Ellen, Part 2: Why RedPillRiters decided to hold their convention at THIS place,

Ellen rolled her eyes, then took a sip from her NA fruity poolside cocktail.  Just as well, it wouldn't serve this early in the pm, to catch a buzz.  She nudged her companion, who was sitting in a neighboring chaise.

"The poppins has landed."  

Both tittered, the other scoffed, pointing at the young mom, standing in the shallow end, "from which booshka's closet..?"  

A little girl, somewhere between three and four years, wearing an inflatable over her swim-dress, swam around the floating black and floral circle of her mom's swim skirt.  The little girl then pointed to deeper waters.  "Doi-yoing, Mamma!"  

"No,..." The next phrase was, evidently, an endearement that moms used over there, Daddy will..."

"When, Mamma? I wanna go-won th' doi-yoing."

That same phrase again, reaching her ears, Ellen stuck her index finger in her mouth, pretending to gag.  Her companion shook her index, pretending to chide.

"...a bit after we go down to dinner."

Well, that sparked off one or more lewd comments, and some gesturing between Ellen and her travel buddy.  Ellen's phone binged.  She looked at the text-message, which had just come through.  Third one today.  Ellen rolled her eyes, then hit the D-key.  Goodnight! give a gal a few roses, and she gets ideas.   

A boy, on the verge of manhood, had just done a cannonball, while the little girl excitedly twirled and clapped, the life-guard, understandably, was neither high-fiving nor calling, "you ROCK, dude!"

"But Mamma, why can't you take me?"

"[That phrase again] I cannot swim."

"But why, Mamma?"

The woman paused.  She had almost said that where she grew up, there were few lakes and streams. "Oh, because."

Her little Daniella had recently begun asking questions. Did her Momma bake nut rolls?  Is she going to visit when they have turkey?  Did her Daddy write stories, and did he take her to the baseball game? 

Earlier that morning, just after Ohio had departed to the am round of workshops, mother and daughter lingered a bit.  The wait-person had brought a second cup of coffee, and a glass of milk, the talking heads started up - again - on the screen.  Another disagreement...

From a table across the room, a sibera-frigid glare was aimed right at the part, between Mrs O-G's thick braided tresses.  Dear Reader, our young war bride was oblivious.  And why not?  Mrs O, had neither spoken to Ellen - much less kill her kitty kat.  (By the way, Ellen hated cats, and dogs, and goldfish - she didn't like children either.)  

Ellen was just being Ellen.