Where Are All The Men??

It's been almost a month since I was challenged to go out with at least one new dude a week. I have yet to go out on a date but it's not for a lack of trying.

I do have a type. I love hella geeky, kinda chubby, bald or balding, smart, sarcastic, funny, introverted  white dudes who have that whole Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde thing behind close doors. Looks don't mean shit. I'm all about that personality and how easy it is to be around a dude. But in an effort to fulfill my challenge, I've done the unspeakable and have agreed to go out with a couple of handsome dudes, a few rich ones and even a *gulp* Mexican dude. Desperate times, desperate measures. Even though I've left my comfort zone, I'm still at a complete and total loss.

Maybe I'm old fashioned but I raised to let the man, be the man. I was taught to never chase a dude. That if a man is interested in you, he will make damn sure to let you know so you don't go looking for new dick. I was told that a real man, while courting, plans the date with consideration of your location and interests. But I don't think it goes down that way anymore. I seriously think men have been on a slow and steady decline ever since they stopped wearing hats back in the 50s. Say what you want but the dudes back then, were men. 

Before today I have accepted a total of 4 dates. One dude ghosted me after I refused to call him first. Another dude, is someone I dated before. We were supposed to go day drinking and be done by 4 so he could pick his kid up but he decided not to day drink with me after I told him I had an appointment at 4...? I can't even. The other two dudes asked me out but wanted me to plan the date...?!?! I feel like I'm caught in a Twilight Zone version of Sex and the City. 

But seriously, WHERE HAVE ALL THE REAL MEN GONE?? When did it start being ok to "maybe grab a beer" after you're done with whatever plans you have going on??? Who are these chicks that let guys get away with "hanging out"??? What's even worse is when they all together skip the dating part and just ask to fuck. Am I the only chick willing to tell them the truth about how desperate they look??? Do they not know how unattractive it is to come across as hard up as they do?!? How and when did it all get so out of hand??? What has happened to "dating"....?!? When did men start acting like chicks?!!? Dudes acting like bitches is an epidemic that warrants the attention of every American in our country. It's like a defective condom spreading a disease with every pelvic thrust. A disease jeopardizing our great nation and our ability to not only sustain but also to progress. If we don't get a handle on this, before you know it, this disease will only become stronger. So strong that eventually it will evolve into a new generation of men being born sans nut sacks. Don't believe me? Stop and look around. The writing is on the wall. There is evidence of  it everywhere. The time is near. You have been warned.

But I digress. I will persevere and press on. I'm still going to see this dating challenge through. I do, after all, have a couple of dates lined up this week. And if all goes well and they come through, maybe, just maybe I'll have actual men show up and not some bitch ass dudes too afraid to be men. 

Hashtag wishmeluck

Peace, Love & Baseball,

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,

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,

"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,