Actually, it’s not a story about a seedy hotel, but that doesn’t matter.
You are here for the gross part and I’m not about to disappoint.
Let me start at the beginning.
The Evil Spawn was wrapping up her summer season of softball, so we had one final trip.
I say summer season, because next year starts in about 8 minutes because June 2013 is just around the corner and we’ve got to get these girls practicing (sarcasm alert!).
Since we had this one last tournament and we were tired of living in No Tell Motels, we had the ingenious idea to rent a house.
It would be fun.
It would be close to Lake Michigan.
The whole family together.
It would be like a vacation, except for the fact that 14 hours a day we would be sitting in lawn chairs at some faceless softball field in 197 degree heat.
Actually, it’s fun. Except for the part where your underwear starts sweating. I hate that.
One would think a person’s underwear would dry out in extreme heat, but it’s just the opposite.
But, I digress. We rent this house and it seems like a great idea.
I probably wouldn’t have done this 10 years ago, but now with the interweb it’s just so simple.
Pictures online. Reviews by other God fearing kind-hearted folks.
What could possibly go wrong?
Turns out a lot.
The pictures didn’t exactly reflect the level of disgusting that wrapped itself around the house like a thick winter coat on a chubby 4-year old.
Turns out people who rent their homes for money don’t use the word "filthy" or the phrase "should be condemened" when they are trying to make a buck.
I should have realized we had a problem when cockroaches met us at the front door. And they were on their way out.
The look on my wife’s face as she was sentenced… I mean walked in to this rental property was disturbing. She looked like a teenage girl in a horror movie when the phone rings and the call is coming from inside the house.
She was scared. And rightfully so.
The highlights were as follows: old food in the refrigerator, a mysterious hair attached to the TV remote, enough trash hidden under the raised cabinets to start your own dump, and a cat in the corner of the bedroom.
Actually, it wasn’t a cat.
It was a dust bunny in the shape of a 47 pound cat. I swear it growled at me when I reached down to pet it.
I was afraid to turn on the lights. Not because I didn’t want to see more dirt, but because I was frightened to touch the light switch. There was a layer of something on it that reminded me of a petri dish.
I could go on and on, but it gives me the willies and I feel like I need to save part of this story for my therapist.
And as a favor to all of my loyal readers, I’m not even going to tell you my theory on the mystery hair.
My wife tried in vain to find a hotel room for us to stay in, but they were all booked. Turns out Priceline and William Shatner couldn’t save me on this night.
So I went with Plan B.
I slept in my clothes.
I did survive the night, but then I had to use the restroom and shower.
Honestly, in my 44 years on this Earth, I don’t recall feeling dirtier after a shower than before. And I grew up in an era where you showered after high school PE.
Something positive did come out of this experience (besides the partial refund).
I have a whole new respect for my wife’s fear of portapotties (she can’t be the only one who would rather explode than take one step into these plastic boxes of infection).
Actually, now that I think about it, I would have been better off sleeping in a portapotty.
As an added bonus it was our wedding anniversary.