Fever pitch

Ah, small town softball.

A couple of months ago I joined the local women's slowpitch softball league to meet friends and have some fun. I meant to blog about the drama that is women's adult sports back then but you know how lazy I've gotten in my retirement.

Anyhow, back when I joined I signed up on the free agent list at the rec center. A nice lady, S, called me and invited me to be on her team. I went to one or two practices wherein S, who takes her softball quite seriously, had us doing yoga and hitting flat soccer balls off of toilet plungers and doing strange drills and stuff. Having never played softball before I figured this might be the norm and just went along with it.

At the second practice the issue of ordering jerseys came up. Somehow it had been decided that our colors would be hot pink and green and we would have sleeves on our shirts so S wouldn't have to shave her armpits. These things are a concern up here in the mountains. And I'm no artiste but I have seen a color wheel and know that something is not right with hot pink and olive green together. Still, I was the new girl and didn't want to cause a ruckus so I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the other players did not and the captain was overruled on team colors but stood her ground on pit hair.

That practice ended with a few folks feeling disgruntled so the captain called a meeting at the local Mexican restaurant to improve team morale. This was right after my Vegas trip and I had won some money so I ordered a round for the girls and toasted our new team.

No sooner had I put my glass down than one of the other girls proclaimed there would be an insurrection and that S could either stay on the team as just a player or split off and form her own new team because she was too bossy and hairy. Other reasons cited for the coup were that there were too many players on the team, one girl felt threatened that other, better players from the dreaded town of Mojave (aka 'Hell on Earth') would take her position, another had issues with doing yoga before practice, and the whole body hair issue was revisited.

I watched in awe that people took their slow pitch so seriously and noted that if my life ever reached the point that I felt threatened by someone over a slow pitch position I should immediately check myself in to the local mental health facility. The meeting ended with a team split and me undecided as to which team to play with. On the one hand, S was nice but a bit demanding and serious about things, particularly religion and homeschooling. On the other hand I didn't like the way the insurgents had handled the split (it was like junior high school and S left in tears) but they were a drinking team with better colors and a few clean-shaven players I liked. So I let my alcoholic tendencies decide and went with the heathen traitors.

Now it's midseason and we have a great team. When we lose, we go down in flames and the mercy rule is used more innings than not (that's when the team at bat scores 7 runs in one inning - they just call the inning whether there are three outs or not). When we win, we're ecstatic but sportsmanlike. We bring coolers full of libations and every Wednesday a group of us head to karaoke after the game and imbibe and sing country songs and just have fun. We even have nice shirts with nicknames on the back. Here's what mine usually looks like:Here's what it looked like last night:Don't ask...Just know that we all had Tweedle names and there was a lot of cheesy tweedle humor going on.

Monday night we were short players and everyone was having to play positions they weren't used to. I play anything but pitcher and really don't care where they put me as long as I can make snide remarks. Other folks are a bit more insecure and even though no one on the team is from Mojave, somehow feel threatened if they are placed somewhere they don't want to be. One such person is C. Now C is the one person on the team I try to avoid contact with. She has a flare for drama and crude comments. Those would be comments even I find inappropriate so it's bad. She never shuts up. And she talks a lot trash. The uneducated kind. She is always injured in some grave manner that looks like she's auditioning for the role of softball victim on Grey's Anatomy. She definitely always needs to be the center of attention. Oh, and she's in her 40's so it's even more pathetic.

So Monday night C was in the outfield and I guess the first baseman told her to move over a bit. For some reason C, who has never had a problem telling me where to move when I'm in the outfield, proceeded to start yelling and throwing the F-bomb at the first baseman. This riled up our first baseman, who has some gumption of her own, and a verbal catfight ensued. Mind you, this is in the middle of an inning and the game is going on. I was over at third base so I didn't really catch all the action, but I did see C throw her glove down, scream something, and walk off the field and right out of the ballpark. In the middle of the game. When we were already short players. This resulted in us having to take an automatic out the next time she was up to bat (which was no different than her batting seeing as how she usually gets out anyhow), and having to move the second baseman into the outfield to cover centerfield. Still, we lost miserably but had fun in the process as usual.

Last night was our first post-C desertion game. We had 10 players and a few coolers of booze and C didn't show and hadn't spoken to anyone since Monday. So there we were, playing the game, when C shows up mid-game. I didn't see it but I guess the first baseman told her that she was welcome to stay and sit on the bench but that she wasn't going to pull players seeing as how C abandoned the team the previous week. Seemed fair enough to me. You walk out during a game, you sit out a game. No big deal. Well, C didn't like the deal and left the dugout claiming she'd find a new team.

You would think she'd have left the ballpark but she hung around, rooting for the other team and undoubtedly talking trash about each of our tweedleteammates.

After the game, fellow teammate T and I were walking to our cars and C's husband accosts us to start a tirade against the whole team for not having called C to apologize. He was pretty upset and felt that everyone should have called to beg C to stay and come to the game. I told him that if anything C should be apologizing to the team for her immature behavior seeing as how the other 9 players hadn't done anything to her but she'd left us short handed. He was not seeing the logic there and was upset that C was benched for acting like a three year old. T and I escaped the tirade as C's husband shifted his ire toward the first baseman who was also attempting to get to her car. He yelled at her and actually called her a whore. No, I'm not sure what that has to do with softball either.

Alas all the tweedle losers made it to karaoke and lifted our spirits with margaritas and bad renditions of Gretchen Wilson songs.

The point of this story? None. I just needed to blog and this is what has become of my life. Oh, I do have a new beau and I need to blog about him but I'm on the fence about it so you'll just have to wait until the relationship implodes so I can blog about it.

July 4 Recap

Two tanks of gas to get to northern California: $88.00
Munchies for road trip: $14.76
Bubba Keg: $14.99
Event fees: $79.00
Watching your friend lay naked on a bed of ice while drinking beer from another man's butt crack: Priceless.

Two weeks late but still worth telling.

Headed up to El Dorado National Forest with MM for the holiday weekend. He arrived with a road trip gift for me:It looks harmless enough but in reality I believe it is the liver's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

The Bubba Keg, found in your local Target store, holds 52 ounces of your favorite beverage (that's more than four bottles of beer for those of you unable to convert liquid without a Pee Chee folder), is insulated, and has been known to cause irratic behavior, stumbling, slurring, vomiting, public urination, random make-out sessions, spontaneous nudity, butt chugs, and bad karaoke. A special thanks to MM for thinking of me.

After a long drive up highway 99, we eventually arrived at our destination, Stumpy Meadows Lake, and saw this picturesque view that made the drive worth while:Upon arrival MM and I set up my tent and the mosquito-free lounge. MM opted not to set up his tent, rather to hit the beer truck with his Bubba Keg. That was his first mistake of the weekend. Note to beer-guzzling campers: set up your tent and air mattress BEFORE imbibing.

I had a beer, socialized a bit, and we were off on a trail that took us around the lake, complete with a swim-out-to-it boat full of beer and some naked guy who didn't want to get his shoes wet. Note to naked guy: You only have to remove your shoes to keep them from getting wet, other articles of clothing can stay on. Anyhow, the swim was almost as refreshing as the beer and I learned it is difficult to swim or tread water while drinking beer. I don't remember seeing MM after the run but do know he was sighted at the beer truck with his Bubba Keg on more than one occassion. I, of course, also hit the beer truck with my own Bubba Keg on several occassions throughout the first day and night which led to one of the side effects of a Bubba Keg: the random make-out.

I somehow wrangled a fellow drunken reveler into the cab of the beer truck and found myself playing tonsil hockey with him. Unfortunately, we just weren't in synch and I can't stand a bad kiss so I put a stop to things rather quickly, stating something to the effect of, "We don't kiss well." or "It just isn't working." My victim then stated something to the effect of, "Oh, but I get better." or "It'll get better." To which I replied, "No, it won't", and stumbled back to my tent. In my experience folks who aren't doing well with their tongues don't do well with other things.

So there I was, passed out in my tent, in the wee hours of the morning when I hear someone unzipping it. I flash my light at the person and see MM, covered in leaves and dirt, crawling in exclaiming that he had been sleeping outside in the dirt and didn't know how he'd gotten there. I had two words for him: Bubba Keg. Of course, that reminded him that he had misplaced his treasured vessel.

Now, anyone who has been to a hash event knows that one of the worst things you can do at such an event is lose your drinking vessel. Depending on who finds it, and where, you will have to take great measures to get it back, and when you get it back you will certainly want to disinfect it as there will inevitably have been various body parts placed in it for photo opportunities.

So after the next day's run MM was called up in front of the group (about 100 of us). Normally, people are called up for doing something wrong, or right, and given a "down down". A down down is a cup of beer that you must drinking while others sing to you. At bigger events, like a campout, people will have to sit bare-arsed on a block of ice while doing their respective down downs. Seeing as how there were about 100 people at the event, there were about six or seven blocks of ice conveniently placed on a picnic table for the ceremony. After several people were on the ice for various offenses such as sex on trail, losing the canoe, using mortal names and the like, they got everyone off the ice and made a bed of ice. Then they called MM up and brought out his Bubba Keg. They had him strip down and lay naked on the bed of ice while chastising him for LEAVING HIS BUBBA KEG IN AN OUTHOUSE - the worst offense possible. As if that weren't enough, the largest, hairiest man present then straddled MM, squatted, dropped his pants, and had another person pour beer from the Bubba Keg, down his butt crack, onto MM's face. This is called a butt chug. No, I did not have my camera but the image is forever etched in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Now, I've seen some things in my time, but this was the most disgusting, can't-stop-watching, oh-god-are-they-really-going-to-do-that, oh-god-they-just-did-it moment I've seen since that donkey show that sealed my virginity for an extra couple of years back in my Navy days.

Yet, even after this terrible ritual, MM managed to lose his Bubba Keg less than four hours later. Of course, that could have been a result of his having slept outside in the bushes somewhere again that very night. Some folks just never learn.

We eventually found our way back home. The drive back is always so much longer than the drive there. MM was still too drunk or hungover to drive so he crashed on the sofa. This is what was left of MM after a weekend with a Bubba Keg and unrestricted access to the beer truck:

Two words...

That's right folks, I have two words for you that will sum up my date on Saturday afternoon: Catholic Engineer.

I know, it's not my style. Too much structure is a bad thing. And I tend to drive those types insane because I live without many lines guiding me. In fact, my previous internet ad specifically stated, "No Catholic engineers, please, you guys are too anal retentive for a gal like me." Or something to that effect.

But, it is Tehachapi and it's slim pickin's so I decided to go ahead and meet J, a 27 year old mechanical engineer from Lancaster. His hobbies include robotics, wearing khaki anything, and talking about the purchasing chain at an aerospace company.

I was hesitant from the get go because he's a bit young and he is an engineer, but, again, it is Tehachapi...And I didn't find out he was Catholic - like went to Catholic school and lived at home until he was 26 kind of Catholic - until about 2 pm Saturday. Still, I trudged on and decided it would be entertaining fodder for you, my true friends, if nothing else. So we decided to meet up and go to the local motorcycle rally fundraiser for a beer.

The first sign of impending date disaster occurred when he stepped out of his truck with this:I believe it's a geranium? I must admit I have never been given a geranium in my life, let alone by a man on a first date. In fact, I've never heard of such a thing. I think these are the types of plants you bring to your ailing grandmother at the nursing home and even she'd rather not have it but she's too old and tired to protest. Let's face it, it's a botanical abomination with those big, waxy leaves and little odorless excuses for flowers. The kind of thing that you only find in grocery stores around greeting card holidays. And this confirms it:See the Safeway pricetag? (Actually, I just noticed it when I took the picture as I was trying to figure out what sort of plant it was. Not a geranium?) Still, I smiled and thanked him graciously while simultaneously placing it center stage on my kitchen table. After all, it is the thought that counts, right?

Note to men: Spend your $15.99 at Safeway on a 12-pack of Bass Ale or a bottle of wine. Even your grandmother would prefer it.

Those first few moments of a blind date are always a bit awkward so I offered him a beer and gave him a tour of the ranch, complete with puppies underfoot. After a beer and discussion of truffle prospects in the greater Tehachapi Valley, windmill mechanics, and solar technology, we headed to town to the poker run.

So we get to the rally and there's an admission fee (it is a fundraiser) of $10 per person. So I pull out a $20, intending to pay for myself as I believe first dates should be dutch treat, and J just says "Oh, thanks", gets his wristband, and walks in. No attempt to pay for himself or offer to pay for both. Just the presumption that I was paying for both. Of course, I didn't say anything because I'm a girl and we'd just met and it was only $10. Then again, I obviously haven't forgotten about it so make of it what you will.

Now, you know me, and you know I like a rough and tumble crowd. So a motorcycle rally at the VFW is right up my alley. Mind you, I do not look the part and was possibly the only person there in pink, but I can swill beer and comment on big pipes with the best of them. Poor J, however, seemed quite out of place and a bit intimidated. The music was loud coverband style rock and roll and the crowd was mellow in their black Harley attire in the 96 degree heat (record high here!). So we sat on a hay stack eating tri tip sandwiches, drinking lukewarm beer, him talking about something I could barely hear and did not care about: his job. Now, if you have an interesting job or something crazy happened at work, I can see talking about it. But if you're on a first date, trying to impress a girl at a biker rally, do not talk about late parts and having to make multiple phone calls to chase them. As he continued babbling about some parts for a special missile, naming each individual he works with, my eyes began to glaze over and I was just staring, smiling, as those with ovaries are genetically inclined to do. After about 10 minutes I just couldn't take it any longer so I said, "Okay, J, this is the most boring story I've ever heard, how about we talk about something else?"

Surprisingly, he agreed and said he has a tendency to babble when he's nervous. Then he admitted to not having lived away from home ever until this past year then went on and on about his grandmother and family. I then realized this guy hadn't done much living, and while I may be interesting to him, I need someone who is interesting to me. So I said I needed to get home to feed animals. He took me home and just stood in my front yard for a while, awkwardly, until I said, "Well, okay, this concludes our date." Then I scampered into the house to avoid any attempts at physical contact. I wasn't unpleasant about it, I just wanted to escape.

So this morning I got a long e-mail from J about how great a time he had. One glaring problem with the e-mail is that he wrote "Hi xxxxie!". My name is a long one, three syllables, and I use it in it's full form. I know it's difficult for some, and others are allowed to shorten it after knowing me a while. But I cannot stand when someone shortens my name and adds an -ie or -y on the end. I'm sure most folks feel the same, like going from Joe to Joey or Mike to Mikey or Jen to Jenny. We omit those childish -ies and ys once we are of legal drinking age, right?

Anyhow, back to the e-mail, it was very complimentary and I won't quote the whole thing but I have to give you this line as I think it shows he at least gets that I am a crazy pig lady:

Plus you have that kind of crazy, a little strange, sort of weird, most people are afraid of her, does what she wants, not going to find another one like her, kind of thing going on that I really dig...:)

Maybe I'll use that line in my next ad.

Tempting...

So my general policy with online dating is to reply in some form or another to everyone who takes the time to contact me. Fortunately, the service has standard replies that you can send easily, like "Thanks, but I've met someone else." or "Thanks but I don't think we're a good match. Take care." and some others of varying let-downability. I generally use the one that I've met someone else when I'm not interested. Seems the nicest way to say no thanks.

The service also has automatic, short introductory statements you can send to people you might be interested in. Examples include the original "Hi!", "I like your profile. Tell me more." and my favorite, "Kid tested and single-mother approved." I think that one is specific to Bakerfield...

Anyhow, my profile clearly states that if you don't take the time to write me an actual note, in lieu of a standard, computer-generated hello, I won't respond. This is because some guys basically SPAM women with "Hi!"s hoping to get a response. You also don't have to be a paying member to send a computer-generated message. Besides, I took the time to write a profile so you should at least drop me a note showing you read it. Yes, I do have high expectations.

So the other day I got a computer-generated "I like your profile. Tell me more." from this guy:Per my profile's stated policy, I did not respond.

Three days later he sent me this note:

Hi [Glib Gal], saw your profile and yes I am interested. Me? I have a son who will be 15, 6 cats, 9 kittens, 1 dog and 1 guinea pig. I am sure you can use a couple of cats? I enjoy the outdoors and have lived here for 13 years. I have been to Tehachapi many times, nice area. I should have bought land there years ago. I have several degrees and taking a break from being a CEO for a while. I guess iI am more comfortable in jeans than three piece suits. Drop me a line if you would like. Favorite hangout is RJ's in Bakersfield.

I know what you're thinking, "But he loves cats too Glib Gal..." Let me tell you: Crazy cat lady + Crazy cat dude = recipe for disaster. And three piece suits? Do they still make those? I guess you can find them at a Men's Warehouse in Bakersfield...

Even with that common ground, and the nice stock photo, he's 51 years old and I have a stated age range in my profile where the limit is far below 51. So, because he took the time to tell me about his 15 cats, multiple degrees and CEO status, I took the time to send him this computer-generated courtesy reply:

"Sorry, but our age difference is too great."

I've sent this one to several other people closer to my mom's age than my own with no further communication.

Not so with our cat-loving friend. Here's the message I had waiting for me today:

Hi, disagree, what you will find is men here do not grow up and are not faithful until they get over 40. I will give you my cell, which i normally do not do, xxx-xxx-xxxx. I am honest with integrity, which you will not find in this area. Call me if you want.

I don't know about you, but I like it when someone disagrees with me about something quite obviously my personal preference. I also like it when someone I've never met takes the time to tell me they disagree with me about what I like. I especially like it when they disagree with me, put down a large class of persons, infer that they are grown up, then give me their phone number so I can call and have them change my mind.

I know, I know...I'm too picky and I'm not getting any younger. And no, MB, I did not call him, even though I could use a few cats - I'm down to three. Damned coyotes.

Don't hate the player...

So a mechanic, a salesman and a well digger all walk into a bar. What do they have in common? They each had a date with me this weekend.

Date #1 was Thursday night (it's all a weekend to me now) with the salesman. We'll call him P as he's a former punk rocker. Nice guy, our second date. We went to the local farmer's market (which took all of 10 minutes) then to a Mexican restaurant for some cervezas and chips and salsa. Conversation was good and fun times were had. Our senses of humor work well together. We then walked over to a local dive bar I had been wanting to check out - The Red Caboose. Yes, folks, it's as good as it sounds. Leave it to me to find the spot where the parolees and tweakers congregate. Still, they had Sierra Nevada on tap, an ex-con was convinced I was his public defender (although no mention of my being a lawyer was made) and the bartender was from Humboldt County. We hung out a while, having fun, chatting with the other patrons, and just blabbing in general. When it was time to go P walked me back to my truck. We loitered for that awkward moment where you're contemplating a first kiss but can't seem to get to it so you keep standing there making small talk looking stupid because you both know what needs to happen. So we had a small kiss, appropriate for a second date, but not the ravishing kind you save for the night you're going to close the deal.

Pleasant enough, right? This is where you're supposed to part ways and go home and ponder things about the other person, act all stupid, and let things develop. Oh, but you forget, P is a man and a man always knows just the right thing to say to a girl once he's made a reasonably good impression: "So are you going to invite me back to your place?"

It threw me for a moment as I hadn't sent out the 'I want you now' vibe so I replied with a firm "Uh, no." and tried to make light of the request. Then he dug the hole deeper and said something to the effect of, "But I'm sure you have a nice bed with nice sheets". He pressed the issue for a couple more minutes until he gave up with an "I'll call you." Note to men: The best way to turn a girl off is to presume she wants to take you home and actually say it out loud. You can think it all you want, but don't say it. It's a moment killer. We'll let you know.

With that I hopped in my truck and headed home. Of course, this led to me overthinking the whole situation, as any creature with ovaries is prone to do. I realize men are from some planet and women are from another, and dating is confusing and generally sucks, and that communication is a fragile thing when in the first stages of getting to know someone. Still, it bugged me that he made the presumption that I'd take him home that night and that he'd be willing to just go home with someone he hasn't met but knows has an arsenal of crow-beaning weapons just waiting on the coffee table. So I wrote him off. Just like that. No three strikes, no warnings, just a simple muttered-to-myself "thanks for playing". He called to possibly go out again and I haven't returned the call. I should because we had a good time and I didn't tell him where it took a turn and I should, so he knows in the future. Or maybe not, as it seems to have worked for him before. And I decided this time around to listen to that little voice that I always ignore. In this case, that little voice tells me P's a Tehachapi-rated player and, believe it or not, I'm kind of hoping to get out of the game for a while.

The next date was Friday with R, a mechanic I met at a local property owners association meeting. Again, a nice guy. We met for a late lunch under the guise of him wanting help with some copyright matters handled for his fledgling music production company. Two hours later we knew eachother's life histories and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was smitten. He's nice and polite and most certainly would never presume to be invited to my house, but he's a stoner and I'm just no good with stoners. I love 'em, have fun with 'em, but if you're 37 years old and still toking on a daily basis, I doubt we have similar goals. He too left a message about going out again. Again, I'm taking note of that little voice, my general lack of attraction, and his puppy dog look. I'll call him back but keep things casual.

Finally, it was date #3 with a well driller, who we'll call Ken Doll (that's what he looks like). A younger man, 29, jawline like Buzz Lightyear, polite, intelligent, a bit of a recluse, former Army officer, now in the family business with his dad. I wasn't going to go out with him again as the first two dates were fun but he is very shy and I had decided he might not be able to handle a gal like me without serious therapy down the road. And I don't want my truffle profits going to my future ex-husband's therapist. But for some reason I didn't call to cancel and we headed to a local karaoke bar to watch large women belt out Bonnie Raitt songs all night. Conversation was strained at first but got easier once he told me he let his dog sleep with him after I had chided him for being an evil pet owner. We talked water rights, Desert Storm I vs. II, heavy equipment operation, and about the state of dating in Kern County - which is nill. He was impressed with my crow-hunting techniques and laughed at the story of P. He told me he only signed up for the internet dating thing to send me a message because every other single woman in the County is either unemployed, uneducated, a single mother, has serious baggage, or all of the above. We ended with a slightly awkward moment and a hug outside my truck. I'm still a little confused as to his intentions with me - just friends or ??? but it's fun trying to figure it out.

And on the seventh day I rested. And had a dream featuring a cameo by my crush. Go figure.