Public Pool Princess – An Open Letter


Dear Public Pool Princess:

The next time you decide to confront total strangers and accuse them of raising children who are “mean” because they won’t play with your overbearing, obnoxious son please make sure you have your facts straight.

For forty-five minutes while you napped in your lounger, my children and the children of my friend included and put up with your son. While you baked in the sun, my friend and I watched over your son making sure he was safe; talking about how we felt bad because he seemed so desperate for attention. We tried to avoid the rolling eyes of our children, telling them to be nice and they were, going beyond the call of duty, but after a while enough was enough.

When you finally sat up and he went to you, you didn’t move, choosing to play with your iPhone instead. So he came back to us once again to jump in the middle of a ball game already in progress. We said no to him and he went to you to complain. When you realized you were going to have to get your ass up and pay him some attention, you got angry and felt the need to confront us in public and insult our children.

Not up in here, Princess.

Shit was about to get real.

We were a bit taken a back with your nerve, but not shocked enough to neglect letting you know exactly what you missed while you dreamed in your lounger of a life sans kids.

I hate when I’m being judgy. I don’t think Mom’s need to pick at other Mom’s. Isn’t it bad enough we’re at a public pool? Which is why before you opened your mouth I tried (though not very successfully, I’ll admit) not to pass judgement on you. Perhaps you had a rough night, I told myself. You never know the personal hell people are going through.

But since you felt the need to attack us and our children, we got judgy real fast.

I can tell we unnerved you and even though you continued to verbally spew crap while you moved away, it was clear it was out of embarrassment. The next time you try a stunt like that make sure the sleep marks from your towel are gone from your face.

You. Looked. Like. An. Ass.

You got in the pool. I guess to prove a point? But you sat in a tube with a bitter look on your face and still didn’t play with your son. And when he tried to be playful you yelled at him not to touch you, which is completely understandable since you probably needed a break from all the napping and self righteousness.

I see we got through to you.

We feel sorry for your boy.

Also, fuck you.

Dieting Sucks.. Friendship Doesn’t

I’ve been dumped.

I didn’t even get an, “It’s me not you,” speech. Mainly because I’m pretty sure it’s me.

Since January I’ve had a food sponsor. A friend and I decided we were going to shame ourselves into weight loss by weighing in every Friday then call each other with our results. The first call was hard to do. Disclosing the “number” we’ve been taught to keep locked in the vault is against all the rules as a woman.

Am I right, ladies?

For the first few weeks we were very positive, real peppy cheerleaders but when the weight didn’t just fall off like it did a decade ago, things began to go sour. Our brains still lived in the world where a healthy weight loss was 1 to 2 pounds a week. HA. Not in your 40’s sunshine!

The first thing I did was give up alcohol. Did you hear me? I’ve had no wine since January. NO WINE. You know how much I lost in the first two months? Two pounds. TWO! I drank way more than two pounds worth of wine. In fact, maybe I should look into a different kind of sponsor.

My poor friend tried her best with me. She started out as a great sponsor, very knowledgeable and encouraging. Too bad I sucked at being a sponsee.

Why is this so hard?

Do you really want an answer?


We’re forty, our metabolism has slowed and blah blah blah (she really said shit here..I just tuned her out).

I said I didn’t want an answer. How the hell could I have gained? I’ve been working out like mad.

Remember muscle weights more than fat.

Seriously? That saying drives me bat ass crazy. Who wants to hear that when you’ve been sweating your tits off?

I’ve really sweated my tits off. The little weight I’ve lost came right from my boobs.

Eventually I wore her down and she became as cynical as me. And when she needed me I was there to bring her even lower into the deeps of hell.

Fuck this, I gained again.

This sucks.

My husband can just drop weight like a contestant on Survivor.

Mine too. Fuck them. They suck.

Is this ever going to get any better?

You know what? We should just eat what we want and enjoy it. We’re getting old anyway. As long as we’re healthy, ya know?

You’re probably right.

I know, I deserved to be fired. But be reasonable, who’s going to call someone before they eat a piece of cake? We don’t want to be talked out of it. If the shame of having to disclose our weight GAIN every week doesn’t inspire us, nothing will.

Besides our calls weren’t really about our weight we called each other to rally, as women do. We purged our emotions from the week, discussed our plans and goals for other things, bitched about our tweens and then hung up feeling not so alone in the demon world of forty.

So along with being fired, I’m quitting. Not the calls, but the weighing. Fuck that number. Maybe I’ll check in once a month so I don’t get out of hand, but I refuse to let a number rule my life anymore.

However, I still need my mental check-ins. To have a partner in crime.  I hope she picks up.