Anxiety? Insomnia? or Denial?

I hate getting older. With age comes mammograms, insomnia, anxiety attacks and I think maybe loneliness. Or maybe the loneliness, the anxiety and the insomnia are part of the hang over from my last relationship?

I haven't been able to sleep. I have so many things on my mind. Ok. I'll be honest,  I have one thing on my mind, Michigan. It's like I'm waiting around for him to call me, want me, text me, remember me...and why? He hasn't in MONTHS. You'd think by now I'd be over him. Over waiting. Over hoping. But clearly, I'm not. And I really don't quite understand why I'm so attached. The fucker lives 10,000 miles away. In the year that we were...oh I don't know what you would call it....together?...involved?...talking?...acquaintances?....whatever, I have seen him twice. ONLY twice. So why is it so fucking hard to let go of him?  My first thought is that maybe I just don't know how to end relationships. While I do know that there is some truth to that last statement given the whole Fuckface debacle, I did, in my defense, have two relationship between Fuckface and Michigan. I was able to let go of those guys just fine. So what's it with Michigan that makes me feel like I can't breath every time I confront myself about cutting all ties? It's not like I see him in everywhere I go because he was everywhere I'd been. I don't have to worry about running into him at the grocery store or at the bar. I don't have to avoid certain restaurants, movie theaters, stores, bars or golf courses because they incite sentimental memories. It's not like my family, The Wolf Pack or my kids have met him, love him, miss him and now ask about him. In fact, my mother recently told me that she always forgot about Michigan. She said she'd never met him and even doubted if he existed. Can you believe it?!? That fucking cunt actually had the nerve to half-heartdly joke that I "made him up". So what is it? Is it a matter of habit? Did I underestimate just how emotionally retarded I am? What gives? So the other night I made myself sit down and think about it. I now know what it is.

Michigan made me feel safe. He made me feel protected. He made me feel like he would always be there to take care of me. Like I could finally rest my weary head on someone's shoulder. In all my life, literally as far back as my memory can take me, I have NEVER felt safe or protected. Not even as a child but that's a story for another day. For as long as I can remember, I have always had to be strong, self protect and develop an incredibly hard outer shell. It's exhausting living that way. Never letting your guard down. Never fully resting. Keeping everyone at arms length. Building walls that are taller, thicker and stronger. At 37 it has left me tired - emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually. I've never depended on anyone. And I think because I lack the ability to trust, because I'm always questioning people's motives, I think it's left me with a broken 'picker'. I think it's why I always pick the wrong guy. The kind of guy that, even if I birth their first born, they are never there for me...or their kids. I've always had to be the mother and the father. I've had to be the 'man' in the relationship. The one who faced responsibility and took care of everything. Who left emotions at the door so I could better make decisions for the good of my family. The one who sacrificed. Every. Single. Man. I have been with has been not only undependable but they have also been spineless. Men ruled by their emotions. Helpless sacks of shits with penises. Michigan was different. He gave me a sense of peace. A sense of security. I thought that for once my future was looking up. I thought I hit the lotto. That my ship had finally came in. I've always wanted a man who was like my dad. Michigan was the closet thing to my dad that I've ever come across. And that's the problem. I never knew what it was like to feel secure, protected or safe. Now that I've had a taste of it, I'm addicted. So how do I move on? How do I live without it?

I know Michigan isn't the one for me. My life was not meant to be with him. As much as he is like my dad the truth is, my dad would never have treated my mother the way Michigan has treated me. I can replay all the sweet things he said but there is no denying that he is not good for me at all. As of lately he has been flirting with me. Asking me if we're over. He has regrets and hopes that our chances haven't ran out. Keeps telling me how much he cares. How much he misses me. How much it hurts him to not be with me. In fact just tonight, he told me something about how he thinks we will grow old together. Yet in all of this he has failed to step up and either a) commit to working it out with me or b) walk away and leave me the fuck alone. I've confronted him. I've told him the ugly truth and I haven't held back. I've told him he is slowly ripping my heart out. But he hasn't stopped. So now I'm at a loss. A loss of sleep, appetite, clarity, peace and happiness. Tonight I am struggling with the need to confront him with how much his recent decision to go on a last minute trip to Vegas when he wouldn't go on the trip we planned has hurt me.  I take his apathy + bailing out on our trip + his constant recent expressions of affection, in spite of him knowing it's killing me + going to Vegas and all I want to do is tell him that his recent choices have made him toxic. That it is time I walk away. That I can't handle him chasing me when I know he isn't ready, or fuck, even wanting to catch me. That he needs to leave me alone. But is that the right answer? Am I being overly emotional? Or am I just merely clinging on to hope looking for a way to not have to do the one thing I know I need to do but can't?

Peace, Love & Baseball,

P.S. I've never believed the excuse he gave me for not going to KC with me. So I waited a while and decided tonight I would ask him about his assistant. If she was ok after her fall that left her dancing with prospect of surgery. He repeatedly asked me about what I was talking about. That he didn't know anything about her falling. Then about after a minute, he suddenly remembered that she did fall and hurt her ankle but decided against surgery because she didn't want to deal with it. I don't know about you but it sounds like I was right. That the whole fucking story smells like one big fat steaming pile of horse shit.

Defining Moments

Most people like defining moments. They say they make you stronger. They show you what you're made of. I could give a fuck about defining moments. I don't want to know what I'm made of. I don't what to know if I'm strong. Ignorance is bliss for a fucking reason. Maybe that's just me. I would rather not have that sick, twisted feeling in the pit of my stomach when something I thought would work out one way, doesn't. Who needs that??? Well, I guess I do.

There have been so many "defining moments" that have clearly defined what Michigan doesn't feel for me. But again, I'm forever a slave to the "what ifs" defying all reason in doing what I know is right for me. I most recently decided to call it quits and give Michigan the boot when he left me high and dry for a trip we had planned 2 months ago to go to Kansas City to see the San Francisco Giants play. He canceled a day and a half before we were supposed to leave. Anyone who knows me, knows I am a diehard Giants fan. Every time I see them step out onto the field, it's like seeing Paul McCartney for the first time. I tear up, I get goose bumps and I suddenly come down with a case of tourettes screaming in excitement. I grew up in the 'Stick. I used to see my boys in orange in black several times a month, every month, through out the season. I've been fortunate.  For as long as I've been watching them, they have never sucked. We've been to 4 World Series' and out of those 4 we've won 2. Not bad. Unfortunately, I was a complete and total dick growing up. I, for no reason, decided to hate my dad. I did lots of things to rub my disdain for my dad in his face. My crowning jewel was to pretend to be a Dodgers fan. Talk about a scorching knife right to the heart. As a kid, I wouldn't allow to myself to outwardly express my love for my team. I am a woman of little regrets, but not taking advantage of being amongst my fellow fans and pretending to be a Dodger fan just to spite my dad is my biggest regret. Now that I'm an adult and see the error of my ways, I tragically live in fucking Tex-ASS. I'm not even close enough to take a weekend road trip to see them play. So when I do see my team, it's absolutely special and I cherish it. Michigan knows this. He knows what this trip meant to me. Michigan had an epiphany two weeks before our trip. His best friend died of leukemia two years ago and recently had another friend diagnosed with ALS. Faced with his mortality he came to me and told me that he needed to make changes in his life. That he finally understood that we only live once and he recognizes that he has fallen into a rut of just working and golfing. He said that after his mom passed away that he took it upon himself to put his life on hold to make sure that his dad was ok but just when he was ready to start doing things for himself, his dad had a triple bypass and gall bladder surgery. But now, he sees that he needs to live his life and do what makes him happy and supposedly, I make him happy. He said he knew he needed to make an effort to see me. An effort to show me how much he cares for me. I bought it. Hook. Line. And mother fucking sinker. 

He canceled because supposedly his assistant fell. Her tumble was so bad that she was looking at the possibility of surgery. He was waiting on X-rays and MRIs for confirmation. But even if she hadn't fell, he was working on an appointment with a builder on a big project he was trying to land. I don't know about you but I smell good ol' fashioned BULL-MOTHERFUCKING-SHIT. But why argue? Why call him out on it? At the end of the day, he doesn't want to go with me. Knowing why he doesn't isn't important. I know what I need to know.  But is anything ever really that simple? Nope. Not for me. I have a taste for complicated bullshit. For Michigan is one of my customers. Yup, he and my boss are tight. In fact, my boss asked Michigan if he knew anyone in Tex-ASS who would be good in my current position. Michigan without hesitation recommended me. When I travel and party on business trips with my boss, Michigan knows every fucking detail. He is even given any photographs documenting our adventures. So writing Michigan off isn't as easy as it should be. Fuck me for breaking my one cardinal rule, to NEVER pick up my meat where I get my bread. In the 17 years I have been in this industry, I have never ever even once considered giving my number to anyone, much less date anyone. Why do I do this to myself?!? Knowing I had a fine line to walk, I told Michigan that I could remain friends with him if he refrained from talking about what he and I had. How could I have ever expected a man who left me high and dry for a trip that meant the world to me, a man who has done nothing but show me apathy for the past 7 months, to respect my wishes??? 

The brother of the friend who died of leukemia invited Michigan to go to Vegas with he and his wife to get away since Michigan is struggling with his mortality. Michigan asked me what I thought. I told him that he should go because we only live once. That opportunities are fleeting and he needed to take them when he had them. He joked about stopping in Tex-ASS on his way to Nevada. At the time I believed I'd be ok with him going. I didn't even question it. I didn't think it would matter to me. But god damn those defining moments. Those fucking moments that check your gut...and fuck you up. Today, after him texting me only to ignore me all of yesterday, he tells me that he decided to go to Vegas. BAM! Defining moment, in the form of a roundhouse kick right to my mother fucking face. When I read his text, it felt like he kicked me in the stomach. This mother fucker couldn't go on a trip he had planned with me for 2 months, yet he can go on a last minute trip to Vegas??? I can't even begin to imagine what a last minute ticket from Michigan to Vegas is. And then suddenly it hit me. I don't want to be friendly with this guy. Being friendly with this guy just gives him more opportunities to shit on me. To shit on me like it's nothing. Like it's my lot in life. So what to do? Do I trust what he said in the beginning when he promised me that if things didn't work out, that he wouldn't fuck with my career or do I suck it up, take my medicine and walk that line? 

I find myself, again, torn between what I know I need to do and what I want to do. I guess what I need is another defining moment...another gut check to show me what I'm made of, to let me know how strong I really am. Fuck defining moments. 

Peace, Love & Baseball,

Fucking Michigan

I'm so predictable. Isn't this how it always goes? I start a blog so I can spare my ex of unloading all of my emotional diarrhea on him. I'd much rather appear emotionally unstable and downright crazy with perfect strangers on the interwebs than ever give up my "Fuck you. I'm fabulous" facade to him. When I leave someone, I prefer to quietly pack what's left of my dignity and disappear like a box of condoms in a whore house. But where would the fun in that be?!? It's not a party unless you've drunk dialed your ex. And it really isn't a party until they've played "Turn Down For What" which is the equivalent to a drunk dialed emotional, tear filled, snot dripping, crying so ugly that you can't breath so you repeat the first syllable of the first word in every sentence at least three times type of stutter call at 3 o'clock in the morning. Yup. I got drunk and crunk.

What did I expect? I saw all the red flags...38, never been married, doesn't have kids, owns a successful company, country club membership, owns a house, has a car and last but not least, his last significant relationship was in 19-fucking-99...oh, and let me not forget to mention that he lives in Michigan. Yeah, fucking Michigan. Home to the fucking wasteland of America, Detroit. Fucking Michigan shaped like a dirty fucking mitten that looks like it's trying to fist fuck a rabbit. Fucking  Michigan where you freeze your god damned ass off for like 9 months out of the year. Home to the fucking pastiest mother fucking, rude ass, unhappy, wanna be Kid Rock or Eminem, talking funny saying stupid shit like 'pop' instead of soda, asshole, mother fuckers. Not to mention, home to the fucking Detroit Red Wings. A team with the stupidest fucking name. A name that makes me think of used maxi pads. Not hockey.

Everyone tried to warn me. My friends, my dad and my mother fucking gut all tried to tell me to stay away from him. They all tried to appeal to my better judgement.  He hasn't been in a committed relationship in this millennium, they said. He works all the time, they said. He golfs 4 hours a day...EVERY god damned day, they said. He's never had to worry or consider anyone but himself, they said. He lives in Michigan, they said. Do you really want to live in Michigan, they asked.  It's cold as fuck there, they reminded me. My buddy, Tilting Suds, told me that there were SO many red flags that it was like the Red Army marching into Berlin in 1945. Which in retrospect, I find both perceptive and well, fucking funny. But my fucking treacherous piece of shit heart wasn't having any of it. It betrayed me.

Yup it betrayed me and my mind in doing what was best for me. I felt like Adam in the Garden of Eden looking at that fucking perfect piece of ass, Eve. How could he have possibly resisted. How when she was putting that deliciously red apple to her perfectly pink parting lips...all while being naked? I can't hate on the dude. He was at a total and complete loss. There was no way he was walking away from all that as the victor. Nope. No way and no how. And that sneaky, deceitful, shit talking little snake totally knew it. You'd think Adam would have maybe, at the very least, gave pause for thought. I mean, acid hadn't been invented yet and here he is listening to his chick flapping her gums about a talking snake and apples that turn you into god. I mean just typing that whole scenario over again, sounds bat shit crazy. I can't even imagine what it was like to be there. To look that crazy bitch in the eye as she was droning off like she's Lewis fucking Carroll. To throw all caution to the wind and eat an apple, at the advice of a talking snake. What the fuck was he thinking?!?!? But I can't talk shit. Nope. I've lost all rights to goof on him. All rights to want to grab him by the shoulders, slap his dick and yell at him, "Dude! The bitch is talking about a fucking talking snake! About apples that turn you into God!!! Snap the fuck out of it! Kick that bitch in the twat and shove that fucking apple down that snake's mouth and walk away! Just fucking walk away!!!" But I'm no better. I'm the crazy bitch who listened to my fucking heart. A fucking bloody muscle that doesn't talk. I mean at least that snake had a mouth. I just sat there and fucking listened to it, getting lost in all the shit it was talking about love and how it conquers all. Imagining myself dancing and skipping around in a cartoonish like land, like the Beatles in that Yellow Submarine cartoon. Sitting there all whacked out of my mind dreaming up imaginary people and animals and monsters chasing rainbows in my pursuit of love. What the fuck was I thinking?!?!? How did I ever fucking believe this self centered, moody, bald prick would ever feel motivated by something as ridiculous as love, to change into the man of my fucking dreams. Like I was fucking Belle and he was the god damned Beast. Like following the advice of talking furniture, or fuck just any kind of talking inanimate objects or animals, sounds like even a remotely good idea. But I did it. I threw caution to the wind. I took a bite of that apple and came out butt hurt when it didn't turn me into a god.

Fuck love. I think you have a better shot at becoming god by eating an apple than you do of falling in love.

Peace, Love & Baseball,

"I Have Cats."

It's always the same. I'm at the bar, drinking a beer with the Wolf Pack, laughing, talking about extraordinarily inappropriate shit, when some douche bag just HAS to come up and start talking to me. I get it. I'm a relatively attractive chick with really big jugs. I also understand that when a dude does come across a relatively attractive chick with really big jugs who also happens to be talking about beer (REAL. FUCKING. BEER.- none of that bullshit Blue Moon, Stella Artois, Shiner Bock shit...but real fucking craft beer), baseball, blow jobs, squirting and the other joys of sex...that most dudes understand that they have pretty much stumbled upon the ever so elusive "Holy Grail" of chicks...the equivalent of a Caspian Tiger, down at the local bar. I smell their fear. I can see the apprehension, the excitement, the utter disbelief that they actually found a cute chick with big jugs who likes beer, baseball and sex in their eyes. They've all heard chicks like me existed but for fuck's sake they didn't actually ever believe the urban legend. When this happens, I do my very best to avoid eye contact no matter how distracting or loud or sometimes just down right retarded they act to get my attention. I don't give in. I stay focused, focused on making sure they know I want them to leave me the fuck alone. Most dudes pick up on the "go fuck yourself" vibe. Some don't. Sometimes, they try to engage someone else in my group...sometimes, just sometimes, they actually have the balls to step up to this little loud, foul mouthed, big titty bitch. When they do, it usually goes down like this:

Douche Bag: "Hi, what's your name?"
BBC: *completely straight faced* "I have cats."
DB: *look of sheer confusion* "Er...uh...so...um...do you come here often...??"
BBC: *without breaking eye contact* "I have cats. I dress them up....wanna see pics???"
DB: *dazed, confused*

And what'ya know, before I turn back around with my phone in hand ready to show them pictures of my itty bitty kitties in costume, the douche bag has left...no where to be found.

This happened again tonight. My mother was part to blame for indulging the cheese dick who had locked in on my tits like a missile on it's target. Had she just kept her trap shut and let me shame him when he said that he not only didn't have time to watch baseball but that he was also a Doucheback fan, everything would have been fine. But she couldn't. After an hour of drunkingly babbling on and on about how he was a reformed bad boy who didn't like baseball he finally had the balls to ask me what it would take to get my number. Since telling him I had cats didn't work, I decided to tell him that he needed to challenge the R.A. Dickey douche bag look-a-like in the Dodger hat at the end of the bar in a duel to the death. If he won, I'd gladly give him my digits. I don't know if was my request to kill a man for wearing a Dodgers hat or my half English, half Spanish 30 minute rant on how much I hated the fucking Dodgers that eventually scared him away but whatever it was, it finally seemed to work.

Why can't men just leave me the fuck alone?!? *Sigh* Well, at least my dad got a good laugh at my expense.

Peace, Love & Baseball,

Men Will Always Be Men...Or Male, They'll Always Be Male

I have 3 cats.

1. Mays, female, all gray, short haired, named after one of the greatest baseball players of all time, Willie Mays.
2. Bonds, female, all black, short haired, named after the one and only, Barry Bonds.
3. Cain, male, all orange, long haired, named after the first San Francisco Giant pitcher to pitch a perfect game, Matt Cain.

It is certainly no coincidence that my cats are not only named after San Francisco Giant players but also have San Francisco Giant colored coats. I love my cats. I love baseball. I love the Giants. Sue me. While I love all my cats and think they are all beautiful, one stands out to the be the fairest of them all, Cain. He has the sweetest, most loving, most innocent teeny tiny kitten face I have ever seen. He has the fluffiest, softest, most perfect orange fur that just begs you to touch him. Pet him. Grab him. Hug him. I saved my sweet-faced little boy when he was four weeks from a self involved cunt and a bratty ill behaved 2 year old. Coming from that home, I COMPLETELY understand his inability to trust. And there, right there, in that simple little statement is the root of all my problems.

I fell in love with Cain from the moment I laid eyes on him. I knew he came from a bad home. I knew he was damaged. But when I saw that perfectly, delicious, whipped up little ball of orange creamsicle colored fur, he had to be mine. I took him, confident that with enough love...with enough time...that he would one day learn to love and trust me in return. At first, I won him over by giving him kitten formula (yes, there really is such a thing as formula for kittens). Every morning when I woke up and every evening when I came home, I'd pour my sweet little handsome man a bowl of kitten formula. At first he was skeptical, not really sure if it was all trap. But over time he learned to relax. He learned that I just wanted to care for him, be good to him, to love him. Within a matter of days he started to let me pet him while he ate. Total. Breakthrough. As he became stronger and healthier I stopped giving him the formula. Immediately, I was back at square one. If I walked in his direction or hell, if I just walked around in the room, he'd stand to attention and bolt like an illegal crossing the border to another room. I didn't push. I didn't pursue. I understood he needed space, so I gave it to him. I'd only talk to him from afar, sweetly complimenting him or softly asking him how his day had gone. Eventually, he no longer bolted at the sound of my voice. In fact he started coming up to me wanting to be petted. Alas, love indeed did conquer all! Or so I thought.


As much as I love my handsome little man, I have come to the realization that Cain is *sigh* well, an asshole. True to his male DNA, he wants to be loved, on his terms. It always goes down the same way, he gives me just enough attention to get me to love on him and pet him but as soon as I want more and go to hug him, the little fucker runs. Just to come back around again for me to pet him, all on his terms. The other day, after repeatedly pulling his bullshit on me, I decided to call him out on his bad behavior. I sat up and looked him square in his big brown caramel colored eyes, poking him in the chest, asking him why was he so unwilling to let me love him. How, after everything I do for him, how could he be so damn distant? I explained that I simply just want to love him. I asked him why it was so fucking hard for him to factor me into his fucking little life in any real way. I begged him to tell me how or what I needed to do for him to love me...because whatever it is, I'm in this...I'm committed...I'm willing to do whatever he wants, all he has to do is just tell me. After pleading with him I hit a low. I let my hurt turn into frustration and I resorted to name calling. I called him every fucking name in the book...mother fucker, cock tease, son of a bitch....you name it, I said it. And after all that, do you know what he did? After running the gamet of emotions...??  He just sat  there. All fluffy and soft and orange purring and meowing ever so lovingly while looking at me like he didn't understand where all of this was coming from...almost as if, to insinuate that I was making it all up in my head. So I sat there, stone walled, defeated, empty only for that little mother fucker to come up and rub up on me as if everything was ok. And you know what I did? I petted him. Yeah, I petted that little shit until he had enough and ran away.

Even my relationship with my male cat is dysfunctional.

Peace, Love & Baseball,

Question Most Asked and Hated

"How are you still single?!?"

Every time someone asks me that, I always have the same reaction.  Every. Single. Time. Almost like a programmed default setting. I feign flattery and fight the urge to punch the throat those words belong to, all while trying to decide which version of the truth to tell them. Which version will get me from point a, to point get me the fuck out of this subject the fastest? The only element that changes in my answer, is the excuse. It's a matter of choice, busy with work, busy with kids, busy with baseball, busy with my cats, there aren't any available good men, there aren't any available good men like my dad, I have a fear of commitment, I prefer to pass my time staring at glitter…you get the point. It's a struggle not because I can't face my truth or because I don't know the reason but more in fear of their inability to digest my answer. And let's be honest, I don't really believe anyone really wants the truth. I think if they did, then they'd start by asking the question honestly. 'How' isn't honest. It immediately relieves the questionee of any and all accountability. 'How' implies that perhaps your relationship status is something left to luck or to chance. As if the only reason you're still single is because of that mirror you broke back in the fifth grade or overslept that one fateful morning missing your chance meeting with the love of your life at Starbucks. 'Why' is honest. 'Why' kicks you in the nuts and holds you down by your throat until you answer. I think if anyone ever asked me why, "BBC, WHY are you still single?" I'd like to think I'd answer with a little something like this:

"Why? Hmm. Good question. You'd think being married and divorced by 20 and having two kids with two different dads would be reason enough. But no. I'm not that smart. I decided to go and "fall in love" with a man who felt, at best, I was ordinary - and I stayed with him for seven years. So naturally I decided the only logical thing to do after him, would to immediately get into another relationship with a man who was still in love with his ex-wife or the life he had with his ex-wife. After he dumped me, he decided to turn around and stalk me in a weird way that kinda suggested that I dumped him. I then made the decision to become involved with a man who had never been alone. In an effort to avoid loneliness and to cope with the demons of his failed relationships, he decided to fabricate a whole new version of his past. Basically making him a bold faced liar. So when I finally decided to throw in the towel and give up dating, I became involved with yet another man who hadn't been in a relationship since literally, last century. 

I'd like to say I have a broken 'picker' because I always seem to pick the wrong guy and that's why I'm still single. But I really can't say that because the truth is they picked me. So for whatever reason, I essentially attract and am attracted to the same guy, the guy who loves the thrill of the chase. Who ever so delicately, yet deliberately, seduces me with his determination to win me over. Only to become bored of me when I finally surrender. Who then no longer has the ability or desire to factor me into his life in any real way. Slowly but surely my priority rating in his life sinks lower and lower, so low at times that in one of those relationships, his lawn took precedence over me. Then after I finally bail, that's when they realize how great I am, how they can't live without me. They start sending flowers, buying me insanely expensive gifts and/or turn into my whipping boy, willing to do anything I request regardless of how humiliating it is. It's the same guy, the same routine, every single time. So obviously there is something about me, in my fabric, that consistently attracts this kind of man. Something must be broken in me that inevitably leads me down this same path of destruction. I don't know what it is. I don't know how to fix it. And honestly, who knows even if I could pinpoint it, if it's something that could be repaired. Perhaps its hardwired into my DNA. Who knows? But I do know that until I can some how figure out what 'it' is, that I simply shouldn't date because I'm the reason I'm still single."

But who really wants to hear that? I think we prefer to point fingers and assign blame to the other person in our failed realtionships because if we can make it about them, then it can't be us...and where's the fun in us being the fuck ups???

Peace, Love & Baseball,