“Jeremy, I swear I have lockjaw,” I tell him.

“Hahaha, I just can’t believe you talked to them last night,” he says.

“Well, I’m about to be to work; I’ll call you later,” I mumble back.

My jaw is broken, I swear. Or at least it feels like that. I ate expired almonds just a mere four hours ago. How do I know they were expired? Well, because my jaw feels broken. I don’t even like almonds. But that’s all I could scrounge up in his house.

So how did I end up here, with almond lockjaw, you ask. Well, I’ll start from the beginning.

*insert day dreamy noise*

I throw on a romper and tall boots. Real Jenner-ish. Well I’m trying to be at least. I haven’t shaven my legs in a couple days, shocker, but no matter, I’m about to be sitting courtside at a Dallas Mavericks game. No one’s going to be noticing leg hair, surely.

I’m so excited. Probably in the top five most exciting moments of my life. You see, I’m a huge basketball fan. It all started when I kept the books for my brother’s AAU team: The Bad Boyz. They were the original ‘Dem Boyz.’ Anyway, I sat on the bench every game and kept stats for the team. I just loved being around that atmosphere.

Then high school came around, and I would be in the stands screaming, “FUN-DUH-MENT-ALS!!” anytime an opposing team member would double dribble or walk.

Then college came around. A boyfriend and I went to an Atlanta Hawks game against the Indiana Pacers. I only bought those tickets because I wanted to see Paul George.

You catch my drift. Huge basketball fan.

I pull up at my millionaire boyfriend’s house (as my girlfriend would call him) and go inside.

“Oh, you look nice!” he tells me.

All I can think about is the last and only time I’ve ever worn this romper, which was my best friend’s bachelorette party. (See previous blog)

Anyway, he hugs me, then leads me to his kitchen island where he has some odd shaped clear glass thingy out, along with a bottle of wine and two glasses. My first thought is the pensive in Dumbledore’s office.

“This is a decanter for the wine. It helps the wine taste better,” he tells me.

Hmm. So no pensive.

“See, this bottle here is $300. And it’s an aged wine. So once I decant it, and it aerates, it’ll taste better,” he says.

Okay, strike one. Pompous attitude.

I hate pompous people. And braggers. Like, I get it, you have money, but do you have to throw it around all the time, I think to myself. And also, do really rich people even do that? Like I don’t think when you walk into Lisa Vanderpump’s house she screams, “Oh look dah-ling, I have this billion-dollar house. And this million-dollar wardrobe. And this fabulous wine decanter!” But, then again, using a real housewife probably isn’t a good example because NeNe Leakes comes to mind, screaming, “I got that Trump check, bitch!!” So maybe some people are just braggers. Anyway, my point is, I don’t like ‘em.

I don’t care about the aerated wine, damnit, I just want a drink.

“Wooah. Slow down; you have to make a toast first,” he says as he grazes my leg.

“Damn, Lisa, you didn’t shave again?” he says.

Strike two. A real dick.

There’s two problems with his statement. The first, friends roast each other, or ‘check’ each other. Not someone you’ve gone on five dates with. I’m trying to remain real calm and not snap on this guy like my inner Kermit wants me to, but I remember, I’m going to a game with him. Second problem though, was his delivery. And I admit, I’m no delivery queen. I struggle with this, too. It’s not what you say, but HOW you say it. But after five dates I wouldn’t say, “Damn, Shawn, you forgot Rogaine, again?” I would simply say, “I like your shirt.” Easy.

Anyway, we have our glass of wine and head out to the game. Luckily, we don’t take the butter-mobile this time.

As we pull into the parking garage I chug the remnants of my perfectly decanted wine. I’m slowly savoring the last drop when my date says, “Listen, Lisa, I know you have a Type A personality and you like being the boss, but let me be the boss tonight, okay? Don’t bust my balls.”

How ironic that he’s ‘asking’ to be the boss. But I oblige, even though, secretly I’m thinking, “I’m the boss, I’m the boss, I’m the boss.”

As I get out of the truck, my nerves kick in. Will I see Dirk? Will I be able to talk to him? Will he notice my leg hair? The answers to these questions will have to wait, because we’re whisked in to our seats.

Oh. My. Gosh. I’m in awe. But I can’t act like it. People that sit here, do this all the time, so it doesn’t ‘AW’ them. I can’t act like an outsider. My legs tell a different story.

One beer deep, and I refuse to keep sitting mute.

“THAT WAS A FOUL!!” I scream at the ref. No other girls are doing that. As a matter of fact, no one on my row is doing this. “Why are they even here,” I think to myself. The point of a basketball game is to cheer.

“So, one time I met Russell Westbrook and got a picture with him,” Shawn says.

Here we go again with the annoying bragging, NeNe.

“Oh that’s nice,” I reply.

“Yeah, he was really a nice guy. We took the pic after the Oklahoma game,” he says.

Listen, buddy, Shania said it best, “It don’t impress me much,” I wanna say, but I sadly agreed to not bust any balls tonight, so instead I pretend to be interested when in all reality I just want to yell for Harrison Barnes.

“Lemme see,” I say, asking for the picture.

He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of him and an extremely tall black guy in an OKC jersey. I stare. And stare. Westbrook isn’t a giant. Westbrook isn’t in this picture.

Strike three. A real freaking idiot.

It’s Kevin Durant. This fool has courtside tickets and he doesn’t even know who freaking Kevin Durant is?! Do I bust his balls? Bitch full force? He’s at strike three; he’s out. That calls for ball busting.

Yep.

“Hahahahaha, oh my gah, that’s not Westbrook, Shawn. That’s freaking Kevin Durant. He doesn’t even play for them anymore!” I practically scream.

The look on his face says it all. I’ve definitely busted his balls. Oh, well.

I don’t bring it up again, as he touches my arm to pull me up to meet some various people. Rubbing elbows if you will. My mind is still on the biggest mistake anyone could ever make, when he says, “Oh, Lisa, look! The starting pitcher for the Rangers!”

My first thought is Joey Gallo. He’s not the pitcher but when I hear Rangers I think of him. No, no, Lisa, not Gallo, but Yu Darvish, I think to myself. I’m looking around for Yu Darvish because that’s the only pitcher I know. You would think I know more than that being that I worked there and all, but nope. He was referring to this shorter white guy who looked like your average Joe. So I thought Shawn was kidding, because I’m still looking around for an Asian guy.

“That’s not Yu Darvish, Shawn,” I say. Now I’m feeling real big-headed because I corrected him on the NBA players.

“I know it’s not Darvish, but he’s one of the other starters. Watch,” he says.

“Hey, man, what do you do?” Shawn asks him.

“Oh, I just play a little baseball,” he tells us.

I roll my eyes and say, “Oh yeah, me too. I’m a freaking star.”

The guy just stares at me and smiles. He and his friend walk off.

“See, Shawn, I told you! He was just kidding around with me,” I say.

“Lisa, stop, that’s Derek Holland,” he replies. I remember his name now.

Wow. I’m the one who looks like a freaking idiot. But at this point it doesn’t matter. I don’t see this dating going any further. I’m salty that he commented on my legs. I’m disgruntled by his bragging tendencies and lack of Rogaine. And worst of all, I’m appauled by his lack of sports knowledge, specifically for someone who prides himself on his sports tickets.

However, this night isn’t over, so I’m not going to abruptly end this date. He still thinks there’s hope, but my inner Kermit knows that the game’s over. He already struck out.

Don’t act like you forgot, I call the shots, shots, shots. Like brrrap, brrrap, brrrap.

Stay tuned. You CANNOT miss what happens next.

Because, somebody does have my money….

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