When I'm Gone

I went to the bar last night. Yeah, I know. What's new?! I don't go to get hit on or picked up. I go to a bar that sells real beer. A bar that is notoriously known as a sausage fest of married men. I go because even if I go in alone, I'm never alone. I have close friendships with the bartenders, the wait staff and most of the other regulars. It's my home away from home...the place I go so I don't sit at home in my underwear, watching good bad TV, smoking, eating shit I shouldn't and crying in my beer by myself. I'm like 'Norm' there but with a better rack.

Last night a married dude tried to bang me in his truck. The whole thing started when he asked me if I had a boyfriend. When I told him about Lullabies and why he broke up with me, he like everyone else, was baffled. So I shot straight with the douche and told him what I thought. That it's probably because Lullabies doesn't see himself with me for some stupid superficial reason like I cuss too much, or drink too much, or work too much, or watch too much sports, or golf too much, or I'm too independent, or go out too much, or I smoke too much, or I tell crude jokes, or I'm too loud, or because I'm an unconventional mother, or that I'm a little too chubby...or, you get the point. But nonetheless, it's something superficial that really doesn't factor into being compatible with someone. He called my bullshit when I commented on the way I look. He said my looks had absolutely NOTHING to do with it. He told me the way I carried myself and how I looked made me very attractive. I didn't really put too much weight into what he said because he then went on to tell me how he couldn't stop staring at my tits unless he was checking out my ass or my legs. About that time is when he invited me to his truck. I kinda just chalked it up to him thinking I was vulnerable and that I was like most chicks and identified feeling better with sex. Much to his dismay, so not the case. While I do need a dick up in me...I don't need the fucking drama of a married one. So I took it as a compliment and walked away with my head a little higher.

Then a regular came in. We'll call him Zach because he looks IDENTICAL to Zach Galifianakis. I had shared the bar with him a few months ago when Lullabies and I were still together. At that time, Zach told me I would be pretty IF my eyelashes weren't so ugly. Uh? What? My eyelashes?!?! I'll admit it kinda fucked with my head a bit. I mean, who says that?!? Eyelashes...of all things...really???! Zach has since then apologized. Anyhow, Zach asked me about Lullabies. I gave him the story and he said I had NO reason to be insecure. BOTH said if he was attracted enough to be my boyfriend and bang me and if he is STILL banging me, that it's not the way I look....and to stop being a chick. That divorced dudes can be a little weird. To not stress over this guy and to move on to someone who will appreciate me because there are hella dudes that would totally be all about a chick like me. In all of this I had one stranger, one kinda stranger and two friends all remind me of what I bring to the table and more importantly why I shouldn't be afraid to eat alone.

While I'm fairly certain I will never understand why Lullabies suddenly from one day to the next decided he didn't want to be with me, I do know one thing. That I am, without a doubt, a badass chick. And bitches like me aren't a dime a dozen.

He doesn't know it yet but he's so going to miss me when I'm gone.

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,