Hand Me the Sunscreen

Paradise. That's what it is - our backyard is a slice of paradise. Adam and Eve, eat your hearts out.

My feller, Mark, and I bought a home with a backyard swimming pool - lushly landscaped, screened-in, and sporting a banana tree. It even has a small waterfall that splashes off a fake rock, something we didn't notice when we got the house. (Had we known, we would have paid another $1000, but that's water under the bridge now, Coldwell Banker.)

People cautioned us about getting a pool. They said it would require lots of maintenance and expense. But we paid them no mind. All we knew was a) Florida is hot and b) the bathtub doesn't cut it when you want to seriously cool off and/or swim laps. It was time to take the plunge.

We don't regret it one iota. At least I don't regret it, for I don't take care of the pool. I can't take care of the pool, because I can't comprehend the intricacies involved. It might as well be a nuclear reactor, stealth bomber, or recipe for hollandaise sauce - way beyond my grasp.

I previously thought that pools were merely cement-lined holes in the yard. You fill them with water, dump in some chemicals from the garage, and you're good to go. I mean, how complex could it be?

Very. Our pool connects, via an underground city of pipes, to an array of pumps, filters, valves, backwashers, timers, and other objects that go "buzz" in the night. There's also a heating unit that hooks to a propane tank and sends BTU's to the pool or adjacent spa. Unless the set-up is more foolproof than it appears, this fool should probably stay two blocks away.

Thankfully, Mark places no pressure on me to operate the pool. In fact, he excuses me from all household duties more complex than turning a doorknob - ever since the time he found me puzzling over which end of a nail to hammer.

When Mark talks about the pool's inner workings, I hear: "Blah-blah-chlorine-blah-blah- pH level-blah-blah-jets-blah-blah -Zo." Zo, as we call her, is a high-price automatic cleaning device ("Zodiac" brand) that attaches to a certain blah-blah-hose, which is plugged into to some blah-blah pipe, and then proceeds to creep around the pool and suction up debris and crud. I don't know where the crud goes after suctioning - possibly to the blah-blah propane tank, but I'm not fired up enough to find out.

Thus I won't concern myself with pool upkeep. For all I care, a valve is something in your engine, pumps are a type of women's shoes, pH levels are a component of phonics instruction, and backwash is something you should never do when sharing a Coke. I'm not here to figure out this pool. I am merely here to bask in the sun on my floaty and get age spots.

And if Mark changes his mind and asks me to help with pool maintenance, I'll insist we de-install the entire thing and return to a mundane backyard with the most exotic touch being a plastic flamingo.

In fact, I almost yearn for olden times when we cooled off by lumbering through the sprinklers or sticking our heads in the freezer. Those were simpler days, cheaper days. And who the heck needs a banana tree anyhow - let Chiquita come and take it away.

Well, no...on second thought, I really should work on my backstroke. The Olympics may need me, and I must be ready.

Learn more about this author, Karen Williams.
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