30 Dates

I've been issued a challenge, 30 dates or better put, going out on a date once a week. Shouldn't be hard...but then again, dating is total bullshit.

For instance, I once went out on a date with a dude who was hella funny, smart, well read, educated, well spoken, interesting, mad cooking skills and not only did he love beer but KNEW way more about beer than me. Rare find. However, he also kept a bandanna in his back pocket to blow his nose. I don't know, something about that bandanna just screamed 'old dude' to me. After that, I couldn't picture myself naked with him in the same room. But that's just me. This dude gets hella ass. Like ass for days.

There is no rhyme or reason for makes me pop or lose a boner. It simply is what it is. Nor is anyone really safe from me losing my boner once they're with me. I was once dating this dude for a while that I was kinda into, like I saw him daily and had a drawer in my house for him into kind of way. But all that went up in flames when he decided to through a temper tantrum and literally STOMPED away from me and our group of friends in a public area. After he bitched out like a crazy chick covered in pink glitter, I couldn't get it up for him. Hard to get in the mood with a dude when all you can picture is THIS grown ass man stomping away like a little bitch baby without saying a word. Talk about being dick downed but in all the wrong ways.

When dating, you don't know you've stepped in shit until, well, in most cases, you're a drink and a half in and dinner's been ordered. At my age, you're used to it. You're even used to stepping in shit well after the dating has ended and a relationship has started. But to go out on a date knowing you're inevitably going to step in shit, eh...what's the point? While I'm all about taking my new challenge by the legs are fucking the shit out of it. I don't know if I can fully commit to just going out with any dude that asks me out, just for the sake of working my way through the dirty thirty.

I mean, I get the drill. The more I date increases the chance of finding a dude I can stand still with. Having a set frequency is going to force me out of my comfort zone and make me accept dates from men I typically wouldn't. Which in turn, will open up my playing field. I get it. I'm not a complete retard. But to accept a date from a dude that doesn't drink....???? Meeeeh, fuck that shit. I firmly believe, if you don't drink, then we have nothing in common. I drink daily. For work, with friends, with my cats and even alone. So what's the point of meeting the dude and possibly liking him if I can't play a round of golf and drink a beer? What about beer festivals, Oktoberfest, St. Patrick's Day, New Year's Eve, Cinco de Mayo, Opening Day, Thursdays...or for fuck's sake, what about my favorite past time of chasing rare brews??? What would we do when we're watching the game together....?!?! Too much going already and I haven't had the chance to flash him a little cleavage.

Stepping in shit is a given. It happens. But to willingly step in shit....??? Yeah, no thanks. While I would hate to fail my first week...I think I'd hate it even more if I had to fail sober. Besides, who knows, a lot can happen over the next day or two. A blind squirrel has been know to find her nut every once in a while.

Peace, Love & Baseball,

*Sigh*

Seriously.

I'm not angry. I'm not butt hurt.

I thought he was different. I thought we were different.

I think I'm disappointed. I wish I could be angry. Angry is familiar. I can do angry. But disappointment, eh...? Disappointment is just an emotional hang over of hope and faith. Two things I RARELY allow myself to indulge in. What do you do with disappointment? Swallow two reality pills and sleep it off?

It's super disappointing to see that this "great connection" I thought he and I shared has been reduced to nothing more than sex. Fantastic mind blowing sex but sex just the same. My boss once told me that when someone shows you their ass, you better believe it. When I walked away from him and he didn't fight for me I guess that was him showing me his ass. And this, well, I guess it's nothing more than him showing me he IS an ass. So what's a girl to do? Not a damn thing...except try not to choke on my two very large pills of reality.

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,