honestly though, I’ll most likely be binge eating burritos and guac by noon tomorrow. Cristiano Ronaldo probably has a Fruit-Rollup penis anyway.

~ F.A.G.