"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,

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,