House Hunting- The Medieval Murder House

Oh this week… really? Is it really only Tuesday???  Any moment I feel that Ashton Kucher is going to pop up and tell me that I am being PUNKED. That wouldn’t even be a relief to me because I loathe MTV and that show. He’s a babe though, don’t get me wrong.

 First of all, I do not want to move. AT ALL.  I love my house. I had a 11 month aneurysm trying to build said house while living in a one bedroom apt with messy tween child and snoring Sam. ... But apparently our town is broke from the devastation and the rebuild  and our taxes are 4 billion dollars more than we were told they would be after the tornado . It makes me sad... esp when there are no houses in our price range that I would remotely enter after my experience last night.

Let’s start with the house that my family and I looked at last night. We can call it “Murder House”.

 Our house has been on the market for a few months now and we have been trying to find something smaller to fit our needs. (Tornado 101: a small family of three does not need a 3000 sq foot house but small family Mama doesn’t know how to read blue prints.) Small family of three would rather have season tickets to the CUBS and continue to spend millions of dollars on travel softball for said small family munchkin of 13 years. It’s not the Olympics Libs, but we support ya.

 I spotted a beautiful home in a great neighborhood by one of my best friends. (House hunting 101- gotta move by at least one of my girlfriends so I can walk home after three glasses of boxed wine. (I don’t do Uber- as you will soon find out, I have a small murder phobia.)

I should have gone with my gut on this one, especially since the interior photos online resembled something out of Jumer’s Castle Lodge circa 1972. Come on Peorians, you remember the “Pheasant Under Glass”.  My personal favorite it was, along with the wedge salad. Could have actually been squirrel for all I know, that place had some major lighting issues. Ambiance my ass. At least the poor lighting allowed one and all to shove mass quantities of cinnamon rolls into mom’s purse or in the event we were using grandma’s purse, then “pocketbook” . 

Crap. Now I want a wedge salad. 

 Believe it or not, I wasn’t much on those gooey undercooked rolls. (I will be waiting for the hate mail. I can take it. )

 When we walked through the house, I seriously plotted where I would put the big dead 18 foot bear that used to scare the sh*it out of me on the way to the bathroom at the above mentioned Jumer’s Castle Lodge. I thought it would fit well in the hallway by the bathroom by the Knight/Sword combo. I thought maybe I could have the bear hold a basket of those under-cooked yet World Famous Jumer’s cinnamon rolls to ease the scare factor. Seriously, is this Medieval Times chic? Is someone going to murder me with a smoked turkey leg? (See… muderphob. Told ya.)

 I felt like if I touched anything in the home, an evil spirit may attach itself to me like on one of those Ghost hunting shows where every EVP machine in the world always says “GET OUT.”  I don’t give a sh*it if you want me to get out; I want the Little Lotto numbers. Be a good little spirit and tell me the evening pick three.  Mama needs a new outfit from TJ MAXX, bit*ch. And maybe some of those dog treats they try to upsell you at checkout. (I don’t have a dog, but who doesn’t love a good sale?)

Bear with me, I have a point coming. I swear that anything you read on here will not be as bad as “The Donald “talking about his temperament. (We will talk about that assbag waste of space at a later date.)

After traveling down the 3 foot hallway to the three bedrooms that were the size of a small stove, I decided to enter the “Murder Basement”. I cannot describe in words how bad this underground cave of wall to wall paneling   affected me, but I am quite sure I now know where they buried Jimmy Hoffa.  Curiously, one room in the basement had a 1980’s wallpaper border adhered to the paneling. Oh paneling, it’s like being at my parents house all over again. I said “Would you lookie there?Retro!” Ok, I didn’t say that. I may have said “WTF” but I digress.  Oh please people, don’t tell me your mom didn’t have a goose holding a basket of eggs or some shit wallpaper combo in your kitchen when you were in high school… because she did.)

The wallpaper border was one of those Lowe’s clearance bin $1 rolls with birdhouses and butterflies. IN THE BASEMENT! Apparently when you are being murdered “Dexter style” on the abandoned ping pong table, it is favorable to look at birdhouses and butterflies. (Don’t go into the light Carole Anne.)

Seriously though, I am no prude to unfavorable décor. Before the tornado took my 1975 Brady Bunch bungalow, I painted my kitchen cabinets in what Sherman Williams has patented as “baby poop brown.” Truth be told, because of that bit*ch Rachel Ashwell ,I may have dipped into the Shabby Chic craze of the 90’s. Sorry husband. You were right. Pink roses everything, in every room …not necessary.

Who knew.

    So yes, I may have had some rose on rose Waverly wallpaper in the kitchen at one time too, but I don’t think any dead bodies were under my stairs. If so, the F4 shi%t storm took care of those poor fuck$ers and I still don’t have the Little Lotto numbers. 

The Parent/Player Scrimmage Softball Nightmare

Twitter to me: Parent /Player scrimmage this week for softball.

Me to Twitter: Shut your whore mouth.

OH NO!  This again? Parent/Player scrimmage. Let’s try calling it what it really is. Fear. (I was going to say “ bulls^hit “ but I am starting slow.)  It is the equivalent of getting picked last in middle school. It is the fear and worry of failing in front of every single girl that has seen you in your “Mom nightgown” making eggs after an impromptu tween slumber party.  We are middle aged parents whom have spent seventy billion dollars on softball wares , kindly invited to get their asses kicked in a game with  our 13 year old children, most of whom have been playing the game since infancy. Seems fair. I can barely walk up the stairs with an empty laundry basket at this point in the early fall, but whatevs.

Fortunately my husband has played softball for over 20 years, so this will be his night to SHINE! ( Ok , barf. ) Plus I totally keep tabs on how many games he has attended vs my attendance in order to play the guilt card. Maybe it’s  not the  smartest "game" to play at this late age in the marriage, considering he works twice as hard as I do. But, ya know. I gamble.

My daughter (god love the little 13 year old hormonal freak of a thorn in my as^s)  has been playing softball since she was 7. EVERY GOSH DARN YEAR, the coaches have an end of the season “WHOO HOO PARENT PLAYER SCRIMMAGE."  If you are lucky and your kid plays both travel and school ball, there is a 99.9 percent chance that BOTH TEAMS will have their own game of embarrassment. God I love the double whammy.

 The first few years, I promptly hid out and conveniently was unreachable.  “My phone was dead, I mean what? Did you call me to Sub?”    Sorry I wasn’t there to stand in the outfield praying like hell the fly ball would not come to me.” Let me just tell you, I compare this hell to TRACK in high school. God I hated track. Not too bright a crew that chose the 4 foot asthmatic to run the 800 through the practice field of freshly mowed grass, but what the hell did I know. I was just there for the free sweats.

Where was I ?

Oh yes, the depths of hell. Softball with parents!!!! And softball with parent’s little sports stars!!!! Oh, and the cherry on the sundae is that my daughter’s school ball team also houses an Olympic Athlete equivalent coaching staff. OH MY GOSH, can I be FIRST ON THE ROSTER? “I want #1!I want #1!”  Did I mention that I am one of the oldest ( EEK) softball parent’s at the ballpark? Good times. Now I’m being punished for having a semi-later in life baby.  (Oh look, that’s Libby’s Grandma!)

Twitter ruined my day and has made me have PTSD flashbacks to the two times I HAD TO PARTICAPATE in these scrimmages. The first one was so traumatic and left me screaming for the good lord to “take me now”, that I decided to do it again! I have not always been the brightest bulb in the forest, I guess.

Two years ago on a 200 degree day with 1000 percent humidity, I decided it wouldn’t be “that bad” to go to another shindig of humiliating  proportion. I mean, did I die? No, but I wanted to.  And that is why I will never do it again.

To all of you kind folks and middle aged tired parents, I am telling you that I know some of you REALLY get into these things. Well guess what?  You’re stupid. I’ll be at the bar.

Before you haters come out of the woodwork and tell me what a terrible yet delightfully funny mom I am, let me stop you right there. No, I do not hate softball. I love softball…FOR MY CHILD. I do not want to PLAY softball.  Did I say that?  The glittery t shirted “Softball Mom” and “My daughter is better than your daughter. It says so right on my shirt” would drown me in a tank of blue Gatorade if I ever said anything negative about softball.  I love the game. I love watching my daughter play. I love that she LOVES it. I do not particularly love getting up at the butt crack of dawn.   I don’t savor the trips to the armpit of Illinois for three days when I have 45 loads of laundry and an apparent bug convention setting up shop in my kitchen, but I do it!

As negative and bitchy as you think I am right now, I must tell you that over the last 6 years, I really have made some of the best friends I have ever had. We just all REALLY HATE GETTING UP EARLY. And we drink a little. And yes, we love our kids. If we didn’t, we would definitely be at the outlet mall during game 5.

My daughter is 13. Over the past 6 years, I have spent over 47 billion dollars on travel and school ball, uniforms, equipment, new gloves and the “OMG stuff” . For those of you that don’t know the “OMG stuff” , you have never set foot at a sports complex during tournament play. Congratulations, you have money. “OMG, I must have this hair bow, this headband, this shirt, shorts, sweatpants, and a $75 snow cone or I am going to drop dead on my cute little french braids right now. “  

 How many “This Princess Wears Cleats” hoodies does one parent have to purchase to get into the winners bracket? I will pay double for a shirt that says “This Princess promised to do her chores.” But again, whatever.

Another fun thing about softball moms is that we like to complain about the weather while our children are standing in the 100 degree heat attached to  more gear than a football quarterback. God forbid if we are cold in our $75 hoodie that we will give to goodwill because our kid will be on a different team next year.

So yes, I complain, but I know how hard they work. So stop wrinkling your face in judgment. Seriously, I would say about 72 .5% of those weekends don’t suck too bad. It depends how good the Buffalo Wild Wings are that weekend. Oh come on, you go there. Coldest beer in town. 

Speaking of food, I totally forgot about how expensive the ballpark fare is! If your debit card has caught on fire from swiping $300 of Lemonade shakeups, give me a call. We are soulmates. I swear it happened. This was of course before we checked into the Drake for three days stay and I forgot to allocate $3,000 for the weekend of highly interrupted slumber. Honey, you just had 7 games today, why don't you run up and down the halls for the next three hours. 

And it is still better than playing in a parent/player scrimmage.

 But yes, of course, I will be there. I will go to the scrimmage.  It is not about my selfishness of impending humiliation. It is about being a parent. I may be hyped up on 45 Xanax, but I will go. And I will have to run from balls in the outfield. And I will laugh at myself and joke around and see my daughter make memories for life. And will I die? No. But I may want to .