The Shit Show

Anthony finished rehabbing his knee in time to play the second half of the Mexican baseball season. He was making a conscious decision, under no influence of pain meds at all, to return to the country that almost ate us alive the year before. Even more disturbing, he was volunteering to move back to the same RV park and live in Grandma again. I could have sworn on everything holy that we left her on her death bed, never to be seen again, but Anthony’s pipe dream was prepared to pump the life right back into her. Apparently miniature toilets that created hot condensation on your ass when you sat on them was not a sufficient enough deterrent to keep Anthony from chasing his dreams. Personally, I would have given up after the devastating experience I had with closet space, but I suppose we were cut from a different cloth. Regardless, he was leaving me for the second year in a row and I swore to myself that no matter how much I missed him, I would stay in Maine with my family, my friends and my sanity.

I did, however, offer to travel with Anthony out to Yuma to get him settled into Grandma before he had to play. I remember promising myself mid-flight that one day I would use my hard earned vacation time, on an actual vacation. For the time being though, escaping the dreary Maine weather for the Arizona heat was just gonna have to do.

When we rolled into our old stomping grounds at the RV park, I shuddered at the thought of being there again. What was it about Anthony that seriously brought me back to this place less than a year later? It was two o’clock in the morning and the last thing I wanted to do was haul Grandma out of the back of the park and set up her poop hose. Well, I obviously took no part in the actual set up of the poop chute except to hold a flash light and groan obscenities about what an awful life choice this was. I’ll be honest. Two knee surgeries, two folded independent league teams, and now a second half-season of minor league Mexican baseball did not encourage me to fully support this choice. Call me a bad girlfriend, but let’s not forget I was still standing there assisting in the shitter set-up, so I’m going to go ahead and assume my reigning girlfriend of the year award. Self-proclaimed, clearly. But if no one else was giving me credit for this shit (literally and figuratively), I had no problem reaching right up and tooting my own horn. Toot! Toot!

The next day, we found out that the team was on the road so Anthony didn’t have to play for three more days. I was scheduled to fly home on a red-eye in three days so it was sort of perfect timing. But then we told Mama D how soon Anthony would be back in uniform, and before we could hang up the phone she was in her car with her brother heading across the country in a mad dash to see Anthony’s first game. I’m not sure if I’ve had the opportunity to describe to you the kind of super fan Mama D is, so let me attempt to do this some justice. There is NO bigger fan of Anthony’s than his mother. The nuttiest groupie hooker in Mexico doesn’t hold a flame to this woman. She knows more about baseball than probably any player in the entire Mexican league and her heckling with the umpires makes Bob Knight look like a girly cry baby. Her signature screech during games is “Fiyahhhh (fire) strriikkeessss!” in her true Mainer accent. If she isn’t hollering at the pitchers or umpires, she’s predicting literally every single play and pitch of the game. If everyone in the stands didn’t speak Spanish, she would have been the number one candidate for the commentating job. She’s like a phenomenon, I swear it. For a practicing Christian woman, she scares the shit out of me.

When she showed up to the RV door in just over 48 hours, unshowered and sleep deprived, I can’t say I was entirely surprised. I put up a pretty big stink about her showing up on my last day with Anthony and then stormed off in my rental car to catch my flight in Phoenix. On the way to the airport while crying along to “Do You Believe In Love” by Cher, I managed to get myself pulled over for speeding. Even though my eyes were puffy from crying and I genuinely apologized for not paying attention to a single thing except leaving my boyfriend behind in an RV with his mother for the summer, the doucher actually wrote me a ticket. Unbelievable! Once I realized he was the biggest jerk ever and actually fining me, I cut the act and just got pissy with him. Didn’t he know my life had recently gone up and flames and I just left my boyfriend in the very place I swore I’d never return to?? And that a speeding ticket might just be the very last thing to send me driving over a ledge in a maddened wallow of self-pity??

Well, obviously not. So I snatched my ticket from him as rudely as I could and got on my plane home to Maine $250 dollars poorer.


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