Day One?

If there is one thing that Lullabies is totally consistent with, it's disappointment.

If there is one thing that I'm totally consistent with, its my inability to say no to that dick.

I had plans to see Lullabies on Wednesday night, the night before his birthday. I had every intention of walking in, pushing him down on the sofa, give him my signature porn star blow job and walk out. You know, go out with guns a blazin'. But true to form, he cancelled. Some bullshit about having a bad day at work and not wanting to be around people. What. The. Fuck. Ever.

So I went to the bar to have a drink, wait for the sun to go down and drop off Lullabies' birthday gift at the door.

Everything went as planned until that fucker texted me that I should have knocked. He says he wants to be left alone, until I'm close and then he wants me there?!? I didn't buckle. I didn't go back. But before I pat myself on the back, it had everything to do with the fact that I had a flat tire. Had my tire not been flat, I probably would have gone back...and fucked him senseless.

While I was determined to leave him alone on Wednesday, the absence of his dick in me as planned, made it impossible.

I was confident that playing golf on Thursday would distract me. But it didn't. I went over there. We talked, laughed, goofed around, had sex, cuddled and fell asleep. Bullshit.

As much as I failed on my first day, two things happened. First, I woke up at 3am and left. I didn't stay cuddled up with him like he wanted me to. Second, he said 2 very fucked up things to me.

The first was him being relieved that I had decided to give up dating and the other I can't remember, except that it was really bad...but not bad enough for me to not fuck the living shit out of him.

He didn't get the porn star blow job I was originally going to give him but I still fucked him every which way but loose. *shrug* What can I say? I'm a really weak and horny woman.

Yesterday he texted me about the night before. I should have known something was up. He was inquisitive about the night before. He wasn't joking or reminiscing about the night before like he normally does.

Last night I saw Magic Mike and the only thing I wanted after watching that movie, was his dick in and around me. But I didn't text him. I didn't fuck him. I texted him right before the movie started goofing on him about an inside joke. After 2 hours and ten fucking glorious minutes of Magic Mike, that mother fucker hadn't texted back.

So I started thinking. This is what he does. He gets close just to pull away. He's the one with the kissing and the cuddling and the jealousy...not me. He's the one always pushing shit forward just to push me the fuck away.

Who needs this bullshit? Who needs someone who only texts when he's drunk? Not this bitch. So I blocked him.

Today I woke up angry.

I woke up fed up.

Today, he can go suck his own dick.

Fuck Lullabies.

Peace, Love & Baseball,

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,

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,