Drowning in the estrogen ocean at the Nutcracker Market

Sometimes, you have stupid ideas. Don't feel bad, it happens to everyone. In fact, I had one last Saturday.

I decided that my wife and I should go to the Nutcracker Market over at the Reliant Center. For those unfamiliar with the Nutcracker Market, it is the annual Christmas-related sales festival hosted by the Houston Ballet. And it draws women like moths to a flame, flies to honey, ACORN to fake voting applications, pigs to...well, you get the idea.

I've been to the Ballbuster, I mean Nutcracker, twice before this year. I knew it was popular. But I had forgotten two things: men are outnumbered at this thing by about 20 to 1 and there is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, for guys.

Ever forgotten something absolutely critical? Yeah? Well, happened to me.

To her everlasting credit, my wife really didn't want to go to this thing. As opposed to previous years, we're doing real well on our Christmas shopping and didn't need anything at the Ballbuster. But I figured that, if we didn't go, she would be consumed by regret.

I started to recognize the magnitude of my error when we parked. We got there at about 10, which I figured was early, and we were still forced to park a half-mile away. When we got on the courtesy tram, I noticed that I was the only guy on the whole thing (driver not counted).

Oh boy.

So I went and got in line to get tickets, and noticed that, once again, I was the only guy in line. Had I not inadvertantly cut in line (it was so long that it bent back to the left; we came in directly in front of the ticket window), I would have been at the end of a line of 5000 women. That's enough to time a cycle I don't have!

We walk in and I get reminder that, yes, there is not a damned thing here for me. Unless you count the chocolate places, there was ONE place a guy could go, and he was selling t.u. and Tech crap. So here I am, in a sea of women, looking like I should be wearing a sandwich board was says, "Dumbass who came here voluntarily".

Now, if you're thinking, "Hey, what's wrong with you? There had to be hot chicks at this thing! You had your pick!" let me remind you of a few things. If I did anything close to gawking, much less flirt, my wife would rip out my eyes and dismember the girl in question, even if she did nothing wrong--you can never be too sure. Further, while there were indeed many good looking ladies there, they were there with their moms. This requires no further elaboration.

So I'm walking through this joint, looking at hundreds of "glamour jewelry" stands, pearl places, stands selling clothes for American Girl dolls, you name it.

(An aside here for a moment: What the fuck is an American Girl doll? I would have thought that was Barbie, but I am apparently mistaken. These fucking things go for $100? What the hell? Unless these things do your damned homework, who needs a doll that damned bad? And they have CLOTHES THAT COST $35? WHAT? Of course, now that I've had this venting, I will be
blessed with all girls--all of whom will want American Girl dolls.)

I'm walking by this one place and the woman shoves this stinking slip of paper into my face. "Gajorbaba, exclusively at Saks Fifth Avenue."

I looked at this lady like she had three eyes and a hook nose (well, she did have a hook nose). "Do I look like someone who has a fucking need for Gajorbaba?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't expecting a man."

Yes, it was that bad.

There were other guys there; I eventually found them at this place called the "beverage concession stand." That's code for bar. You've never seen a group of guys with more disgusted and disdainful look on their faces, unless you've been to an A&M football game at Kyle Field the last few years. Old guys holding bags, wondering why the FUCK they married that woman back in 1960; younger guys with the purchases of their wife, their wife's mom AND their teenage daughters and, finally, one fella my age.

"What brings you here?" I asked.

"My wife's a great lay," he said.

I looked at him blankly (didn't get much sleep the night before).

"I'd like to get laid again sometime before next Labor Day," he said.

Ah.

The Ballbuster is crack for chicks. For guys, it's hell. I'll remember that next year.

And I will not volunteer to go.