"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,