Sha-boo-boo is Single: Farmers Hide Your Sons

Sha-boo-boo (aka C-Dawg), my girl of close to 11 years and my best friend is now unattached. Status update: C-dawg is now single. She has recently broken up with her boyfriend of 6 years and to say it was a shock is an understatment.

I received the text on Saturday morning and I was floored. They had been together for so long, and even though they had had their problems I didn’t think she’d actually break up with him. I looked at my phone in a daze: “BK and I broke up yesterday :(.” I blinked twice as my foundation crumbled around me. In a sick and twisted way I looked at their relationship as a model of a what I’d like to have in my couplehood—to a certain extent. They were friends. They had a similar sense of humor and they enjoyed being around eachother. It was lovely to watch them dote on eachother. That all changed.

Without getting into too much detail, C-Dawg had become unhappy. She had clearly expressed the things she wanted from him, but the relationship was not progressing the way she had hoped. It was time to end it, and now she feels great. She feels free. I’ll miss BK (he was my good friend too) but I am so relieved to have my best friend back.

I had noticed a slight change in C-Dawg a couple years ago. She would become pessimestic and negative at times. She would shit all over stuff and then say, “I’ve hit a wall. I am ready to go home.” I’d look at her and wonder, Who are you? Where is my girl? The girl that danced with me on the bar, and when we got down the security guard said, “You better get back up there and show those bitches how it’s done.” The girl that helped me put a rusty exercise bike in Oscar’s jeep. The girl that knows what I mean by, “In front of La Virgen? No respect.”

Well, she is back. We figured on Tuesday during Happy Hour (yes I went to a Happy Hour on a Tuesday. Don’t judge.) that her and I have only been single for about 6 months of our friendship, and those 6 months had been bananas. I am looking forward to that period in my life recycling itself through again.

We are going to Vegas this weekend. We are going to break some hearts. Change some lives. And shatter some worlds. Stay tuned for subsequent posts.

The Court Chronicles (A Blog Novella) - Part III, Chapter 20

“Bue…bue…buenos días, Señor Vasquez.”

“Hay una enferma, joven, que se llama Veronica, aqui?”

The front desk receptionists shoot glances at each other. He is asking for the young beauty that came in with the two young men. She was still unconscious and would be defensless against a brute like Vasquez.

“Si, creo que esta aquí.” The receptionist picks up the phone and quickly dials Dr. Jimenez’s extension. After a fe mumbled exchanges, the receptionist says, “El doctor quiere hablar con usted antes que te lleve verla.”

“Bueno. Aquí espero.”

The nurse knows that Dr. Jimenez has done “side” work for Vasquez before. The good doctor had even been flown to the states to tend to a bullet wound El Chulo had gotten from a rival familia while doing business in Juarez. Dr. Jimenez could pacify Vasquez—get on his good side. The last thing she wants is a blood bath in the lobby.

Vasquez takes a seat next to a woman holding a snot-nosed toddler. His heart fills with worry. The last time he had seen Veronica happy was when she was the age of the little one in the seat next to him. He asks the woman how long she has been waiting to be seen. She looks at Vasquez and rolls her eyes. She mutters something under her breath; asking rhetorically why he cares, and stating even louder that he should slum it more often. Vasquez realizes that she must be incredibly poor. Anyone with access to internet, TV, or a newspaper would know not to talk to him like that.

A man in the next row over behind the woman nudges her shoulder and whispers something in her ear.

“Yo si ce quien es! Y a mi que me importa?”

The woman’s eyes pierce into Vasquez. For once, in a long time Vasquez feels intimidated by another person. He respects her for this—her fearlessness. She glances behind him as Dr. Jimenez walks up.

“Hello sir,” interrupts Dr. Jimenez. “The receptionist let me know you were looking for the young woman that just came in?”

“Yes. I’d like to see her.”

The doctor rings his hands. His nervousness makes Vasquez anxious. “Please tell me what wrong Doctor is. I don’t have time to play games.” Vasquez takes a deep breath, “The truth is she is my daughter. I have made a mess of a lot of things and I need to make sure she is safe.”

The doctor looks at Vasquez with shock and fear. His daughter? He knows giving him bad news could mean his life. Stalling won’t work now. Dr. Jimenez motions for them to start walking towards her room, “Sr. Vasquez the head trauma is severe.”

“What is the prognosis?” asks Vasquez has they enter her room. She looks like an angel asleep. Her arm is hooked up to an IV and the room is filled with a chorus of beeps announcing her vitals. Vasquez was not prepared to see her like this and he rushes back out, “let’s talk in the hallway and let her rest. Please, let me know her condition.”

“Well, to be honest, we don’t have the resources to fully assess the extent of her injury. She is in a coma now, but stable. I suggest we air lift her to the United States were they could better treat her.”

Vasquez agrees motions with his hand and one of his men miraculously comes from around the corner. “Ernesto, make arrangements to transport Veronica to Cedars Sinai. Contact Dr. Mollenkopf. He’ll know what preparations need to be made.” Vasquez directs his attention to Dr. Jimenez, “Can you fax her chart to them?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Also Doctor, I want you to personally see that the woman with the small child in the waiting room is cared for next. Send this and any future bills to me. They will be taken care of.”

“Yes I will. Right away,” says Dr. Jimenez confused by the request. “Oh, before I forget. A young man wanted us this to give this to Veronica when she came to.” He hands Vasquez the letter.

Vasquez opens it and reads it.


Dear Veronica,

Jay and I were told we couldn’t see you or get an update on your condition because we aren’t family. We left. I am sorry. I wish I could have protected you from all of this. I failed you as a man.

Jay and I are headed to your mom’s house. I am going to bring her back. If I need a family member to find out that your ok, I’ll move mountains to get one. I wish I was meeting her in happier circumstances but I need to make sure your going to be OK. It is my only focus.

I’ll see you soon—healthy.

Yours,
Garret

The Court Chronicles (A Blog Novella) - Part III, Chapter 18

Garret squints through the dust until the figure begins to take a familiar shape—it’s Jay. Never had the sight of his trusted friend looked so good. Jay approaches cautiously. When he realizes that the jeep he had just witnessed flipping over had Veronica and Garret in it he rushes over and kneels next to Veronica.

“Oh my God! Is she breathing?”

“Yeah. Shit! Jay, what do I do?”

Jay Looks around them and his stomach twists with dread. They are in the middle of no where and Veronica clearly needs medical attention.

“Let’s move her to those trees so that her body doesn’t over heat under the sun.”
Garret obeys mindlessly. The adrenaline that shot through his blood is fading, and his body begins to ache. Under the trees Jay asks if there is any water in the Jeep. Garret shrugs his shoulders.

“You need to pull it together, boss. We need to figure out what our next move is going to be.”

“All we have been doing is reacting and figuring out. We need to plan,” sighs Garret. “For whatever reason Vasquez has stopped chasing us. I don’t think he grew a heart. Even is Veronica is his daughter, he is still a cold hearted son of a bitch. He’ll be back and he’ll be ready to kill us.” Garret looks down at Veronica. Suddenly renewed with a sense of responsibility to Veronica and Jay, Garret stands up and runs to the jeep to survey what resources they have available to them. He looks through the wreckage and finds a flare gun, to jugs of water, the berretta he had found earlier, and a CB radio.

The radio cracks. –beep- Boss, for clarification, we are turning back to head quarters? Over.

-Beep- Yes announces Vasquez’s deep voice. That is an order. It is done. Over.
-Beep- Sir, suggestion to make a sweep of the area. Over.
A long pause makes the silence torturous for Garret. If they come back he’ll have to move Veronica away from the jeep.
-Beep- That will not be necessary. Please let others know that it is a direct order. I’d like for arrangements to be made by the time I return to move on to Juarez. I’d like to leave immediately. That is all. Over.

Garret can’t believe what he is hearing but he’ll accept it. Just then Jay calls out to Garret.
“Hey Garret! She is bleeding from her ear!”

Confessions of A Female Player: A Playa Is Born

Slut, whore, skank, and cum dumpster are terms with such a negative connotation and I don’t feel describe me in the least. I don’t charge for sex. I don’t dress provocatively. Most importantly, I am particular on who dumps their cum on me (safe sex kids). For lack of a better term, I am going to refer to myself as a female player. The fact that women don’t have a better term that expresses they don’t give a damn about these “suckas” is a shame, but that is a blog topic for another time. For the time being, player is the best way to describe my current need for sex and my utter avoidance of commitment. To better understand the root of my “playa status” I should briefly describe my past relationships.

At 17, I moved in with my boyfriend after a long 3 month courtship. After a nearly 4 year abusive relationship, I returned to our little apartment from a work trip only to find a young woman in our bathroom. She was still dewy from the shower she took and her clothes were still in the dryer. Bless her heart. She had laundry to do after fucking my boyfriend. Following frantic apologies and rushed efforts to have her leave without me going ape-shit, we agreed it was over and I moved out.

At 23, I met another young man with a lot of promise. He had a genius IQ, was the executive of a payment option company, and my dad thought he was bright. Two years into our relationship he gave me the “It’s Not Working” speech and we broke up. Three months later I found out that what was not “working” for him was being a two-timing bastard. I found out through lengthy text messages from the “other woman” that they were sleeping together for 8 months of our relationship.

After these two disastrous tramples with cupid I went through a minor playa period. I avoided anything serious and dated casually. I knew I wasn’t ready for another serious relationship but I had faith that since I was a good person that would find a good man.

Then, I met disaster number three; a tall, dark, and handsome man that made me drop all my walls only to break up with me, get back together with me, break up with me again, get back together with me, and then break up with me again. This emotional roller coaster was what officially catapulted me into full on player-hood.

You can say I am suffering major posttraumatic stress disorder of the douche-bag sort. As much as I’d like to say I am not jaded, I can’t help but think every guy is a jerk. I have managed to build fort-quality walls up in an attempt to protect myself, and the “deal-breakers” I discover persistently dwarf any perspective relationships. To say I am a heartbreaker is an understatement and at the same time I wish I could say I care that I hurt them.

-Cue Rick James: “Coooold Blooded.”

So as I chronicle my dating life, know that you are reading the thoughts of an extremely scarred woman. Should I ever say, “This guy is special. He has won me over,” be prepared to RSVP to a miracle wedding. Pigs will fly, the Devil will have frost on his car, and I’ll be wearing white.

PS. Honorable mention will be made to the follower who can create a better term then “female player.”

You Can't Cook Up This Kind Of Chemistry in the Lab

There is the danger zone, the no-fly zone, the school zone, and even the T-zone. However, today I want to talk about the dreaded “friend zone”. For clarification, this is a vast black hole that is void of any sexual tension or passion. No spark, no chemistry, and no hanky-panky can be found in this area. This, my few followers, is the zone Baby Face (last night’s date) coasted into.

I met Baby Face (he doesn’t look a day over 19 and he is a year younger then me) a while ago and we have gone on a few dates but nothing had ever materialized. He is cute, goal oriented and a devoted father. We have a similar sense of humor and the conversation flows smoothly. All of this is great; however, when I consulted with my clitoris mid-date she said, “Yeah I am getting no love ‘n feeling down here. Abort.” Fail.

I know my male followers (at least the straight ones) are collectively rolling their eyes. “Give him a chance. If he is a nice guy try to make it work.” And a nice guy he is. He brought snacks for our hike, made sure I was comfortable, and opens the car door for me first. None of that is lost on me and if I had a burning desire for him to couple with all of that we’d be in Vegas right now. I just can not suffer through a relationship with no sexual chemistry.

What pains me the most is that at the end of the date he gave me a peck (what is this 7th grade?) and said, “We have to do this very soon. Don’t let this much time pass before calling me again.” -Gulp- We do? I shouldn’t? I’ll have to talk to him and tell him I’d love to remain friends. Ouch.

She's Back and Taking Numbers...Literally

The Dating Diva is back! I know not since “Pool Cue”, have I posted anything about my personal life, but the cat is out of the bag (pun not intended). You are going to get all the deets now. Some guys I have dated are my facebook friends and since I happily post links of my entries, their names are going to be changed to protect their identity. They’ll know who they are, and they might not like it, but I no longer care. This is being done for the good of singlehood. If one person can benefit from my romantic failings then this blog will have been all worth it.

So moving forward--I am single. No surprise to the people that know me best. Between bad dates (“Tom, text me that you are really drunk and need me to pick you up.”), Bad relationships (“The tacky bitch text messaged me that my ex-boyfriend cheated on me with her!”), and living out other people’s horrors (“He cried on our date, but I’ll still keep my Match.com profile.”) I am going to try to share it all. Call it a Dating Diary.

So I have a date today. I’ll keep you all posted, and if any of you have any other “social experiments” you’d like me to try, let me know.