The house we are in is part of a small compound. It's no Kennedy Compound, but it'll do. There are almost as many liberals here as there.
There are two houses, one main house and the holiday house.
We are in the holiday house, which is the smaller of the two, as you might guess. The main house is currently occupied by a group of students from Stanford. Yesterday while Pete was assembling the kite, there was a brief outburst of high-jinks that made Finn point and say, "Running around."
"Oh great," I said. "As if I needed another reminder that I am old and fat," as I watched four bikini-clad, toned women posing for goofy pictures taken by one of the two young men in evidence. Not long after that, there was some sort of game involving water ballons, bowls of water, and, finally, sprinklers. "What are they doing?" said Pete. I looked at him, aghast. "Um, making girls run in bikinis by getting them wet, causing them to bounce and squeal."
I've never been prouder of my gender.
Or of his, for that matter.
That Pete thought there was perhaps a purpose to the "game" going on next door is, I suppose, testament to either his adorable naivete, his higher mind, or just his competitive nature. I'm really not sure.
I was just trying to figure out how two relatively nerdy guys had four attractive women seemingly all to themselves in an expensive house on Cape Cod. I figured it had to have something to do with money.
It's either that, or we are going to be in the background of some sort of MTV reality show as the older, remarkably unhip, and mildly disapproving family just trying to have wholesome fun with their toddler.