So, by the time we got to Lake Geneva, all my camera batteries had crapped out on me (both still and video) so I didn't get a whole lotta photos from that part of the trip. Surprise. Luckily, Miss O drew an incredibly detailed blueprint of the condo we rented, so you'll at least be able to check out the digs:
As you can see, the accommodations were quite spacious and the decor was simple, yet tasteful. And yes, those beds were as comfortable as they looked!
Actually, the place wasn't too heinous. It's owned by these brothers who apparently run a "moderne" furniture store in Chicago -- the condo seemed to be a repository for all the factory seconds and "lightly fucked-up" pieces that they couldn't pawn off on recent college graduates who LOVE THE 80s!!! Lotsa frosted glass and black lacquered appointments. Surprisingly, no Nagels. Or paint spattered Japanese flag wall art. Or skinny piano ties.
The condo was part of a larger condommunity that had a golf course and restaurant and marina -- basically, a lot of shit we didn't get to use. Except for the pool -- we did go swimming a coupla times. One day, I took Mr. Z and Mr. L to the pool while the Old Lady and her friend took Miss O and Miss M to the beach. We tried to play 500 with this little squishy football thing, but things got a little too competitive and Mr. Z almost drowned a wrinkly lady, so we had to put the kibosh on that.
I made up a buncha games like "see which of you guys can swim around the perimeter of the pool the slowest without using your legs" and "I'll hide the ball and you go find it for the next 20 minutes" -- games that really challenged them and pushed them physically... and kept them occupied for chunks of time so I could try to swim some fucking laps.
But they eventually got tired and ended up lounging on the deck chairs while I tried to raise my heartbeat above 74 for longer than two minutes at a time. When I finally got out of the water, Mr. Z and his pal were sitting there tittering like a coupla nine-year-olds who had just done something either a) illegal, or 2) dirty.
It was 2.
I asked them what the fuck was so funny, and Mr. Z, in his loudest stage whisper ever, said, "That lady over there just rubbed lotion... ON HER BOOBS!!!" And then they both fell into hysterics again, as said lady looked over at me with her best "I figured they were with you... pig" look.
We high-tailed it outta there as I explained to the junior-pervs that it's not polite to point and titter at women who are lubing up their pointy titters. But it was no use -- the lotion-on-the-nanners story had already become the go-to instant hysterics reference for the rest of the trip.
They may have not learned anything from that episode, but I gained some valuable insight about myself that day. I learned that I can actually say the sentence "Dudes, it's not nice to laugh at women when they're applying suntan lotion to their breasts" to two nine year olds without cracking a smile.
Now if I could just stop spraying whatever I'm drinking outta my nose every time one of them farts.