First things first. The fuckers at It’s Just Lunch called back at a hair before 5 on Friday. They said I was “placed on hold,” and usually there is a letter in the file indicating that the client received a copy of said letter outlining the ‘hold terms.’ However, surprise, that letter is nonexistent, and they realize a mistake was made. I again explained that the last crew of employees was a disaster, and she agreed, saying, “You have no idea what we are dealing with over here. People are really pissed off.” Nope, I’m pretty sure I understand.
Anyway, this time I have faith, not of course in their matchmaking skills, but their general competence to set me up on a day I say I’m available. This girl who called back was a “Director” as opposed to the “Coordinator” who answered the phone the other day. Usually each office has two Directors and two Coordinators. The job of the Director is to do everything possible up to and including oral and anal, to get you to part with your money. The Coordinator’s job is to ruin your life with dates scheduled for the days you say you have open heart surgery, send you to restaurants that don’t exist, and send you to meet people who don’t show up.
I’ve given them my schedule and they have “two matches” for me. No I didn’t write anything down because even in the two guys they described, they both sound the same. Both are the same height, both got their MBA from GMU. Seriously. Are they just reading the same file over and over? And let’s face it, according to them, I’m in a volleyball league, so I would say the integrity of their information is worthless. Blech. Well, it’s almost over. And it’s practice so I don’t screw up with someone real.
I dragged a few girls to a party. Tell your friends!” The Queen of Quantity loves a whole new crowd, and since we rarely leave the dog park anymore, off we went, grabbing Eternal Freshman on the way. Drunk? Yes. But beer only for me. And okay, a sip of that jungle juice, holy moly, what was in that shit??
At one point in the evening, Kathryn’s man was pointing out a few people in the crowd. Pointing at one, he said, “That’s the guy who we mentioned has the White House gig.” And Kathryn said, “Velvet rides a motorcycle. Something tells me a man with a White House job isn’t exactly her type of crowd.”
Touche. Truer words were never spoken.
As I saw the Queen of Quantity cozy up to someone whose aura was far beyond that of what I’d call a metrosexual, I sent her a text saying as much. Only it was written in a “meant for her eyes only.” What does she do? Reads the text with him reading from over her shoulder. I scream, “NO!” She then tosses me her phone as he’s jumping to reach it, and I run for the end zone, deleting the text along the way. Touchdown. The crowd goes wild. Please. Like any man can compete with me in heels. People please. If we’re out and I send you a text, don’t share with the person you just met! I use that texting function to point out things that can’t be said out loud!
On my way out, I caught the tail end of a bit of Cookie, but according to popular vote, that is the end you would want to catch, you know, provided you had a choice and only one was available.
And I reminded myself again why it is never a good idea to see the hours of 3 a.m. and beyond, especially in my neighborhood. Walking the true loves of my life, a guy pulled up alongside me on 18th Street and said, “Do you need help walking those dogs?” I said, “Nope.” And he says, “Are you sure?” I say, “Yeah, look at them, they practically walk themselves!” He says, “Cause I’ll help you.” And I say, “Have a good night!” Finally he drives off.
Not even 15 steps later, a guy passes me on a bike and says, “Can I talk to you?” I said, “What? Are you lost?” He goes, “No, come here, I want to talk to you.” I said, “Honey, I don’t come to men. They come to me.” (Cough. Not very often.) And I kept walking. I pass a couple girls, stumbling home from Adam’s Morgan, and I hear one of them say, “Well don’t just stare at her ass, why don’t you go talk to her?” Lord. Woman, if I could shove my size 7 cork high heel shoe in your fat mouth, believe me I would.
Guess who comes peddaling around the corner on to S Street as my dogs are milling around someone’s front yard? Yeah. Bike boy. Words written for him in this convo are exactly as he said them.
Bike Boy: I come to talk to you.
Velvet: What do you want?
Bike Boy: What do all guys want?
(Yes yes, we really have a winner here.)
Velvet: Are you kidding me?
Bike Boy: I not from here. I don’t know. But I want to know you.
Velvet: Really? Want to come back to my house and know me? You can meet my boyfriend too while you’re there.
Bike Boy: I see you every day.
Bike Boy: I know you live here. On this street. I see you every day. Walking your dogs.
(I admit, the balance of power just tipped in his direction and I didn’t bring my mace with me.)
Velvet: Yeah. Great. Well, I have to go now.
Bike Boy: Ok. I go with you.
(I feel like I’m in that scene in the best movie ever, Loverboy, where Rob Camiletti tries to have sex with Randy – Patrick Dempsey’s mom – who is Kate Jackson. She says no, and he follows her on his scooter screaming, “But I Love you!”)
Velvet: No. I have to go home. And you are not coming with me.
(Bike Boy continues to ride along slowly next to me.)
(We pass two lesbians and I look at them, pleading with my eyes for them to scare him somehow, but they are too busy thinking about getting home, obviously. Then Bike Boy almost runs over Thora.)
Velvet: Ok. You have to go. Goodbye.
Finally he rides off. Jesus. What the hell? As the night progresses and I get drunker, I want LESS to do with anything stumbling out of a bar than at any point in time earlier in the night.
So, Sunday. After a particularly violent waxing session (seriously, WTF?) I spent my day as usual, laying in the sun – well, what there was of it.