Ever since we moved into the house, we’ve had a charming yet completely unnecessary mini-home in the backyard that the previous owners built for their kids. From what we can tell, they built the big shed and used leftover supplies to, you know, just toss together an architecturally sound playhouse for their children in what I can only assume would be the same amount of time it takes us to assemble Ikea pressboard bookshelves. Because people like THAT exist.
And guys? I know parents build shit for their kids. My dad built a tree house for us when we were growing up (or at least I assume he did and it wasn’t just leftover from a group of traveling gypsies who set up camp in our backyard…although that would explain a lot of what I’m about to tell you in the next paragraph). But this dad? Yeah, he wasn’t fucking around. It has walls, a roof, a floor, a door, built-in bench seating, and windows for chrissake.
WINDOWS. BENCH SEATING. I DON’T EVEN HAVE THESE THINGS IN MY OWN HOUSE.
Okay fine. I have windows. I’m just upset about the injustice…
But let’s get some real perspective here. When we were growing up, we had a slightly stable platform of wood, loosely attached to three crooked trees about five feet off the ground. The floor didn’t always connect with the tree trunks so you could essentially stare your inevitable death-by-sinkhole in the face as a constant reminder that this was not a place of childhood funsies. “Go play in the tree house” basically just meant that we had irritated our parents to the point of them seeing a tragic tree house ‘accident’ as a legitimate (and defensible in a court of law) means of relief.
There were walls-ish but they were rough and hurt to touch during those moments your hands darted out for leverage as you attempt to avoid certain death. The windows? They were just holes in the wall. This tree house could have given rise to a whole new HGTV series of Extreme Home Makovers for things parents DIYed for their kids, combining home repair insight with parental counseling on why it’s wrong to encourage your kids to dangle in a shanty in the sky built entirely of splinters and tetanus.
(Loooooooove you, Mom and Dad. Thanks for building us a tree house!)
So to review, the kids who used to live in our house could host freaking dinner parties and greet people at the door to accept their little gift bottles of Snapple before inviting them into the motherfucking foyer for seared duck while all we could do was seriously injure ourselves or develop rashes from weird bright orange ooze that started to show up on the tree branch you had to hold onto as the ‘safety railing.’
Anyhow. Their little palace has been used only once since they left and that was just when a kid herded poor Calvin into it and shut the door in order to grab him and carry him around like a very unwilling, toothy and gnashy baby. So, weren’t we all excited (especially Calvin) when the newf’s massage therapist said he’d take the whole thing off the property for his daughters! He had promised to build them something similar, didn’t actually think they’d remember, and now intends to pass this ‘gently used’ play house off as new construction.
Hey – I don’t care about his ethics so much as I just want the thing off our property. Go with it. Also, why have kids if not to score bonus points through false promises that they’ll eventually forget to hold you to? It’s a victimless crime!
We were talking about it again during my massage the other day and it all just seems so easy that you just know he’s going to have to be put through hell on earth before that thing is actually being enjoyed by his kids at his place. For starters, it’s huge and built like a real house – none of that plastic snap-together stuff. Moving that thing is going to be about as easy as using a double wide as an RV on a road trip to New Mexico. Also of note, when I say ‘gently used’, what I really mean is that the house is the headquarters for the arachnid uprising that will soon end humanity as soon as they finish amassing their army. The charming little ring-a-ling door bell I mentioned? Yeah. That rings when it’s time for the spiders to feed on the blood of the innocent.
But I completely went with it and said he’d tooootally be able to get it onto the back of a pick-up with the help of a few friends because when you’re lying on a table in your skivvies with someone who could incapacitate you in two touches, you should really just go with the flow. Plus what kind of desperate gay housewife would I be if I turned down the opportunity to watch the burly acts of straight men as they take place in my back yard?
From a safe distance of course. No matter what the newf says, I’m 20% sure I didn’t make up the whole spider infestation thing two years ago as an excuse to not have to do yard work…