Build the Pool Fence

 

“No pool fence, it’s an eye sore?” My mom declares with philistine punctuated disgust. I reply. “But your grandchildren don’t know how to swim yet. Plus, eye sore sounds a tad dramatic there Pelosi breath. A back tat on Lena Dunham’s backfat in broad daylight is an eyesore. A pool fence drowning prevention device. So, I can throw back a couple without having Drone Coast Guard swooping technology at my disposal to react in real time to my kids sinking like a stone on the spot in your destination pool is an eye sore. You’d think I was pushing for my mother to get the barbed wire fence on an Eli Wiesel novel. Anthony Jeselnik lives, through me unfortunately.

7 years later, my parents finally hired a caravan of illegal immigrants to install a netted pool fence around their beautifully tiled, formerly salt-water pool outside of their Arizona estate home shrine to themselves, I’m assuming. Because they hire them to do everything else.

So, what took so long for my parents to buy into the concept that pool fences work? Preventing avoidable harm to their 3 grandchildren in the event they sneak into the pool undetected and drown to death as my dad plays Words with Friends with old work friends in Jersey from afar. Simple, I exerted my own figurative line in the sand with my mind by telling my mother over the phone between her Bridge meetup group I’m assuming: Before Maddow’s brow starts furrowing with existential worry again mom. Build the pool fence or will rescind your invitation to visit despite you paying for it against our will because you don’t respect me as a stay at home shemale dad. Who you insist on becoming a garbage man because you view all Trump supporters has dirty white trash no better than a job throwing out others scraps for a living. So, let’s meet in the middle in the service of good will hued negotiation and agree to call our annual visit to Arizona. Which we blew off last year for Spring Break in Norway because applying sun tan lotion on all 3 kids every time they step out of the pool isn’t our idea of a real vacation. On top of you magically pooping out after looking after the kids for no more than 2 hours, despite you being retired and having all year to get in shape and train for the arrival of your 3 grandchildren as your main event.

Yeah, so now, that we’re clear this trip isn’t a real vacation away from being loving, emotionally present, ultra-interested parents during all waking hours at home around our 3 kids in the absence of you never being here to “help out” besides your horseshit stint last summer. Hosting a couple of sleepovers, resulting in getting our 2 kids asleep, knowing you can’t handle 3 kids at one time, Godforbid, because baby Samuel suffers from stranger anxiety around you. Which he also suffers around Baba on mama’s side. At the same time, Baba’s dumb, dumb, super forced, foreign Ukrainian accent around baby Samuel doesn’t do her any favors either. Now, that we’ve established this visit down to Arizona isn’t a vacation but more of an arranged, strong armed, guilt trip equivalent to winning a free trip on the Price is Right. You can’t reject an arranged, pre-paid for trip, on a 6-hour flight to Southwest with 3 kids from Newark or else you’ll come across as a thankless child, like King Lear’s daughter. And I don’t want my parents to think I have less scruples than that classless, mole infested wench. For the record, I never read King Lear, just quotes on Goodreads.com.

 

 

For all I know, King Lear’s daughter has a good reason to hate her father outside of him never raping and beating her, you know the standard high bar of unacceptable, bad to the bone, justifiable residual resentful behavior for mom choosing dads side forevermore.

After the birth of my 1st born, natural mystic Matilda, my parents visited us in our apartment in Astoria, Queens. Queens is so hot right now, no it’s not. Compared to Manhattan and Brooklyn, Queens is the sloppy 3rd Kardashian sister. You know the extra greasy one, that looks like OJ’s daughter. Who’s easy to pound at 3 in the morning like a Lamb Gyro in Astoria.

Once my parents are done with their 2 hours visit max, they drive back to Westchester Home before retiring to Scottsdale, Arizona permanently with 0.0 buyer’s remorse, knowing 3 kids later, they are willing to abandon 3 healthy, beautiful, grandchildren 320 days of the year for Coyote alarm clocks, cheaper property taxes and more indoor detention camp summers in AC splendor within their own gated community sanctuary in Scottsdale, Arizona. Dreaming their life away on Russian collusion-based impeachment proceedings with legs than Lieutenant Dan. Immune from any substantial accusations of suffering from separation anxiety involving my family obviously.

Yeah, so after my parents visit to our apartment in Queens, I smell my April fresh, daughter, natural Mystic, sweet, sweet Matilda and she reeks of these shitty now, discontinued, Arabic cigarettes my dad got addicted to during his summer on a Kibbutz in Israel because they were more attractive filler than the clumpy balls of burnt breadcrumbs being passed off as edible Falafel I guess. I call my dad on the phone later and get resistor hysterical on his ass. I say: How dare you taint my newborn daughter, my 1st pure bundle of good encapsulating joy, literally 2 weeks into the God’s bountiful green earth with the smell of your shitty Tareyton 100 Cigarettes.  No newborn dad should have to kiss his barley 1 week old daughter and have her smell like she was reincarnated as Don Draper on a 1st class flight to Australia to accept some international advertising award, when smoking was allowed in such comfy, confined quarters for 23 hours in a row, from a  Qantas flight, departing from Newark with no layover in Singapore for a much needed breather in between.

 

After my inspired rant of damnation directed at my dad for the 1st time in my life ever. My mom calls me and says: I can’t believe the way you talked to your father. He smokes, he’s addicted. I’ve tried to make him stop but if I have to choose. I choose Dad over you. Can you imagine your mother making it abundantly clear how her co-dependent relationship with your arrogant, asshole dad on occasion, is infinitely more important than conceding my more than legitimate grip as a 1st time dad, defining my own boundaries and sovereignty as father now free from his controlling, bullying, I know better than you always past? “I chose dad over you.” So, in essence mom, you’re siding with the party of zero compromise, which explains why dad hasn’t quit smoking during his visits around my kids 7 years later either. And leaving rolled up pieces of Trident gum on the dinning table afterward because he had enough common courtesy to smoke inside our home doesn’t count.

 

But I can’t complain. My parents got the pool fence and showcased a willingness to compromise after all. If only Nancy Pelosi cared about the safety and protection of other American made children. She’d be induced to make an amendable solution, involving, forking over the cash for a no brainer child safety wall to.

 

The End

By,

Michael Kornbluth

 

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