No, that isn’t an alternative ukulele tuning (my – dog – has – fleas).
In pounding out my tales of advice and nonsense recently I’ve neglected my prime directive – keeping this house held together with baling wire and duct tape.
Fortunately there was a giant roll of baling wire in the garage when we moved in.
Unfortunately baling wire (and it’s relevant and contemporary cousin, duct tape) was not going to help me here.
Three weeks of looking out the window AT the pool instead of down INTO the pool had shielded me from the growing science experiment going on in there.
At this point I suppose I should include a picture of the great San Diego swamp but I will defer for those of you just enjoying your breakfast bagel.
I’m sure that the first thing that comes to mind for most of you is “So, where’s the pool guy?”
Unfortunately, my agreement with my wife is she doesn’t get a pool guy coming by each week and I don’t get the “Bikini Girls Mobile Carwash” stopping by on a regular schedule.
This means (as all you guys are thinking right now) I get to clean the pool and wash the cars.
The issue I found with pool guys is they seem to be specialists. When we moved in the house had been empty for two years. The pool was as green as the Chicago River on St. Patrick’s Day. I figured “Hey! Call a pool guy and he’ll clean it”. I was so naive.
Each prospective PG (as we will call them) had a different take. One guy kept saying “I’m all about the water, man” as I’m thinking “What about the haystack of leaves in the bottom of the pool?”. Others spoke of the fact that the pool was “dirty”. Let’s see, dirty pool – call a PG. Another comment was simply “Whoa…dude!”
The upstart of this was, of course, me going down to “The Great Big Hardware Store That Sells You Stuff For Projects You’ll Never Finish”. I returned fully armed with poles, hoses, sweepers and enough chemicals to qualify for a Society of Pool Cleaning Dudes membership card.
That initial hazmat clean-up made me swear I’d NEVER let the pool get funky again.
I believe the statute of limitations for swearing not to do something is two years for married guys.
Having returned from Dr. Caligari’s House of Chemicals I again started concocting my witches’ brew of microbe killers. Sometimes too much of a good thing isn’t a good thing. I started with a bottle of Algae Killer. It did a great job of killing algae.
Know what dead algae does? It floats to the top of your pool like the head of a freshly poured Budweiser. It does not disappear into the filter to be trapped like normal pool funk. Removing it requires a huge amount of skimming the pool. Know what the “by products” of dead algae do? They sink to the bottom of the pool and adhere to the plaster like tiny grey dots of crazy glue.
The next chemical warfare salvo I tried was Clarifier. This was a bottle of blue stuff. I figured the pool water looks blue – this stuff is blue – it’s all good.
(Please no comments about how the water looks blue because of a reflection of the sky yadda, yadda, yadda…)
24 hours later, the deck where I spilled some is blue; the water has a blue/green tint and I still can’t see the bottom of the pool, for all I know Shamu could be hiding out down there.
I’ve just had to tell my wife I won’t be able to go with her on the day long craft fair extravaganza as we’d been planning.