Part of participating in the Amateur Athletic Union (AAU) sports means travel. Being on the top travel team in your club typically means travelling out of state. If you’re not interested in out-of-state travel, drop down a level and all of your tournaments will be regional – from Houston, to Dallas, to San Antonio, etc. All of this information is provided up front, no matter the club. So, yeah – we knew what we were getting ourselves into when the girls signed up for AAU teams. Two years ago, we went to Orlando (see “’tis spring break, y’all”) last year to Las Vegas (which I never got around to writing about), and this year to Kansas Shitty – err – City.
When Meredith has a two or three-day tournament, I typically try to do some sort of cutesy volleyball nail design. This year was no different. I showed them to her proudly when I got home and said, “dangit – I should have had her paint the #28 (her jersey number – thanks to Louis Tomlinson) on my nails” to which she lovingly replied, “no, Karen. Just no.” Oh, I’m *fo sho* doin’ that shit next time! Hell, I might add a shirt that reads, “28’s Mom” on the back in big ass vinyl letters and a fathead! Try me, little girl. Mama don’t play. Just remember: that crazy streak of yours? You got that shit from me.
We booked our flights on Southwest months ago (like September or October) and our hotel through USA Volleyball as this event is a “stay to play” – meaning a certain number of players from each team are required to “stay” where the organization tells them to in order for our team to “play” in the tournament. That way, the hotels get filled and the volleyball organization gets to enjoy a nice little kickback. Everyone is happy. Some of you are nodding your heads as you read this, right? Fast forward to last week. The schedule was finally posted and we learned that Meredith’s team was playing in the afternoon wave on Saturday so we opted to switch to a later flight on Friday.
Around the same time, we also booked a hotel room in College Station so that we could attend Parents Weekend at A&M with Mallory. Guess what? They were the same damn weekend and we didn’t realize it until about a month ago. We had no choice but to divide and conquer. Coty drove to College Station and I took Meredith to the volleyball tournament where he planned to join us later.
The flight that we opted to go out on was *meant* to depart at 9:35 P on Friday. Meredith and I grabbed a quick dinner with 2/3 of Team Kaale at Cheesecake Factory before they kicked us to the curb at the doors of the Southwest Terminal. Meredith and I skated through baggage check and TSA Pre sans Coty experiencing literally ZERO issues and found our way back to the gate. The plane was there so I suggested we back track to Hudson News for two $7 bottles of water and a $12 bag of Cheez-It crackers. As I paid my $26 tab, the first text came through: “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 10:08 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” I showed the text to Meredith and assured her that it wasn’t that big of a deal. We had extra time to run to the ladies’ room and then charge our phones from the seats in the terminal. Forty-two minutes went by when the next text came through. “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 11:10 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” and realize that the effects of the vodka tonic I had at home while packing and the martini I had at Cheesecake Factory had long faded away. I contemplated leaving Meredith in the terminal to locate a bar. This is unacceptable. I feel trapped. In a small space. With people. I don’t like people. I’m wearing a mask. I don’t like mask. Fucking masks. My ears. It’s hurting my ears. Wait. Is it my ears? Is it “da hoops”? Oh. My. God. “The bigger da hoops. The bigger da ho” Shit! Its da hoops! Hoops off and into the backpack. At 9:26 P, Southwest tried messing with all of us when they sent us “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 9:35 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” All the poor bastards in the terminal were running for the gate. After all, the goddam plane had been there the whole fucking time. Who were we to question? But, alas, the bastards sent another text at 9:27 PM: “Your Southwest flight, Flight 1348 on April 8 from HOU now departs at 10:15 PM. We’re sorry for the delay. Please visit www.southwest.com/status” Oh, heh heh, SWA. You got me. <knee slap> Now that’s some funny shit right there. I might even have to add y’all to my blog. Have to give y’all a little *shout out* for adding a bit of chuckle to my mother/daughter fun trip to the KC for some VB. But, no. Bitches come back thirty minutes later with “Your mother fucking flight, will mother fucking depart whenever we mother fucking feel like it. It may be at 12:09 AM, it may not. We’re gonna say sorry for the delay but we really ain’t. We don’t give a fuck. Y’all can say you ain’t gonna fly SW again but you will. Y’all dumbasses always come back.” We got our final notification at 12:39 A, as the plane was *literally* lifting off of the run way. I know because I wasn’t in airplane mode, yet. I’m a rebel like that. Honestly, I’m just old af and hadn’t gotten to it, yet. Y’all laugh but wait. Old age comin for y’all, too.
Just before we boarded the plane, the gate agents started calling passengers up to give them a voucher. As the first few names were called, other passengers cheered. Like, we thought they had won some sort of prize. I actually texted Coty, “this is some bullshit right here; do they know what my hourly rate is? They had best have a voucher for Meredith and two vouchers for me if they know what’s good for them!” Turns out, we all got one. One. Hundred. Dollars. Mind you, the bastards printed them. I hate printed boarding passes. Welcome to the 21st century, mother fuckers. We all on some sorta electronic devices right about now. Pull that shit up on your phone, fucking tree killer. They finally call “Susan and Meredith Moo-Ay-Hay”. Yup. That’s us, The Moo-Ay-Hays. I took the two pieces of tree and shoved them into my backpack and grumbled about the fact that they have my RR# and email address on file and have had for years and that they could’ve sent them electronically blah blah blah. Oh, and it’s Myou-Ee. I mean, how hard is it? No, there is not an “L” and no, there is not a “C”. And, yes, I am having a full-on conversation with myself walking back to get in line with the rest of the cattle awaiting a hot prod to be herded onto the plane. Well, the universe got me. Not twenty minutes later, I went to get something out of my backpack and got a fucking paper-cut from those damn vouchers! See? One more reason to go paperless…
All evening, there were rumors in the terminal. There was a rumor that our plane and crew were stuck in San Antonio (probably had too much tequila!) and another that we didn’t have a plane due to mechanical issues. Another rumor that we had a plane and a pilot but no copilot and no flight attendants. Now, if those bitches had read my blog, they’d know damn well that this Karen could fly right seat and get all you bitches there safe and sound. Hell, if needed, I could also be a flight attendant. Put the vest over your head and tighten the strap like so; actually, fuck the vest – you only need it for a water-based landing. I checked the map and there ain’t no water between us and Kansas Shitty so y’all good. But, in case of a drop in cabin pressure, some bags gonna magically drop from the ceiling. Strap that bitch over yo mouth and yo nose. Put yours on first on first before you go helping yo little shitlins because if you pass out, ain’t no one here to help they little asses. Note: the bag may not inflate, that means that the fat fucks behind you are suckin up all da air. Don’t worry. We all gonna die anyways. If by chance the pilots *is* able to land this bitch in one piece, attempt to follow the lights on the floor to the nearest exit door. Leave your shit – including your spouse. Oh, wait. That last part might be wrong. It’s likely that you won’t be able to see them due smoke and other passengers that are willing to stomp over yo ass to get out first. That part might be wrong, too. Either way, I can fill in. Although, I would probably spill the drinks and eat all the snacks. That’s not even true. I won’t eat the snacks. I can’t because they aren’t GF. Plus, I won’t spill drinks – I’ll just hand you the can; you don’t need a cup or ice. You’re fine. And, the vodka. I wouldn’t spill the vodka – it’ll just be all gone.
Now, let’s get back to the flight. As you can imagine, it wasn’t full. All of the sane people had ditched the flight and had gone home and slept in their own beds. Us losers had row to ourselves. Meredith was exhausted. She’s never been one to party on a Friday night during the school year (all bets are off on a Saturday night, though). I took out my Lysol wipes and sanitized every surface within 6 feet of my little (I was a germaphobe before it was cool to be) germaphobe. She put the tray table down and went to sleep. For her sake, I’m glad she did. Now y’all, I’ve been on some bumpy flights. I’m not gonna lie: I ain’t a fan. My Dad owned multiple single engine aircraft when I was growing up (hence, my knowledge) and he always joked about getting stock in Sic-Sac Motion Sickness bags <eyeroll>. Anywayyysss…the turbulence seemed a bit much so I pulled up the handy dandy SWA app and it appeared that we were travelling at a mere 22,000 feet and approximately 600 mph ground speed. I almost stood and walked to the front and knocked on the captain’s door to make a request that we climb a good 10K or so but then I remembered that “they” may not take too kindly to that. But, THEN I realized something worse. One time, a friend (not calling her out but y’all know who she is) told me how she interviewed to be a pilot with SWA. Aviation, as you can imagine, is kinda a good-ol-boy network. She described the other SWA pilots as the type that fly “by the seat of their pants”. Now, why I chose this very second to remember that 10 year old conversation is completely beyond me. Perhaps it isn’t turbulence? Perhaps this plane is being pushed past its limits? Here’s me trying to locate a website to convert ground speed (miles per hour) to a *safe* air speed (knots/nautical miles per hour) for the particular model of aircraft we were on. Y’all. Where’s that flight attendant with my vodka tonic?! Damn.
We landed *safely* at the dump – err – MCI (I believe they’re in the process of changing the name to KCI because the acronym MCI is too confusing to the locals) airport just before 2:30 A. To my Fe friends, I shit you not when I say that it smelled like the old Junior High building. Meredith and I stopped and the ladies’ room then dragged ourselves down to baggage claim. The car rental companies closed at midnight and all of their employees were gone. The taxi companies weren’t answering. I was on my phone to schedule a Lyft when we ran into a teammate that was trying schedule an Uber. Neither of us was having any luck. A driver would agree to pick up the fair and then they’d drop it and we’d get a notification that our ride had been cancelled. We’d schedule another ride (for a higher fee) and then it would get dropped again. This went on for at least 30 minutes. No cars. No bars. Complete fucking shit show, y’all. Fortunately, another player from the team was picked up by her step-dad (who had driven up to the tournament to meet her there) offered to drive back the airport to pick us up. It was 3:50 A when he got back to MCI/KCI for us and 4:29 A when I climbed into my full-sized (more on that in a bit) hotel bed. Court call for later that day was 1:30 P.
I’ve only travelled by air with either of our girls without Coty one other time and that was the fifth-grade field trip to Washington DC with Mallory. Completely different scenario – she stayed in a room with friends and the chaperones/teachers were more responsible for her than I was. Outside of that, this trip with Meredith was different. I had to be the responsible parent. I was the one to set the alarm to get up early, shower, do the Starbucks run for breakfast, get back to the room, drag the sleeping not-so-beauty out of bed, and get her to the dance – err – game on time. Meredith takes after me. She is not a morning person. We made it downstairs by 1:10 P and had high hopes for making the court for 1:30 P. The concierge suggested taking the *free* train transportation that we could pick up “just across the street” and it would carry us to “just near” the convention center. Sounds lovely. We walked outside and started to cross the street when we noticed a gathering of people. Hmm. Seems suspicious. It was, in fact, the poor schmucks awaiting the *free* train. I suggest we take an Uber our first day to play it safe. Y’all. My baby child was on time. Mama was late (because I forgot to buy my ticket and I had to look that shit outta my email but it really don’t matter because MY BABY CHILD WAS ON TIME. I did that shit ALL BY MYSELF, too. [PS – I learned later all about that train and wanna tell y’all now. “Just near” means four to five blocks. Uphill. In the cold and wind. OH, HELL NO. Could y’all imagine my fat-ass, carrying my Starbucks, huffing, puffing, coughing, cussing, and making a complete spectacle of myself? Meredith would’ve been all embarrassed and she’d have no choice but to leave me behind. She’d start her own blog to tell stories about her fat-ass mother, Karen, who wears her hair cut too short, hoop earrings too big, cusses too much, Disney hater, cabi clothes all the time, and has a drinking problem. It’s really nothing y’all didn’t already know. <shrug>
Y’all. The first day of play was rough and I felt bad for the two other girls from our team that were on the late flight with us. Meredith had a rough first set but pulled her shit together and my videos were in line with her: I was hitting record at the end of the play and stopping the recording at the serve. WTG, Team Muehe! (I’m happy to report that she pulled her shit together and played well the rest of the tournament. I was hit or miss with my videos for the rest of the trip. Such is the life of a Karen, I suppose). We tied for first place at the end of day one. Guess how we were rewarded for that shit? Go head on, take a guess. You get put in the AM wave with an 8:15 A court call. Gee, thanks. Unfortunately, we lost a strong hitter at the end of day one and our libero on day two. Kansas Shitty was not good to our already small team.
If you played volleyball in high school and you are my age and or close to my age, you don’t know the rules. That shit has all changed. The ball can, in fact, touch the net. You do not need to be in possession (aka serve) in order to score a point. On and on. So many changes. But, here’s some other *important* shit I’ve learned:
- people with volleyball backpacks walking around a venue a fucking lethal. They think nothing of stopping and turning on a dime and taking this Karen out in the process. Look, I’m old and I’m slow and I’m thinking of 102 other things so pay the fuck attention, OK?
- Typically, there is only enough seating for the family of the two teams that are currently playing. As in, this game. Right now. If that ain’t your baby child on the court, then you got to go. I don’t care where you go or who you go with. I also don’t care that they play there the next game. See that blonde right there? Yes, #28 – “Meredith – yes, wave honey”. Yeah, that’s my daughter. She’s playing now. So, you need to go.
- It’s a quick change here, y’all. Team leaves; parents leave. New team enters to warm up; new set of parents come in. Y’all. Some mom was talking shit about me because I moved her shirt. Um, no. It’s time for you to go. I ain’t stealing your ugly ass tournament jersey. You’re just mad because your team just lost and they gonna lose again when we play them at 2 P today (and, y’all they did! Bahahaha!)
It’s probably best that they don’t sell alcohol at these tournaments. I mean it could get ugly. Like really ugly.
Highlights from the tournament include:
- Karen taking a volleyball directly to the face. Like do not pass “GO”, do not collect $200…it was kinda ugly. The hit went directly to the frame across my nose/between my eyes so split the skin and it bled. My glasses flew off. Everyone was all “oh my god are you okay?” and I’m all “oh my god who saw that and are people looking?” So fun. It didn’t break my nose or my glasses (phew!) and I only got one black eye. Yay. To this day, I firmly believe that Meredith paid someone to hit that ball towards me. There’s no rhyme nor reason as to why it came my way. I’m smart about where I sit – it’s like “a no-hit zone”. Somewhere there’s a video entitled “Karen takes a volleyball to the face” and that shit’s gone viral. I want my cut, damnit.
- Y’all, the refs at these tournaments were the absolute best. They were calling calls and signaling shit I’d never seen nor heard of. I mean, I feel like I’ve been at this long enough that I’ve seen and heard all the calls at least once or twice. I mean, I’m googling shit left and right like “what the fuck was that call? and what the fuck did he just say? and he does know that this is volleyball, right?” I guess they were hoping to give all the girls a real Olympic experience or something in Kansas Shitty.
I’m gonna leave y’all with this: Full. Sized. Beds. Honestly, y’all. Do we even need to discuss these again? You cannot put two of these in one room and then claim that you can sleep four adults in that space. No. Fucking. Way. Now, the first two nights were decent. Meredith had a bed with four pillows and I had a bed with four pillows. However, when HRH arrived, that all went to shit. Picture it: me. Sleeping in the fetal position on my side. According to HRH, my derrière cuts through the easement and he shoves me back to my side of the property line in a not so gentle way that stirs me from my slumber. This only happens like once or twice or fourteen hundred times in one night. He’s a real keeper, y’all. #imnotforeveryoneyall