Year: 2006 (Page 2 of 4)

Okay. A couple quick things, then some news.

First, I found a blog that had linked to me, following the trials and tribulations of my hellacious dating life. When I started reading said blog, I was fascinated. This poor guy is being stalked by a woman he calls “Bunny” (for Bunny Boiler in Fatal Attraction.) We’ve emailed a bit and shared some stories. I just wanted you all to know about him, because his stuff is good:

The Upstairs Neighbor

Second, the Queen of Quantity and I went to the pre-opening of Bebar. Our positively delicious instructor from the gym opened a bar on Ninth Street. The bar officially opens tonight. I read this morning in the article I linked above for you that some churches in the area were trying to convince the District that it was against Scripture to grant a liquor license. Vomit. There’s nothing I hate more than a bible-toter. Embrace gentrification people, embrace it. It helps us all.

Anyway, we spent the majority of the evening looking at the beautiful gay men and wondering why they couldn’t be straight and look that hot. They went top of the line for this event, sparing no expense. Nice work boys. Anyway, here’s the inside of the bar at peak time:

And Linda Cropp came out for a little speakage:

That’s all. I have pictures of the QofQ and I drinking pink drinks, but you know. We can’t post that. I also have a picture of Mike, but a) I’m not sure he wants it posted and b) I’m still not convinced he’s 100% gay and I’m drooling over his picture and creating a plan to convert him to my team.

Last Thing:

Sammy? Thora?

PACK YOUR THINGS!!! We’re going out of town!!!
I’d really like to do this:

• Merge onto I-66 W (Crossing into VIRGINIA). 75.2 miles

• Merge onto I-81 S via EXIT 1A on the LEFT toward ROANOKE (Crossing into TENNESSEE). 376.3 miles

• Merge onto I-40 W via EXIT 1B toward KNOXVILLE. (Pass through Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico, crossing into Arizona.) 1751.1 miles

• Merge on to 17 South via the exit on the left toward Sedona 138.7 miles

But I don’t think it’s going to work cramping the dogs in Speedracer for so long. Sans plan, I’m still excited at the prospects…

Okay. I’m doing better. And I have you kids to thank, the support was truly amazing. I also caught site of this, by MY blog crush, Circumlocutor. Stay anon my precious Circumlocutor, for look at all the trouble I’m now enduring!

It has been an emotionally exhausting 48 hours. But, I’m through it. I’d go into full detail, but even I’m unsure that I know everything that transpired behind the scenes. I liken this situation to peeling an onion: with every layer there is something else under there that you find.

The best I can come up with in a situation this volatile is to try to learn something. I have found through my life that I’ve encountered very few people in whom I can find absolutely zero redeeming qualities. Usually everyone has something in them that I can see as positive. But, occasionally I come across a person who is miserable, nasty, malicious and incredibly self absorbed and I realize I don’t want them in my life at all. I really should be the opposite – I shouldn’t trust anyone until I eliminate them from the “potential enemy” category. Especially since el bloggo has become more widely-read than I ever thought. It brings out the worst in some of the most jealous. And sometimes haters do some serious damage.

Through my life, I’ve had two people, both women, with whom I had a fight and we stopped speaking. Both of those friendships were repaired successfully – one months after and one years after the initial incident. I was enemy-free for a while. But I collected three more in the spring, and now I feel as though I’ve got one more purely poisonous person to add to the list. Four. I’ve got four enemies. All thanks to blogs and blogging.

There have been a lot of behind-the-scenes emails back and forth, with some unlikely sources who emerged, throwing in two cents that under normal circumstances would be nothing but an outsider’s opinion. But these people mattered tremendously as they revealed they knew the parties at hand. I found out more than I needed to, and I think I pieced together a good deal of what happened.

I would like to think that Sherlock learned to not tell other girls about his love life, no matter how much they state that they have “other things going on” or aren’t interested in him. Most women get jealous and possessive. He shared too much private information about me with some other women. He trusted them too much and as a result, I couldn’t trust him. Too many people knew our business. I’m not talking about things that I wrote on the blog – I’m talking about my name, where I work etc. That sort of stuff should not be revealed to other people.

When I was attacked in my comments, I fought back as I stated previously. I don’t tolerate that shit at all. I’m not a fighter, but if you pull me into the ring, I will make it very ugly. I feel that Sherlock and I were set up, for someone’s sick thirst for entertainment. I saw a portion of an email that floored me. Interesting that a woman who is incredibly protective of her anonymity would threaten to reveal mine as well as Sherlocks personal information online. Sad. Pathetic and sad, and I cringe that people like this exist among us, wagging the dog into sympathy posts on natural disasters. It makes me ill.

You may find my focus on the “other parties” to be, in a way, absolving Sherlock of his guilt in the matter. I’m not doing that. If there wasn’t a lie to be blackmailed with, then none of this would have happened. But only when threatened, did he come clean. Again, I can’t fault the man for this behavior. Look, some people have a lot of sex with a lot of different people. But as Homer Simpson said, “There’s a time and a place for everything and it’s called college.” For many reasons, Sherlock didn’t have the same experiences in his 20’s that the rest of us did. I did. I’m fucked out. I don’t need to sleep around with a bunch of people to prove my worth. But my answer would have been different a few years ago, just out of a six year relationship. That’s the stage he’s at, and it’s where he needs to be so he can get it out of his system. He shouldn’t have lied to me. I don’t know how I would have reacted, but it would have been easier to take coming from him, on his own terms, and not because he was threatened with it.

I’m quite happy to be able to put this entire situation to rest. And Sherlock did share something with me that I’m going to share with you. He said, “They all know Velvet, but I got to see a piece of the real you.” I said, “I don’t think you understand, that is me. It’s not a persona. I write what I feel.” And he said, “No. There’s something sweeter and more vulnerable about the real you. No one could possibly get that unless they know you in real life.” I’ve maintained for the duration of this blog that I give 100% and tell all. But you know, he’s right. There are small parts that I keep for myself. And it will stay that way.

All you really need is a quick recap of where I’m at right now, but for those of you who know me, who truly care about me and want to know the update of this situation with Sherlock, etc., I will post the long version as well.

Cliffs Notes Version:

Kids, I admit when I’m wrong. Most of you were right. Sherlock turned out to be withholding quite a bit of information from me, and his “fuck buddy” friend is now threatening me and placing incendiary comments on this blog.

What have I (we) learned in the last year plus of reading this blog?

1) I will not tolerate a liar.

2) I will not tolerate attempts to bully me into behaving a certain way, especially if attacked first, and without provocation.

3) It never works out to have someone you are dating also reading your blog.

4) I can end a relationship without ever looking back. That said, I’ve employed a new break up line we must add to the list: “I want you out of my life.”

Reading The Whole Book:

Laying in bed watching CMT on Sunday morning, wishing for my headache to go away. The headache is a casualty of a Saturday night with one Foto Fox of I am Therefore I Date. Two bottles of wine, five splits of champagne and very little food made for two very drunk girls. Sort of a “when dating blogs collide” event. But oh, how glad I am that you have moved here one Foto Fox, for you are one cool chick.

My week and weekend up until the point of drunken debauchery Saturday night was a non stop Sherlock extravaganza. Friday night we had a really late dinner, went back to my place and had this incredibly deep and intense conversation that gave me the chills. There was a definite connection with him during and after that conversation that brought us to the next level. He stayed over with me (I was two for two!) and Saturday morning he came with me to take the dogs to the beach in Annapolis. On our way back into the city, we decided to have lunch at the much despised Lauriol Plaza (service again receives zero stars) and then went back to my place. When I had to get ready for my above blind-lesbian-blogger date, he went home.

Something had been transpiring on my blog that I was keeping an eye on. A commenter seemed particularly vicious with respect to this situation with me and Sherlock. I know that some of you get heated, and want to slap me around for doing stupid shit, and sometimes I get upset and snap back at you, but this was different. And a couple people (Kokonutz, NR) noticed it as well and said something in the comments that had not occurred to me – which was, “Is this the fuck buddy coming out?” This is where commenters I don’t know can be extremely useful – seeing another angle of a situation I can’t see. Thanks to you kids for that.

At some point after oh, 104 drinks with Foto Fox, Sherlock sent me a text telling me that the raging bitch in my comments had outed herself as another personality, one who had commented as another name. She’s the girl who he dated before me, who told him about my blog. He read me what she wrote over the phone while I was at the bar. I’m not understanding what it is with some psychotics that they want to ruin things for others or just be nasty bitches. All I could think was that this girls life must be so miserable that she’s trying to ruin what happiness I have. This girl is the same girl who lamented to him, “You’re going to get serious with this girl, why is it that every guy gets serious with the girl right after me?” Boo fucking hoo. As pathetic as that statement was, I no longer feel bad for her.

I still honor my credo of deleting people and blocking them if they become downright mean spirited. I’ve been through a lot of shit on and with this blog. For some reason, some people see a good thing and get jealous. It makes them act out in ways that are truly ridiculous, and I’ve had to do a good deal of protecting myself from this cattiness because it just isn’t positive or productive for my life.

So while Sherlock and I were on the phone, and while I was still out with Foto Fox, he made a statement that I just can’t stop thinking about. He said, “Look, I don’t want to get in the middle of this between you and her, maybe you could just make up?” Um….first of all, this bitch is coming after ME, I’m not laying into her, and what the fuck is that comment all about? I can understand not wanting any conflict in life, but shit, most men consistently fail to see what bitches other women are to each other. What I said back was, “Oh, you ARE the middle, you’re in it, and welcome to the fucking middle.” Without him, this wouldn’t be going on, right?

We’ve just spent the last three days discussing “us” and our status, talking of getting married and having fucking babies. We got to the elusive BF/GF words I cringe to use with anyone. Part of that commitment, minor as it may be compared to say, a marriage, is being on your partner’s side. Not loafing around in the middle. No matter how genuine his affirmation of the statement “I love you” might be, he has to back it up with actions. Fortunately for me, that feeling of love was still a one way street.

Sherlock came to get my drunken ass, and while I wasn’t upset with him for any of this stuff that is currently going on, I couldn’t get past the “don’t want to be in the middle” comment. I was quiet and brooding on the ride home. We get to my place, I responded to the dumb bitch in the comments. It’s not the prettiest side of my personality, but when someone pulls me into the ring, I fight back with no remorse for the feelings I’ll hurt along the way. I’ve since pulled her last name and employer’s name, not because of her threats but because I really just don’t care about her and don’t want anyone to be directed over to her site. After, when we were walking the dogs, he asked me what my options are.

We fixated on her outlash being a jealousy thing and proceeded to have a whole conversation about what this blog has become, and how it got that way. I told him that I hear rumblings of pissed off people who think their writing is better or their material and content is better, and they can’t understand how I get the hits that I do. Half of me wants to shrug at that, but the other half wants to say, “Fuck you. It’s not easy to get out there over and over, dating shithead after shithead, so I can chronicle a slice of the dating scene in Washington D.C. for everyone.” I’ve formed a lot of friends and allies along the way, I read a lot of other blogs, I spend a lot of time reading stuff of new commenters. I take a genuine interest in what people have to say and they pay me the same respect back. Also, I’m NICE to other women. When a woman is around who is better at something than I am, then I want to learn what makes her tick, and I’m certainly not going to gain anything by being nasty to her. Unfortch, not all of us have learned that art.

When people come to know you, through your writing, they either decide that they are rooting for you or against you. Fortunately 99% of you appear to be rooting for me. Occasionally I come across the 1% and I’m always shocked at their childish spoiled behavior, almost stamping their feet crying, “But my blog is better!” Ugh. Sickening. Grow the fuck up.

So where are we? He goes home and this morning I get a text message from him that the bitch is threatening all sorts of shit. Wah wah wah. She sent an ultimatum of sorts to Sherlock asking me to take her name off my blog, when in fact you can just google her blogger id and come up with her real name. Ok, I’ll indulge you, stupid whore. She wants to put all my information online. So I call and ask Sherlock how she could possibly know the things she’s threatening to put online. He told her of course. Something isn’t passing the sniff test. I ask what else went on with them, and fired off a bunch of questions that amounted to asking why this girl is so vicious, and that something else must have gone on with them.

He finally tells me that he’s scared to talk and I tell him he better start talking immediately. There wasn’t just one girl he slept with during his two weeks of stalking. There were three. Some back to back, including this bitch in my comments. Of course when I asked him the first time, he lied. He also lied earlier this week you might recall, because he only fessed up to one, not three. He said he told her how much he liked me and she must have been jealous. Um…hello? How could you be fucking one woman telling her that you really like another? That makes no sense to me. You learn that shit in 2nd grade. So I listen to him tell me of all the women he’s nailed in that time period, all the details and I start shaking. I can’t believe that when I choose to let someone in, it turns out like this. And yeah, I know most of you saw it. But you knew I had to give it a shot. I had to at least try.

He asked me what I wanted to do. It was calm, and it was honest, and it came out of my mouth so directly and so forcefully that I knew there was no other alternative:

“I want you out of my life.”

I told him I would be over within the hour to pick up what little I had left there (you know, porn…toys.) I dropped the dogs off and went over there. He let me in, I walked by him, not looking at him, found my shit and headed for the door. Then I turned around and said, “Where’s your cell phone?” He pointed at the counter. I told him to delete my number out of it. He did it in front of me, and I turned around toward the door. Parting words?

Sherlock: I’m sorry.

Velvet: Fuck you.

******

Final Stuff For You to Know:

I’ve blocked his email, not that it will do much good. Anyone can create more email addresses. He’s getting new internet service so there’s no point in blocking his IP’s.

Well, this saga is officially over. I’ve taken about all the bullshit I can from Sherlock and company. My sheets, smelling faintly of him, have been ripped off the bed and thrown in the wash. With bleach.

Comment moderation is on. I’ll approve them as quickly as I can.

Just a random post about my yesterday.

My boss brought his two kids in to work. They spent the day playing a video game online. When I popped my head in to say bye, I asked him if the video game was accessed online or if it was running off a disc. Let’s switch to convo mode.

Boss: It’s online.
Velvet: So they have been playing games all day on the internet? Corporate is going to think we are fucking around up here.
Boss: Oops.
Velvet: Well, they will know one of us is playing video games and another ordered a new toy on Mojo Garden. Well, actually, I just added it to my shopping cart, I didn’t want to actually send the credit card info from here.
Boss: Another one? What happened to the last one you bought?
Velvet: I broke it.
Boss: Isn’t this like the third one? What do you do to those things?
Velvet: I don’t know. It’s good to keep a supply though. Drawer next to one side of the bed – vibes that work. When they break, they move to the other side of the bed and go in the other nightstand. That’s the Vibrator Graveyard.
Boss: Why do you keep them?
Velvet: What am I going to do with them? Toss them in the trash with my junk mail so someone diving in the trash can find out my address AND know that I just broke a vibrator? Besides, they’ve served me well. I don’t want to throw them out.
Boss: It’s fun being you, isn’t it?
Velvet: Well. Yes.

Last night I left some of my toys over at Sherlock’s house. In the act of stockpiling vibrators all over town, I like to think that I’m well prepared in case of nuclear war or terrorist attack. Don’t laugh bitches, when something happens here again, cause it will, I’ll be the one with safe houses all over the neighborhood. So don’t come crying to me.

*****

I am sad to inform you all that I am ill. Very very ill. I have something they call the Stockholm Syndrome. In short, the Stockholm Syndrome is where a kidnap victim starts to identify with their kidnappers. In Sherlock’s stalking of me, I somehow embraced it because I learned to stalk back. Witness:

Sherlock: So I was reading your blog today and I saw the comment where so-and-so said blah-blah. (You know “so-and-so” was one of you commenters, right?)
Velvet: Yeah, I saw you on there a bunch of times. Every time I saw you on I figured I would get a return email from you on our email volley.
Sherlock: Wait, so you are checking up on me to see when I’m online, then you are waiting for me to write back? Are you reverse stalking me?
Velvet: Huh.

Stupid tables turning.

*****

In other Sherlock news, cause yanno, that’s all my life has been this week, he had a fanfuckingtastic idea. He said, “I have a way for you to get your anonymity back, though I haven’t quite worked out all the details.” He goes on to explain that I would franchise the blog. At first I thought that we would have “Velvet-in’s” all over the country. Ideas:

Velvet in Phoenix
Velvet in Miami
Velvet in The Big Apple
Velvet in Sing-Sing

But he said that no, he meant we would find a replacement Velvet. Essentially, I would take the show on the road, searching for a replacement in an excrutiating interview process. I’m imagining it like an American Idol tryout, only way less people. I thought this was hilariously hilarious. He had all these ideas for questions too:

Describe your worst date ever.
When was your last boyfriend?
How did you break up with the last boyfriend?
What’s the worst thing you’ve done to a man in the last 6 months?

Oh…..the questions. Can you imagine the stories women across the country could tell about dating? Then the replacement is selected and I bow out.

It’s a funny thought, but, I do realize that my bitter snark toward dating and life in general has been cultivated through years of bad dates, a couple shitty friends, a car that spends more time in the shop than it should, crazy Greek parents, living with a man for six years in the south, snorting sordid snorts and powders, having two dogs capable of doing geometry, being sexually harassed at my last job, owning more porn and vibrators than Jenna Jameson, hating cops, and getting thrown out of a strip bar. I’m not sure there really is a replacement for all that. I am my own train wreck. And I do kind of like that.

But just in case you’re wondering who I think could really date the entire population of D.C. and rip them to shreds a la Velvet, it’s Diet Coke of Evil.

*****

Finally, I slept over Sherlock’s house last night.

Is there something wrong with the fact that earlier tonight, I was on the phone with Sherlock discussing what movies would be best to order off Excalibur Films, finding myself saying, “Well, years ago, anal and girl on girl were considered fetish, but now that stuff is in pretty much every movie you would buy…make sure you get something newer because full bush and no implants really piss me off now. Oh, shoot. I have to go, I have a date.” But okay, as bad as that is, is it worse that I had my date with TheConsultant and saw CL#3TextTormenter across the fucking bar? You remember CL#3TextTormenter, the spitting image of a drunken Kennedy. I know, is there really any other kind of Kennedy? Prior to dating me, he also dated Kathryn and attempted to get a little Cookie. Hot as we are, his claim to fame seems to be having dated Miss Delaware. I’m off on a tangent. The point to this paragraph was really to show that I’m a porn loving whore with no conscience for the fact that buying porn online with Sherlock, who adores me, then telling him in the same breath that I’m going out with someone else is mean, and that my past dates continue to reappear while I’m on new dates because this city is too small. Yeah. Run on sentence motherfucker. Read it and weep…literally.

I know, you want to know how I ended up on the phone with Sherlock. I called him Monday night after the debacle. Look, he reads this blog and a wee few of you are very critical (and some of you are Judgie McJudgie Poo’s) so I’m just not going to get into the specifics of our conversation. Basically it was the type of conversation each of you have had when you are trying to make those decisions about if the person we are talking to is someone we want to be with. It’s the deep, “long term outlook for the two of us” stuff. I won’t bother writing it because there were some incredibly sweet words exchanged that will get ripped to shreds by a couple of you who seem to forget that I’m like, a person under here with a heart. Frankly, I know Sherlock and I have both made our mistakes, but I just can’t sit by and put him in a position to get roasted on this blog when we may have a future together. I’ve put you guys and your entertainment first for a long time, but now, I have to remember what I’ve always said: I will never let the blog stand in the way of a good relationship. Is it good with Sherlock and I? Time will tell. The jury is still out.

That said, what can I tell you? That in addition to talking Monday, he came over on Tuesday and we watched a movie. He said he’s not going to see anyone else until we resolve what we’re doing. I said, “I can’t make the same promise.” I’m sorry, I just can’t. I have a really really exceptionally hard time trusting people. I let my guard down this weekend and Monday it got crushed. So the guard is back up. It’s not conscious, I just notice that my skin is thicker now. I need to figure out if he can get back in, and I just don’t know the answer yet. I’m not stringing him along, so please don’t bother accusing me of that.

In other news, I’ve received an email from a reader I’ve never heard from before – either via comments or email. His name was somewhat familiar. His original email asked me to get a drink with him. I replied asking if he was a blogger. He said, “No. I was never a blogger.” Unfortunately that is a big fat lie. I hate lies. I replied, stating the name of the now defunct blog, and he said if I meet him for a drink he’ll explain. Hmm. So, you lied to me for some reason, and you’re using the reason for your lie as bait to get me to go out with you? I go out with people on MY TERMS, not yours. I decided to just not answer this email, but another one came, instructing me to meet him at a bar tonight at a certain time, with his phone number in the email. Since I was on a date with TheConsultant, and staring ex-date CL#3 in the face at a bar in Clarendon, all the while wondering what porn Sherlock had ordered, I was unable to physically or mentally make it for this date. So sorry. Try commenting some time though. Then at least I’d have a frame of reference for who you are, and I may have agreed to go out with you.

Continuing in the My Life Sucks vein, I am going to tell you straight out that blogging and being “public” is scaring the shit out of me. The disturbing emails have picked up again and I can never tell how harmless someone may be from this side of a screen. I forwarded an email I received to Sherlock and he was like, “I had no idea you dealt with this kind of stuff.” I’m sorry to have to inform those of you who read, don’t comment, then email me thinking we have some sort of rapport, we don’t. Without comments or a reference to your own blog, I don’t even have a glimpse of you. I understand that I pour my heart out here and you feel as if you know me. But, I don’t know you. Sherlock is going through a bit of this now, realizing that he’s read a lot and not heard it from me, and that’s partially to blame for him being in the fast lane – he already knows me. I’m realizing, sadly, that some of the email relationships I’ve participated in are not healthy. I give my all to this blog. I am going to continue giving my all to this blog until the day I wake up and decide it’s over. Don’t worry. It’s not soon. I’ve got a lot left in me that has yet to hit the keyboard.

Nothing like a Velvet heartbreak to bust my hits through the roof. I broke previous records by 200 more visits, and it makes me wonder about you newbies…coming for the drama! Though I’d trade them for all of this to just go away. Anyway, I’m coping. And in the spirit of coping, I have to infuse some humor into the situation. I can rarely stay in the same emotional place for very long. Indulge me with my nonsense, and when I get any updates for you on the Sherlock/Velvet situation, I’ll let you know. For now, all’s quiet. Standby for the Velvet Variety Show.

Dogs
1) I went to New York this weekend, sans dogs. Friday, Abby called me to tell me that Sammy was limping and wouldn’t put any weight on his front paw. I told her, “That fucker has done this to me countless times. He’s faking. I used to drag him to the vet all the time when I was in grad school because of the shit he’d pull. I came home one day and there were tissues all over the house and he was limping. I take him to the vet, and he’s running around the office like a loon. So I snatch him, and my much lighter wallet, and go home. Then once, he chased a squirrel into the woods behind my condo, and either he got his damn paw stuck on a thorn or the squirrel beat the shit out of him, but he screeched like an 8 year old girl. He scored three more sympathy visits to the vet before I realized he was faking each and every time. I think he falls asleep with his paw tucked under him and the paw falls asleep or something. That dog is bad.” This story is irrelevant, but keep in mind what a little devil I have. You’ll need it for item #3 below.

Dinner
2) Last night I had dinner with some really important people. I say important, because we are all so busy, we had to schedule this dinner like, months in advance. Do you know how ridiculous it is to be putting on a scarf and mittens when you are writing “Dinner, sure, August 21st” in an email? Who are these important peeps? Well, we have DCOE, Law-Rah, Sharkbail (yes, that’s her new name, though she didn’t bail last night,) Asian Mistress and Stef (who beat me to a recap found here.) Anyway, our waitress was horribly slow, and when she took our drink order and failed to return after 20 minutes, we started to wonder. Wonder no more, she waved goodbye to us and walked out, with her purse. We had to hail down the manager (channeling DCOE…and by “we” I mean, Sharkie.) He said he’d be taking care of us (definition of “take care” is actually “to ignore” at Chevys in Ballston) for the rest of the night as our waitress would no longer be returning. I can’t remember the exact words, but yeah, he fired her. Damn. How bad was she to get fired at 7 p.m. during dinner?

More Dogs
3) Still laughing from a dinner that took too long but passed quickly due to great company, I seriously came home to this note from my dog walker. I am copying word for word.

What a way to start my week. First, another client told me she is moving. Then, Sammy decided to poop two feet away from a sunbather’s head in Dupont Circle. As I was apologizing to the guy, Sammy kicked it right in his face with his back feet. This chunk of turd stuck to his cheek and slid off, leaving a trail of shit down his face. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Thank God the guy turned out to be the nicest guy on the planet. He wouldn’t even take my shirt to clean the crap off. With all that commotion, Thora didn’t poop.

May I remind you all that my parents, Gloom and Doom, play favorites, and think Sammy is the king and Thora is the asshole dog? They should revise their assessment. That’s par for the course with them though. I was the black sheep growing up, alienated from the family, and now I hear, “What is wrong with your two brothers?” Last night I told my mom, “All these years, you tortured me, and look now, I’m your favorite.” HA! But I’m not done with the dogs.

4) So I walk the dogs after reading this note, and there’s some house party in my neighborhood. Sammy and Thora invite themselves to the party, while I’m standing on the sidewalk. I can hear, “Hi little doggie, where did you come from?” I’m screaming like a moron, “SAMMY! MOMMY SAID RIGHT NOW!!!” And I look up in the window and see that little fucker Sammy running up the staircase in this person’s house. The guy out front smoking was like, “It’s my house and I don’t care, so don’t worry about it.” I said, “Buddy, after what he pulled today, you might find yourself with a new pet. I just may leave him here.” Finally he came out and we went home. Pause for picture of S and T dogs swimming in Annapolis a few weeks ago!

Dupont Circle
5) My neighbor was wearing the craziest shirt to work the other day. I said, “Well, no one is going to accuse you of being a heterosexual today, are they?” He said, “That is the greatest compliment anyone could pay me.”

Conversations With My Boss
Boss: So, Gary asked me for my home address and I asked why he needed that. He said he was going to invite me to his daughter’s wedding. I said, “Gary, I don’t even know your daughter, I can’t come to her wedding!”
Velvet: People and their wedding bullshit are just so weird.
Boss: I know, I don’t want to go to her wedding. I’d go to yours though.
Velvet: That’s not nice!
Boss: What do you mean?
Velvet: You know I’m too practical to have a stupid expensive wedding and that I’d just send everyone to Vegas with a roll of quarters and directions to an All-you-can-eat-buffet. And you’re also making a joke that I’ll never get married at the rate I’m going.
Boss: HA! You’re right. You know, I think I’m going to buy you a wedding gift, even though you’re not getting married. His and hers wine glasses.
Velvet: Ooh, I’m going to make a registry even though I’m not getting married. Think anyone will buy anything from it?

More Conversations with My Boss
Boss: So, I have a great story for you. You can put it on your blog.
Velvet: Do tell.
Boss: You know I went to New York this weekend. And I went down to the bar in my hotel one night and had a few drinks and talked to the bartender. This girl comes in, and she’s like 6 feet tall and she sits right next to me.
Velvet: Wait, where were the kids?
Boss: Upstairs with Sara.
Velvet: Wait. What? You brought your soon to be ex-wife to New York with you so she could be a nanny to the kids while you went to the bars?
Boss: Yeah. So?
Velvet: You’re my idol. I really have no idea how you have gotten this pending divorce to work out so well for you. Okay, keep going.
Boss: So the girls sits, and she starts telling me she has a problem. I tell her to tell me because my job is fixing problems. She says that she tried to be a porn star in L.A. and the told her she was too tall for what they needed, but they had a contact in New York that would work with her. So here she is in New York, and she doesn’t know anyone. She meets with the guy and he tells her she’ll get $2000 for three days of shooting. But, if she agrees to do only anal, she’ll get $2800 and she doesn’t know what she should do.
Velvet: It’s truly unbelievable that I’m the one who watches all this porn and yet, you get the porn stars sitting next to you in bars. What the hell?
Boss: So I say to her, ‘Okay, you wanted my advice, if you were my daughter this is what I would tell you. One day, you will meet someone and you will have this conversation about getting serious and you’ll have to admit that one day once, you did this movie, and you will have to hope he’s okay with it.’ So she sits there and thinks about it, then as she’s leaving, this slimey guy in his 60’s comes in and puts his arm around her, and she introduces me. They are getting ready to leave and she says “Thank you, you really helped me out. I know what I’m going to do now. I’m going to save my pussy for my boyfriend and do the anal.”

Seriously, only my boss. Unbelievable.

My New Blog Crush
People. Please. How much more of this do we have to take? Brought to you by my new blog crush.

All right. I can’t sit silent anymore. Here’s what I originally posted this morning. The first five comments are from the original post. Anything after that is new. After the asterisks is the new stuff.

Here’s a phone call I made today.

IJL: Thanks for Calling It’s Just Lunch.
Me: Hi, this is Velvet. I, um, need to cancel my date with what’s his name next week.
IJL: Oh, with number 13?
Me: Yes, that’s him.
IJL: Awwww. I’m sorry. Why?
Me: Well, I guess I’m no longer dating.
IJL: Okay, so that’s good news!
Me: Yeah. It’s really good news.
IJL: Great. Well, we’ll put your membership on hold, and just give us a call back if you want to be rematched again.

There’s a phone number I hope to never dial again.

I’ll explain. You all know I ate dinner with Sherlock Wednesday. Thursday I was packing to head out of town for the weekend. He and I briefly discussed seeing eachother for a bit. He was out with friends and I was running around like a crazy person taking my bedding to the dry cleaner (thanks Thora for vomiting all over my down comforter) packing, squeezing in the gym, getting hijacked by damn Gay Friend M for some stupid crap (I hate you) and well, there you go. By the time Sherlock and I connected, it was around 10:30. And, um, I let him come over.

He met Sammy and Thora.

He came into my house.

I broke my rules.

Then we left and went over to his place, where I stayed for approximately three hours. Most of those three hours I spent suspiciously, but blissfully, unclothed. When I got home, I realized that yes, I had somehow taken the turn with the tide, and I was happy. But my realistic side said it was good that I was leaving town, because getting out of town is the best way for me to realize how I feel about him. And Friday morning when I woke up, I thought, “Huh. I won’t miss him.”

How wrong I was. We spent the entire weekend in text message foreplay and had a few conversations on the phone. He told me Saturday night he was going out with friends. But it turns out he had a date, which he confessed after the fact. No biggie, I just don’t like being lied to. I had to remind myself that just because my head caught up, didn’t mean he was back where I left him a few weeks ago. Deep breath. I thought of a few things I planned to say when I was back and I would leave it at that.

He picked me up from Union Station. We went and got the dogs, brought my stuff home, then went to his place for a few hours of the Thursday night, blissfully unclothed variety. What I planned to say, I said, calmly, knowing it was well thought out:

“Tuesday night I have a date, which I intend to keep. But I’m only going out with someone else for spite, because you lied to me about Saturday. But when I come home after that date, I promise to be done. I’ll stop.”

I know we had an awful start and a rough patch early on. But I think it set a dynamic between us that I’m quite happy with. He crossed a line early on, hell, a few lines, and I put my foot down, and that showed my resolve. But, eventually, after a little guilt set in for the way I handled things, and that little feeling of just plain old missing him, I responded to his contact. I’m glad I did.

I’m not going to stop him from reading. As I told him, it will keep me honest.

Kids? I adore this man.

**************************************************

All right. So what happened?

This morning I suppose Sherlock and I were getting our dating houses in order. I took care of the above crap with It’s Just Lunch. We had a couple texts of a sweet nature, then he sent me a text telling me that he canceled a pending date and “told his fuck buddy it was done.”

Um. What? Your who?

So I called him. He first said he told me about that, then he said that he didn’t and he shouldn’t have told me via text. Um, yeah. Maybe that’s a start. So my mind is reeling thinking about how unfair it is that he’s seen EVERY SINGLE THING I’ve written, thought, person I’ve dated, since he came into my life. I think, unless I’m a big fat fucking liar, that it’s safe to say that he’s the only person I’ve slept with recently. So I find out that he hasn’t been just with me. Okay okay. Trying to breathe for a minute. This really isn’t such a big deal.

Then I ask, “When was the last time it happened?”

He says, “Once before you and once after.”

This people, this, is why I don’t get into relationships. There it is. Please don’t get me wrong, it isn’t the act and the fact that it happened. I know it happened when we weren’t talking. It’s that he kept it from me until after I agreed to stop seeing other people. ANY TIME PRIOR TO THIS MORNING would have been a better time to tell me. But, I can see how, you know, when you’re getting your dick wet, why the fuck would you bother to be like, “oh, by the way…”

So I say, “Okay, so in the interim where you and I first slept together, you spent 10 days stalking me like a fucking lunatic, calling, texting, emailing, jogging by my house, sending flowers, reading the blog, and somehow you find time to fuck someone else?”

He said “Yeah.”

I had to get off the phone. I had to hang up before I said something that didn’t need to be said out loud. But he emailed me, attempting to explain. I don’t care that it happened, even though putting into context that it happened during the full on stalking period it strikes me as odd, I care that he waited until the absolute wrong time to tell me. I responded to his email and said:

This is typical sales guy again. Do you convince doctors to use equipment, then tell them mid-operation that “oh by the way, in the trials it killed a few people, no biggie.”

Fuck you. I’m so mad at you right now I don’t even know what to think…You deserve everything you got on the blog. And everything that’s coming. If I even bother to give you an ounce anymore.

Well, I guess I did give an ounce. I have to keep you kids informed. But look at the bright side, I have been writing this blog for 14 months. It’s hard to keep this new and fresh, right? But now, here you have it – Velvet gets into a committed relationship for 12 hours. Five of which I was asleep for! (Make your jokes, I know, I was asleep for all 12.) Really, it just doesn’t get any better.

Oh, one more thing. Fuck you Sherlock.

Some of you may know there was just a post up for an hour or so. I took it down. Something just came to my attention, not of the good variety and I have to figure it out. Let me get my thoughts in order and I’ll get it together again. Sorry.

While I have so enjoyed watching the cop comments in the last post, you are requesting more. And I have more to give. Here we go.

Every afternoon when I come back from lunch, I toss my change on my desk. Every night when I leave, I forget to take it with me. Every morning when I come back in, the change is gone. It’s no secret that our cleaning crew at my office are a bunch of thieves. They have made off with a laptop from our office, as well as several cases of soda. Now they are stealing my money. Like the time when some redneck in Atlanta was stealing our Sunday paper, I set up a sting operation to catch the criminal – or to at least tell him/her that I knew what they were doing.

I should tell you that I’m a vindictive revenge-getter. If you wrong me, you best step back, because it won’t be pretty. I hate a thief the most of any. Get a job and get your own shit, don’t take mine! The person who stole that last Sunday paper from me in Atlanta pulled it out of the bag to find 4 weeks worth of chinchilla and hamster shit collected from the bottoms of their cages. Awww. So sad. I’m sure with as packed as that paper was with animal poop, there was no way it didn’t get all over their house. With my change thief, I taped my change to a sticky note that said, “How long will you keep stealing my change?” This morning I got a response to my note – a sticky note taped to a dollar that said, “I’m sorry. I took your money, here’s what I stole.”

Then my heart sank. I felt bad. I’m leaving him his dollar with a note that he can have it, I just wanted him to know that I knew what he was doing. I’m not trying to get a cleaning person in trouble for some change. If he gets fired, then he collects unemployment, maybe goes on welfare and I end up paying more for that, don’t I? I just want the thieves to know they can’t get away with it. Keep in mind my personality trait of feeling guilt for the rest of this post, okay?

After my post on visiting Uncle M (who by the way, told my cousin that I didn’t come up there to see him…hmm…) and the car accident, I got a text from everyone’s favorite enemy Sherlock. Well, he can’t be our favorite enemy anymore because from the last post I think we have a new asshole around here. Sherlock apologized, and said that I wrote a great post. I wanted to write back because I just didn’t think this would fix itself without a conversation. And someone thought I should just talk to him and deal with it head on. I replied that he was acting like a lunatic, and that two weeks of all this communication without a response from me was insane. We went back and forth in some texting over Monday and Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon we decided to have dinner on Wednesday. So, I ate dinner with Sherlock last night. It was fine. We had to clear the air, and each tell our side of what we thought happened. Mixed signals I suppose.

It’s not often that this type of sorting out occurs. I think in a lot of situations, one person just gets tired of the other and stops communication, without feedback. I would love to know what I did or didn’t do with regard to some of my exes.

Anyway, Sherlock walked me home and I said, “I really liked you the first night, and then something happened.” (I mean, I really liked him. Then it went all wrong, crashing and burning on the way.) He said, “Yeah, because I didn’t care the first night I met you.” But then he started caring. And shit changed.

Exactly.

And there we have it. I’m not saying this is a hard and fast rule, but showing someone you are available to them at every juncture is somehow unappealing. We like the challenge. We like to think that someone isn’t exactly ours from the start. I asked Sherlock if his interest in me was solely because I wasn’t interested in his attention. He said it was possible, but, who knows. Does anyone ever know with these things?

Final result: No matter what happens, he promised to stop being a psycho. And yes, he did use that word, and he did acknowledge that he was acting crazy. But he said it will stop, right…now.

I went to New Jersey this weekend to visit my Great Uncle in the nursing home. Well, I guess it’s a nursing home, I’m not quite sure what the P.C. name is – Retirement Home?

I left early Saturday morning to make the drive. I grabbed a bunch of old CD’s to listen to on the ride. As I made my way through them, only listening to the songs I like as opposed to listening to the whole CD, I stumbled on Expose. For those of you who did NOT grow up in the 80’s in New York, listening to Z100 broadcast “live from the top of the Twin Towers,” you may not have the same fondness for bands like Expose, Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, and Pebbles. Let’s have a nod to some true girl jammin’ shall we? A reminder of the days when hair was big, spandex was streetwear, dancing wasn’t always sychronized and ladies could sing.

Hmm. What’s this? Do I smell Spandex?

What about this one? Reminds me of skipping gym class.

Good lord. Mr. Washuk just gave me detention. Dick!

Probably their best. Hit #1, it did.

Best line ever here – “Apology not accepted, add me to the broken hearts you’ve collected.”

Something tells me only KassyK will enjoy this the most. It’s a tri-state area thing. Z100, neon lights under your car and weekends at the Jersey Shore.

Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed that, for I shall continue with my story. I needed to lift you up before I brought you down. I’m jamming along through the Baltimore Tunnel, straight up 95 to a little Expose. My mind wanders to the whole New York in the 80’s thing, and the feel of growing up during that time. I’m instantly tossed back to 8th grade, hanging out with my friend at the end of my street, talking about boys. On the highway, I see a car with New York plates in front of me, and realize that they are heading “home.” Brain wandering. My dad asked me on Friday if I would consider moving back to New York and give up my pipe dream of moving to Phoenix. I said no, but secretly it is something I do consider. I’m on the fence between Phoenix and New York. It would make more sense to just go back home. Besides, I could get back together with my hot ex-boyfriend. You know, the one who picked me up in a bar when I was 19, with the line, “If you guess what kind of car I drive you can have it.” I looked him up and down and said, “Black Ford Mustang.” He said, “Did you see me get out of my car?” I really didn’t, it was easy. All those guys drove Ford Mustangs.

As I’m mulling this over in my head, a tour bus cuts off the New Yorkers in the car ahead of me. They drive out of the lane to avoid an accident, skidded in the left shoulder, burning rubber in the process. Then the driver lost control of the car and it fell into the median, flipped over and landed on its side. Right in front of me.

Holy fuck.

I slam on the breaks and immediately call 911. (When I drive, the phone is always in my crotch. I enjoy the vibration, what can I say?) So, I get out of Speedracer and I’m in a full sprint back to their car. I never knew I could run this fast in flip flops. A guy was standing next to the car pulling the people out, as they had to climb up just to get out. Just as I said, “I’ve told them to send an ambulance,” out of the car comes a 3 year old little girl.

Holy fuck.

All four adults and one child climbed out of that car. Alive. Not injured. I never would have believed it if I didn’t see it with my own eyes.

Then someone said, “The car is smoking, everyone back away.” Traffic had come to a stop on the highway in both directions, and we started walking away from the car. Secure that they didn’t need me and had enough people around with an ambulance on the way, I made my way back to Speedracer to continue on. Needless to say, I was later than Uncle M expected. But he was just watching a Lifetime special, and he didn’t understand it anyway. He said, “Do I have to live a lifetime just to understand what the hell they are saying?”

I wheeled him back to his room, then we went for a walk outside on the grounds. Two ladies asked us to join them in the swing, so we did. We sat there for what seemed like an eternity, and in between small talk, Uncle M started in on these political rants. Everything is a conspiracy. Gotta love it.

Before I left, I saw a picture in his room of his mother, my great grandmother. This is the woman allegedly responsible for a lot of misery in the family. She was supposedly such a raging bitch, that she pitted my grandmother and her sister against each other for most of their lives.

I sat in the chair looking at the picture of my great grandmother, feeling nothing, knowing that she created a mess of shit that we are all still dealing with today. Uncle M never got married because she forbid him to marry a non-Greek who he was in love with. My Great Aunt committed suicide. My grandmother became completely crazy and tortured the hell out of my mom. The stories my mom can tell about growing up with my grandmother, lord. They could send us all to therapy. Though, the ones who need it don’t seem to end up there, do they? It’s the rest of us who have to go. Hell, they have even sent Uncle M to therapy now. He said they asked him why he can’t get along with anyone at the home. I said, “Did you tell them cause you’re Greek? It’s in your heritage?” At least he laughed at that.

My own reflection in the glass surrounded her face. I stared at it for a long time, to see if there was any similarity in our appearance. Nothing. I couldn’t see one thing in her face that resembled my own. But that’s just the outside. It’s not the outside that counts.

Yes everyone. Last night yours truly went out with a man 15 years older than I am. I’m really pushing that age limit thing, aren’t I? It’s my hope that there is a point in time that these men actually grow up. Since we’ve discovered that most are children well through their 30’s, I set my sights on the 40’s. This one last night? 48 baby. When I went from dating the guy in the next dorm to the guy who is planning his 50th bash and doubling up his IRA contributions in preparation for retirement is beyond me.

I met him at a bar downtown. I’m over disclosing locations because frankly, I don’t need certain people showing up there. So, from here on out, any location I disclose will be a lie. Damn! Cause I hate lying to you kids.

I called from outside because I have not embraced that whole “walk into a bar looking for someone you probably won’t recognize” thing. We’re on the phone, find each other, and sit down. He’s really quite good looking. I order a beer, he is finishing what I assume to be his first gin and tonic, and orders a second. He informed me that he isn’t working this entire month, so he’s going to get good and liquored up. Um, okay. He made good on that bet, he really did drink a lot. He was drinking doubles the entire time. I had just my one beer. So, the drinking thing could be an issue. But anyway.

We had great conversation. We told stories, I’m full of them as a matter of fact. I never lack for conversation on a date. I had told him in an email that I was a bit gunshy, and he asked why last night. I had to recount the whole last 4 months of drama, and he said he’s surprised I’m dating at all. Then I told him I had a dating blog to support. KIDDING! I have learned, I will never do that again. He did garner major points for coming out with my favorite political statement ever: “I’m socially liberal and fiscally conservative.” Wooooo hoooo!!!!

He wanted to eat, so we got a table and ordered a bunch of appetizers and ate and ate and ate. He paid the bill, despite my attempts to throw money at him, and we made our way to the street. I said I was going to grab a cab, because of attempted mugging the other night, and he hailed one for me. A hug and a kiss goodbye and I was off. Verdict? I’d “throw him into the rotation” as the Queen of Quantity says, but I’m not sure. He sent me a text this morning and an email, saying he had a good time and wanted to do it again. I’m game, but I realize that I’m not as happy and smiley as I was say, after my first date with Sherlock. This leads me to wonder – am I losing steam again or is he just not the right guy? Jury still out.

So, back to last night for a second. The cabbie asks me how I’m doing and I tell him I’m fine, and that I’m taking this cab because I was almost mugged the other night. He starts telling me I need to get Tim Larkin’s self defense tapes or something. He spends the ride describing the tapes, telling me that the aim of them is to fight to kill, not fight to fight. The tapes allegedly tell you how to disarm someone in a few moves, by going for the pressure points. Then we get to my place and I’ve got one foot out of the car and he won’t stop talking. He puts the car in park. He takes off his seatbelt, he’s describing things in the tape, telling me I need to buy it. Then he turns off the engine and continues talking. So I’m like, “Holy hell, these tapes sound great.” I go upstairs and check it out online and find that the tapes cost a few million dollars.

I can always get suckered into buying things, especially with such an enthusiastic recommendation like that, but damn. Why are the tapes so expensive? If I knew how to kill someone with one shot of my hand to a body part, I’d tell everyone for free. Why charge so much money? I checked him out on some message boards and people didn’t have very nice things to say about him. Anyone hear of him? Anyone have any other ideas of what I could buy to learn? Perhaps I’m resigned to just breaking someone’s knee if they attack me, since that’s what I can do best.

The other night I was walking home, and was within two blocks of my house. I saw three kids, about 15, 16 years old, on bikes, riding the opposite way past me. I was on the sidewalk. They were in the street. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the kids whisper something to the others as he looked at me. Not good. My senses went up. I walked faster to get to the intersection just ahead. As I got to the corner, I turned around. One of the kids had ducked away from his friends and was within inches of me, just next to the arm that was holding my bag. I know what you’re doing motherfucker.

When he realized I saw him, he had a brief look of shock on his face and nodded at me. I don’t think he was expecting me to know he was there. Then he doubled back, deciding to ride on sidewalk on the side of the street we were on instead of the sidewalk to which we were crossing. He and I continued, each on our own side of the street, staring at each other, waiting to see what the other one was going to do. My adrenaline was pumping. I was pissed, there’s nothing I hate more than a thief. Nothing. I almost dared him to do something. He’s alone, he’s younger than me, and sans weapon or backup from his friends, I could probably beat his thieving fucking ass if it came down to it. Kids these days are pumped full of McDonald’s. Hardly a match for my Protein Shakes and routine ass kicking at my gym. He came up to the next block before I did, I saw him do a U-turn in the street, right in front of a cop, and sped off the way he came, toward his friends.

I walked clear across the intersection and told the cop what had just happened. He took off in their direction. I can guarantee he probably didn’t catch them, for we’ve learned that the roaches can outsmart the D.C. Cops on their best day.

So, what told me I was about to be mugged? Yes, I grew up in Connecticut but we spent every weekend in New York in the 70’s and 80’s, pre-Giuliani, when crime was rampant. I have the Hudson River in my blood, and I can sense when I’m in danger. These kids didn’t belong in this neighborhood. They acted suspicious. When people eye you and start whispering, you are being talked about. When one abandons his other friends and follows you coming within inches of you, yeah. Feel it. You are about to be mugged. Unlike many of the faces I pass each day and evening, I’ve never seen these kids before. I had to ask myself as I continued walking home if I would have felt the same way if the kids were white. Yeah. I would have. They acted suspicious and that was what made me worried. Then I asked myself if I could have been wrong. Sure, but it’s a slim chance. Did I “profile” them because of their race, age and behavior? Yup. I sure did. Call it racism, but it saved me from being mugged. And frankly I’d listen to my senses again if it’s going to save me from getting hurt.

Believe me, I wish we could all just get along. I am a true believer in every word in John Lennon’s “Imagine.” I wrote a grad school paper on that song. But I’m not a bleeding heart and I know that this will never happen. I’m realistic. I see that there’s a lot of resent in all directions, across all races, and I know we will never see a day without racism and hate. I refuse to contribute to that sort of hate, but I know how things work and I get that as the white, upper middle class female, I have to be aware of other’s hatred of me and what I stand for in their eyes. That puts me in a position to be victimized. Do I cringe or brace myself because someone approaches me who “looks dangerous?” Nope. I cringe and brace myself because I know that that person, of another race, may have been trained to hate me, and may just do something about it.

I carry mace with me. And the next time someone fucks with me, they aren’t going to be pleased. But, I dare them. If the cops can’t clean up the streets, it’s up to the rest of us.

Twas the first weekend in August and all through the town
Not a creature was attractive at old Chi Cha Lounge.
The lawyer limped along with her dead ugly stare,
With a skunk streak of gray right through her hair.
Her nutjob client must be off his meds
Cause visions of craziness dance in his head…
…when what to my wondering eyes should appear
but a text from a man you all know from here…

Okay, cryptic. Either I’m getting fatter, or this city is getting smaller. And I know with the time I spend at the gym, I am definitely not getting fatter. The lunacy that was my weekend is truly unbelievable. So many worlds colliding, in so many different ways.

• Happy Hour Friday. I can’t do a recap because I suck at recaps and the pros are better at it anyway. But, I met a reader who nailed the identity of someone I discuss here. Do I not disguise these people enough? Or is D.C. really this small? Wow. Regardless, I’m glad she said something to me, because now I have a new friend who I think is going to be dangerous of the fun fun fun variety.
• Someone I used to date decided to post his delusional account online of what he thinks transpired between us. Fucking hilarious. I wish I could wander through life with my head up my ass like that. I guess it helps when you have a couple lunatic “friends” by your side to help get your head up there. Christ you people are soooo pathetic.
• Then, in an interesting twist of fate, half an hour after the above internet posting came to my attention, I almost ran over said person’s lawyer. You know, the one he showed up in court with because he was too chicken shit to face me alone? You know, the one who escorted him out of the courtroom so quickly, that they missed the real fireworks that occurred? You fool. You should have stuck around to hear what everyone thought of you! It’s funny to have court personnel chase you out of the courtroom to talk to you. But I digress. When I saw said lawyer, clumping along the street with her trademark limp, I said to my friend, “Lookie here. It’s the bastard’s lawyer.” Friend, who was in court with me said, “Yep. I couldn’t miss that limp anywhere.” By the way counselor, I figured he would have paid you enough in fees to die that skunk stripe of gray hair you got going on.
• Headed out Saturday night. It was the night of the ugly at Chi Cha Lounge. Where did all these ugly people with their bad dancing come from? It was like the Geek Squad bus unloaded right on U Street. Anyway, someone very close to a disgusting piece of shit who threw their name into above court case showed up at Chi Cha. How small has this city become? Can’t you people stay in your own quadrants?
• The night comes full circle just as I decided to go home. Out on the street, I get a text from everyone’s favorite man of last week, saying he was in Chi Cha and he hopes he didn’t run me off. Jesus Christ. It was me who introduced you to this bar, and I had no fucking idea you would make it your god damned new home, having never been there before you met me. It’s getting a little old having you “show up” places where you know I’ll be. I’ve left the rest of your maneuvers off this blog, but for some reason, you seem to be tempting me don’t you? Ok. I’ll bite. Then, I’m done. Ready? Because it’s obviously what you’ve been waiting for.

Dear Sherlock:

My last words to you were via text, “Don’t be fooled by a false sense of intimacy.” Since then, you sent three more texts on Sunday, one on Monday, sent flowers on Tuesday, sent a two page email on Wednesday, texted again Wednesday night, and called three times on Thursday, magically showed up at a bar Saturday you know I frequent, then texted me saying, “Well that was weird.” No. No it wasn’t weird. YOU FUCKING KNOW I GO THERE ALL THE TIME AND YOU HAD NEVER BEEN THERE BEFORE MEETING ME JUST TWO WEEKS AGO. Is all of this above stuff your version of “laying off the intensity?” Do you not see how showing up at a concert at Nissan Pavillion or showing up at my house at 2:15 a.m. when I ask you not to, or showing up at a bar I go to enough to know the freaking staff is insane? Do you not get this?

It’s enough. I’ve had enough. I have not answered any of your attempts to contact me because, listen carefully, I DO NOT WANT TO TALK TO YOU. Frankly, you scare the fuck out of me. Your ability to twist what I say, or blatantly disregard what I say and do what you want anyway is beyond scary. Get the fuck off this blog or I’ll block your Verizon wireless card and then you’ll have a hell of a time trying to come back.

No longer a breeding ground for psychotics,
Velvet

P.S. If you want to create a blog about what a bitch I am, something about my being a crack whore URL is already taken.

It’s Raining Men right now.

I don’t have names for any of them yet, but I have tentative plans with a bunch of men. I don’t even know where they all came from, but for some reason, there’s that old theory – the more you have the more you can get. There are five in total.

1) Dupont Boy – Engaged in emailing. Trying to set something up for this weekend or next week. Another Greek. Oh boy.

2) Older Man – Is on leave of absence from his work so that he can finish construction on his house. Seems nice, but 15 years older than me. We’ll see how I like this. We have plans for Wednesday.

3) Consultant – Just called me this morning. He sounds fun. A little off the wall maybe, but fun. We’re going out Monday night.

4) IJL #13 – I’m sooooo close to being done with these people. Two dates to go. Two dates to go. Two dates to go. And after next week, I can change the chant to “One date to go!”

5) Arizona Online Man – I don’t know how this happened, but some stupidly hot man emailed me from Phoenix. There was that one point in time where I had my profile as saying I lived in Phoenix. Anyway, he used to live here in Maryland, if that’s not weird. When I go out there we’re going to meet up. I’m a resourceful little bitch aren’t I? I may just create a duplicate profile and run it for Phoenix and see what I can shake out of the trees when I go. Fucking hooray.

There you have it. The “Scorecard” has returned.

I talked to my cousin last week. We have been dealing with some disturbing news about how my Uncle is being treated in the Nursing/Retirement home. Let’s just say it wasn’t good. They really don’t plan to do shit for him, despite the $8000 being spent each month to keep him there. If they can’t keep him from falling all the time by alleviating the pressure on his brain, they will be strapping him in his chair and bed until he dies. Now my parents are involved, taking him to some doctor in Philly, ugh what a mess. Details details. None of us are pleased – my other Uncle, my cousin, myself, my parents. Then. This:

Cousin: I’m going to Phoenix to look for houses for my Dad and I and see about what the homes are like for Uncle M.
Velvet: When?
Cousin: First week of September.
Velvet: I’m there. I’ll ask for the time off work.

It’s moments like this that make me appreciate that I hoard my vacation time and stockpile my money for rainy days. I haven’t asked for the time yet, but I will. And I’m going to drive so I can bring the dogs. So get ready bitches. When I drive is when my best writing comes to me. I’ll probably overload you with posts the entire time I’m gone. And if the trip goes anything like the last one, cough cough cough, well, maybe this time I’ll actually write it up instead of just sending out salacious emails.

Anyway, Tuesday I had lunch with someone really high up in a company in my industry. We met a few years ago and somehow ended up getting along really well, and I did him a massive favor just recently. During the lunch, the purpose of which was to thank me, he asked about business and such. I told him of our rounds of layoffs and consolidations. He said, “Yeah, you mentioned that on the phone, are you safe?” I said I didn’t know if any of us were to be honest.

Then he said, “God Forbid you get laid off, please call me. We are hiring like mad in Costa Mesa and Phoenix.

I’d like to bet it all in the Daily Double Alex.

What did I just hear? Holy fucking shit.

This ladies and gents, is how the ball just got thrown into play on Operation Get-Velvet-The-Fuck-Out-Of-This-Swamp. Up until now, I was just fantasizing. But now? Yeah. I’m ready to start packing. So, Johnny, The boys of Cafe 227, Double O, Ninja? We better hurry and make out now because I may not be here much longer. Not at the same time though. Well, unless you all are into that.

Let me try to give a little clarity to what we’ve been discussing.

Everyone has a relationship with someone, usually early in their dating life, that ultimately shapes the person they become for every other significant other.

When I was 21, my first love, AlwaysDrunk, broke my heart. An alcoholic, he was incredibly incapable of being the person he promised he would be. At the beginning of the end, I saw the writing on the wall and ended things. He found me the next evening, in my usual watering hole. It was hard to mix up the social life in SmallTown, Connecticut, so we all ended up at the same bar. He begged me to get back with him. I agreed, but told him to “Cut the shit.” He promised. But he never made good on that promise.

A few nights later, he was all over some girl right in front of me. I asked him what the hell he was doing. He had no answer. I left the bar in tears. But I wasn’t alone. TheCop followed me out. I only knew TheCop through friends, we had never really had an actual conversation other than being introduced months earlier where I noticed he couldn’t stop looking at me. I hadn’t seen him since that night. I still remember though, The Cranberries song “Linger” was blasting on the radio. Aah, 1994.

TheCop told me to get in his car so we could talk. He wanted to drive down to New York City to get some late dinner. I agreed, but only on the pretense that other people came with us. We grabbed three more people from the bar and drove into the city. On the way, we stopped to pee and this girl and I walked for what seemed like miles across a field so we could squat without the guys seeing us. We turn around and they are about 10 feet from us. So, she says, “Screw it, I’m going in this bush.” She parted the branches and walked in. Except I saw her head disappear and heard her scream, then heard a splash. Apparently there was some sort of ravine and she fell into a pile of mud. When she crawled out, her white shirt was soaked in mud, and she tossed out her shoes and socks. But we kept going.

We get into New York, and stupid TheCop went the wrong way. (It’s a big joke up there that you can’t take the goombas out of Connecticut because they get the shakes, and get lost.) Long story short, nothing is open by the time we get there and we go home. But not before TheCop tries to kiss me. I pushed him off, still upset over AlwaysDrunk, and went home.

This started an entire summer of cat and mouse. TheCop was the chaser, I, the chasee. I was at a similar place in life then that I am now – not really wanting anything serious. But emotionally, I was exhausted and felt like maybe I needed a diversion to get through this hell summer of not being with AlwaysDrunk, at least until I go back to college. Let’s just do it in bullets because it’s too traumatic to relive. Things I remember well:

• Me and TheCop having some sort of fight and him calling over and over and over to the point where my mom said, “You better talk to him, I think he’s suicidal.”
• Us having another of our infamous fights and him showing up at my house, ingratiating himself to my parents.
• Me breaking up with him and him following me all over town, scaring the hell out of me. One night I was walking to my car from the bar, and he was hiding in the woods, breaking branches, trying to scare me into thinking someone was after me.
• Me telling him I wasn’t in love and wanted to break up. He then climbed on the roof of my parents house to sit outside my bedroom watching me sleep.
• Him admitting several other disturbing things he did when we were broken up at one point – following me, following my friends, showing up at my friends jobs.
• He followed me back to college in Miami, and tried to become best buddies with my friends. We had a fight because he called me “The bitch” in front of my roommate. He ran out of the bar as though I did something wrong. I followed him, he raised his fist to punch me, but some guy started yelling, so he punched a telephone pole instead and took off into the ghetto. I called the cops and they came out to get my story before looking for him. I remember hearing the guy in the parking lot saying, “I see this guy storm out of the bar and he’s about to punch that girl over there…” Yeah. That was bad. TheCop got mugged and spent his night at the MDPD. Miami Dade Police baby.
• Me feeling incredible relief when he was out of my life.
• SmallTown Connecticut police investigating why TheCop was in that neighborhood at that time, and rumors surfaced (untrue from what I knew) that he really was selling his badge for drugs, because no one in their right mind would walk down Grand Avenue in Coconut Grove. TheCop asked me to testify on his behalf so he could keep his job. I said no.
• Him calling as recently as two years ago, hearing another man’s voice in my presence, and screaming, “I’M THE ONLY MAN YOU WILL EVER LOVE NOW GET RID OF HIM.”

Though the actual relationship was 6 months, this maniacal behavior went on for the better part of 12 years. I still cringe when I see a Connecticut area code show up on my phone. I’ve moved several times and he always manages to find me. I sneak back to my parents house for a day and he just “happens” to drive by their house and see my car. I go home to their house and 3 hours after being in the front door, the phone starts ringing and the hangups begin. Everyone gives the knowing glance and says, “It’s TheCop.” Some people are just so crazy they can’t be reasoned with.In many ways, this relationship with TheCop ruined me. I developed a huge aversion to any sort of control, real or perceived. But it also fine tuned my senses to a point where I can see the signs. I recall having fights with TheCop where I would say “You’re a great guy but…” and launch into 8000 insults of why I hate him so much. All he would hear was the “You’re a great guy” part, and would end up showing up at my door, or making some sort of other threats through my friends that if “Velvet doesn’t call me, I’m gonna…” It became impossible to live my life. I finally stopped returning his calls and eventually he got the hint. I mean, as much a hint as he could get.

I remember like it was yesterday, being out with my roommate senior year, and walking up the stairs to our apartment and hearing the phone ring. I broke into a full sprint fumbling for my keys saying, “I have to get the phone, it’s TheCop.” I missed the phone, he hung up and didn’t leave a message. My roommate said, “I’m only going to ask you this once. Are you in an abusive relationship?” It was time to put the sheet over that one and call the time of death. That sort of control is infective. You start to just accept it as natural that you forget what it’s like to make your own decisions. So now I’m incredibly independent? You bet your ass.

Back to present day. A lot of the phone calls and off blog conversations I’ve had with some of you remind me of exactly that point in time 12 years ago. Sometimes being in something, it’s harder to see it for what it is. But some of my best, most level headed friends are freaked. And that is the only truth that matters.

**Not safe for family. Mom, Dad, OlderBrother – off now. Don’t come back for a few days.

I left you off at Friday night as I went to bed. Saturday was a hellaciously busy day, and I must apologize profusely for not making it to the Cafe 227 extravaganza. They write one of my favorite blogs by the way, so check it out peeps.

At some point Saturday evening, I checked my email to see that I had received two separate messages from Sherlock. The first, written sometime Friday night and the second just a forward about Phoenix.

The basic message in the first email, the longest email I’ve received from a man in years, was as follows. He explained that he didn’t mean to be interviewing me, but felt he knew me through the blog and wanted to recreate that rapport in person. (Reason #457 why a man you are dating should not know about your dating blog.) He continued to say that he thought he was getting the feeling back from me and knows that I wasn’t feeling what he thought I was. (This leads me to wonder if I somehow, in being nice and engaging, am giving off the wrong signals? I don’t know, I can charm the pants off a lamp post if need be, it’s just my style.) He goes on to say that I’m going to have to let someone in someday, and am I just dating for blog material, and if so then why am I dating at all? (Well, because it can be fun when it’s not totally mind numbing or too intense.) He promised to not read the blog anymore and says that the finality of my tone on the phone the prior evening was heard loud and clear.

He closes by saying, “the ferocity of your independence is both captivating and addictive. And I know it does not come without a price.” Well. That part was incredibly deep, true, and thought provoking.

When I first got the email, I actually didn’t read it. I shut off the computer and went to Tyson’s with the Queen of Quantity. I braced myself for what was in the email though.The prior night that some of the true high pressure talk involved him saying that he had canceled other dates and asking me if I still wanted to date other people. I wasn’t ready to read an email knowing that we had already had that exchange. So, I get home, turn on the computer, find the email, then plow through. After reading, I knew why I was so hesitant. Peppered throughout the explanations were things that clouded the message – a message which should have been to explain, and maybe just say good luck? I don’t know. I’ll never know. I’m obviously not good at this. But, he made comments about finding someone else and hoping he can stay open minded enough to do that. Is that truly commiserating with my non-emotional component, or a slam as if to say that his lack of openmindedness is somehow my fault.

Anyway, other than the 2nd email about why “Phoenix is a great city” I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the day. Until he sent me a 2 a.m. text. Let me switch modes so it’s easier to read.

Him: How was your night? Want to talk?
Me: No. I just want to have sex with you.
Him: Give me 10 minutes.
Me: No. Not tonight. But soon.
Him: Of course. Tonight we’ll just finish your backrub.
Me: No. Do not come here. I have to be up in five hours. But one day soon I am going to come over there and we are not going to say a word to each other…

The rest of what I wrote was really pretty X-rated. It was an alternate version of the wanting to have sex part.

Then he called. He told me to look out my window. I was exhausted and couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. I told him no. He said he parked and was going to come up for a couple minutes. I said no and told him to go home. Then he asked me to come down to the lobby so he could meet the dogs and give me a kiss. I said no again. I’ve actually instituted a new rule. No one meets Sammy and Thora until I know they are going to be around for a bit. I know that’s lame, but it’s just how I feel. Hey, my dog park friends understood!

So he leaves. In many ways, he reminds me of TheCop, who I dated for 6 months when I was 21. No matter what I told TheCop, he continued to disregard what I asked. I’ve got a side post coming on that, because that relationship truly shaped my feelings toward overzealous men.

We continued texting, and it got a bit steamy, but we left it that we could move this along to sex at a point to be determined. Texts continued all day Sunday and we made that “point to be determined,” Sunday night.

I’m sooooo sorry I have to fast forward, but you know how I feel about writing about sex. I typically don’t do it, for the ensuing creepy email component, so just know that it happened. For hours. And was awesome. It is an arrangement I’m content with at this point in time. He takes me home, and we’re outside my building saying goodbye. We kiss, and we’re about to lean in for another kiss when he says, “You know that was about more than sex, right?”

I swear to Christ, I could hear this deflating balloon in my head. What. The. FUCK??? I backed off and got out of the car. I stood at the window and said, “No it wasn’t.” He said, “I’m not trying to change you.” I said, “Don’t be fooled into thinking it was about anything other than sex.” Shit.

I go inside, and get a text from him that said that no two people are ever at the same place in a relationship, that he isn’t trying to change me and was just making an observation. He said he’ll call when he wants and I can do the same. I texted back, “It is just sex. Please don’t be fooled by a false sense of intimacy.” He sent another back that said, “Whatever you say…and if you can do whatever you want, then I can read whatever I want. Ask me to refrain and I will but I may bow out completely, that’s the risk you take.”

You know what? I’m pissed. It’s NOT the risk I take. I don’t take any risks, I live my god damned life, being straight with people about what I want, occasionally screwing up but owning up to all my mistakes. And I write a blog. And his friend, ex-girlfriend, reader, commenter, blogger, whatever, told him about the blog. Now he alternates between promises to not read and threats to read it to see what I’m thinking and what I’m saying. It isn’t going to work. I was an idiot to think that by taking the relationship issue off the table that this would make it easier on me. It just made it harder. Now I truly feel like a caged animal.

Though, all of this is probably irrelevant, as I can see he checked in to the blog several times yesterday. I wouldn’t be happy if someone wrote yesterday’s post or this post about me, and I certainly wouldn’t go back for more. But that Sherlock. He’s full of surprises, so one could never know. I can only hope he realizes the reprecussions of dating someone who says they will write about the dates. Because this isn’t a forum. It’s a one sided account of my dating life. Though I will argue each and every time that my side is the truth. HA!

Friday night around 2 a.m., I walked in the door to my house, sat down on the floor with Sammy and Thora, and cried. Sammy crawled in my lap and I asked him, “Would it really be so bad if it was just the three of us forever?”

Backing up…

Some of you sent me emails last week, after the last post, telling me that everything sounded great and to not worry about the situation with the blog being “out.” But. But. After a back and forth with a couple of you, it seems that not only did I present the most positive of lights, but I left something out that significantly changed how I felt about the present situation with one Sherlock. Sigh.

I was doing well until Wednesday last week. (Woo hoo, I made it 4 whole days without freaking out!) But as I was leaving to pick up Sweet so we could punk out our hair and hit the Poison concert, Sherlock called. He said he knew I didn’t like surprises but he got a ticket to the concert. There was some back and forth about me just wanting to go with my friend, and him saying he wouldn’t come out there unless he could hang out with me. The details are unimportant, but just know that I did not embrace this plan. When I make plans with girlfriends, I make plans with girlfriends. And I don’t bring guys along who I happen to be dating. It’s just not cool. And it felt like too much.

I got a couple text messages during the concert that were suspect due to their timing. One came at Poison’s first break. Another came with a song reference while they were playing said song. I’ve described that feeling of having the walls close in on you, and this just reminded me of that feeling. I’m not comfortable with the idea of being in a huge crowd, knowing someone is probably there looking for me. It’s eerie. That’s all I have to say about that. Eerie. For a woman who has already had a stalker, this is not a good feeling.

I didn’t post this because both he and his tip off friend are reading. And that whole idea makes me ill. But, it’s the price I pay for not being 100% anon.

When he admits he was at the concert, I just start to unravel. And, right on schedule, here we go. We have a big talk Thursday. I’m trying, I have to tell you guys, I’m trying. I had a six year relationship and the day we broke up I was ready to date. But I’ve had a couple two-monthers and they have fucking killed me. I just can’t get into all this deep talk and such. He wanted to meet up on Thursday night to get this drama infused talk out of the way. No. No, and NO. I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted to go hang with my dogs since they were neglected the night before and catch up on some sleep. We stuck with having our plans for Friday.

Friday night I left my house with an open mind. We went to eat. We played pool. We were playing darts and waiting for a table, and he was firing off some questions, then sort of put me on the spot by asking what else I wanted to know about him. I don’t view this getting to know you period as a race, and I really just ask questions as I think of them. So I, probably nastily, said, “Is this an interview?” Look, I know. I don’t have a lot of finesse when I’m feeling cornered. Which I was. I honestly just wanted to drink beer and play pool.

Let me screech ahead because this is just going on too long. Pool is over, and we head back to his place for the old “Let’s have one more drink but we both know we are going to fool around” finale to the evening.

When one person is into the other, you get the vibe. You can’t fake that feeling toward someone. It comes across in gestures and comments without much effort. Then we had a conversation that went something like this. Forgive me, the details aren’t exact, and shit, I’m sure someone will critique since they have been very busy hitting up the Velvet in Dupont blog today. Fucking annoying. Anyway, convo mode.

Me: I’m not there.
Him: I know.
There was some conversation that got us to this next exchange, but I don’t remember what it was.

Me: I couldn’t have the kind of sex with you that I would want to have if there was a relationship here.
Him: What? What does that mean? What do you want? Do you even know?
Me: Yes.
Him: What
Me: I want someone I can have sex with but not have the relationship part.
Him: That’s a brave thing to say.
Me: Yeah. I guess. Look. I am not the girl you want me to be. I just can’t be that right now.
Him: What if I said I was hesitant too?
Me: Then I think we should rewind this past week and do it all over. Because you were giving off all the signs.
Him: Ok, I guess I was.
Me: You say all the right things. You do. But I was on the noncommittal express and you pulled the bait and switch. You said you didn’t want a relationship in your profile. For 95% of women, what you are saying would be gold. But it’s just not for me.
So, we get our things together and he’s going to drive me back home. At that point I probably would have just let me walk if I were him, but whatever. So, on the ride:

Him: I think you do want a relationship.
Me: You know, last winter the man who runs DC Blogs said to me that my blog was good because it just goes and goes, and that most dating blog writers end up in a relationship and get boring. There is a reason for that Sherlock.

So he drops me off, and wants to park the car. I said no. He asked what I was going to write so he didn’t have to look. I said, “I’m going to write that I’m surprised by myself because I could have had what I thought I wanted, and I really don’t want it at all.”

That’s when I walked in and sat on the floor with Sammy and Thora and cried. Sometimes a seemingly insignificant relationship burns you so badly that you can’t stop stumbling with everyone else who comes along. I know you all will see tremendous irony in this, because I’m so honest on this blog, but, I’ve become the most guarded I’ve ever been in my life.

I finally got off the floor and went to walk the dogs. When I was outside with them, I got a text from Sherlock asking me to call him. I did, and after a couple words back and forth I said, “I’m done. I’m talked out. No more talking.” And on that, we hung up.

I’ve been quiet for the week, I know. I mean, I’ve posted, but not the usual stuff. We have a mutually co-dependent relationship, don’t we? You come here to be entertained, and I come to write, and get opinions and spur conversation. It doesn’t work if I’m not honest. It can never work properly if I’m not honest. What’s holding me up? Let’s get to it.

1) I have someone who is scaring me. I’m tired of the emails. I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, I don’t know what you want, but I have an idea. What you send me is not appropriate. I’ve told you several times. I will no longer be answering anything you send.

2) I am seeing things in my stats that are equally scary. Why is a Private Investigation firm on my blog a dozen times a day? Who are you and what are you looking for? You better reveal yourself and your intentions or your IP will be blocked. I don’t want to step in the ring again no matter how deranged your client. But if you stick a toe back in, be prepared, because I’ll go to the motherfucking end. And from what I’ve been told, you won’t be satisfied with that end.

3) The cop thing. I’ve been told that if I continue, I will end up dead. That’s promising. They have to get me first though, don’t they? Cough. See items 1 and 2 above, po-po!

4) The boy thing. I just don’t like this idea of someone I’m dating being able to read this blog. I thought at first that if I’m honest then what would it matter? But I’ve paid a heavy price for violating this rule before. See #2 above. Some rules are made to be broken. This one isn’t. So, the blog goes, or the boy goes. Watch me, as I eat my words: “I would never let this blog get in the way of a viable relationship.”

Let’s discuss the boy for a minute. The Queen of Quantity named him Sherlock, for his innate ability to find my blog from my online profile (I hear he had a little help,) and his ability to find my Craigslist ads I posted for my FirstDateDC research. The man is a super sleuth. I realized right away, I would never be able to get anything by him. He said, “Maybe that’s a good thing.” He might be right.

So, the recap. Last Sunday, after a few email exchanges, he said, “Let’s have a quick dinner tonight. Don’t think about it. Just say yes.” As I mentioned earlier, I loved the idea that he said in his profile that he was too busy for a girlfriend. There was comfort in that. Comfort like macaroni and cheese comfort. People, I am not a good girlfriend. I will tell you this now. Not that I can’t be nice and good to someone, but I am not good in a relationship. The idea of being tied down makes me instantly want to date a dozen other people just to prove I can still do it.

Our quick dinner lasted 5 hours. He walked me home. We kissed. It all felt so very right. He didn’t play any stupid games of waiting three days to call, he said he just wanted to talk to me. And I wanted to talk to him. Talk we did. On and off all day Monday and Tuesday. A couple hours on each of the nights. During some of our conversations, he asked me if I was going to move to Phoenix. Okay, so he’s been on the blog. He mentioned reading the things I wrote last week about Jack and that love triangle, and how deep it was in comparison to my other posts. These details are not bothersome on their own. The past is the past. I don’t care who reads what. But this ability to read the blog going forward, and the knowledge that his friend has been a reader for some time (Hello you!) is truly frightening.

For a control freak like me, this is a huge problem. I prefer to actually control the information and emotion I show for a man. There is something in my formula that feels comfortable in doing that. Not that it has worked for me before, but it’s all I know.

But, then I consider the other side for a minute. I think about the control freak in me being challenged in this manner. Nothing I think and post is secret. Decisions aren’t always mine to make. Someone calling me and saying, “Don’t think, Just answer.” Fuck. There’s something incredibly thrilling about that. Giving up the control. Letting someone else just decide. Wow. I make every single decision in my life from when I wake up to what movie I’m going to watch to when the dogs get their walks, what we eat, when we eat and on and on and on. I’m freaking out at the idea that someone could come along and change that. I’m freaking out more at the idea that I could really get into that. I’m freaking out most that to have this type of arrangement, you need trust. Something I’m very low on at the moment. Again, see #3 above.

By Wednesday, I was nearing uncomfortable. I woke up with a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. I call that naggy feeling – raging anxiety. I live in an intricate world I’ve created for myself with friends and happy hours and nights out with the Queen of Quantity, who I am so much on the same page with when it comes to partying. (I know it’s not intricate! Christ!) I believe that I would be quite content with a man to spend my time with. But along he comes, and I get scared. So scared. Seriously. When I see it going well, I head straight for sabotage mode. Because the bottom line of all of this is, I just don’t think I’m suited to get married.

I sent him a text the other night in response to something he said. It said, “Don’t let me panic.”

He’s trying. My god is he trying. We talked today for a while and I explained where I was, that I need to just move it slower. He said all the right things. He’s into me, he won’t play games, he wants to try this. I reminded him of his proclamation on his profile about not wanting or having time for a girlfriend.

He said, “If you told me a week ago that I’d be at this point right now with you, a total 180, I never would have believed it.” He said his friend said, “Wow, you are really falling for this girl.”

Gulp. Deep breath. Does someone have a paper bag? I might pass out.

My my my. The years have been kind to you Bret Michaels. How I still love thee.

Lucky I stocked up on undies at Victoria’s Secret, cause these are a mess. Straight to the stage trash with you.

Come to Velvet. I have some things to show you. It won’t hurt. I promise.

Full update found on my SourNSweet guest post.

Also a First Date DC guest post today as well.

No, I’m not systematically shutting down and posting elsewhere. I’m still trying to figure out what to do. It’s definitely a problem having someone you are dating also reading your blog. A huge problem. I woke up this morning realizing that one of those things will have to come to an end. Quickly. I just don’t know which one yet. Back to la la land. Bret..mmm…

More on worlds colliding in a bit.

But first, let me entertain you with a story about Saturday night, when Marci, Buggie and I met at a country bar in Alexandria. (Careful, if you click that link it plays music even too redneck for ME!) We tried to make it to the 8:00 line dancing lessons, but the torrential rain threw a wrench in that plan. So, the girls arrive, and thereby begins 4 straight hours of PhotoHunt on the Megatouch machine. Shortly after I realized my butt cheeks were asleep, I suggested we make our way over to the yee hawing over on the dance floor. And we did.

It wasn’t long before Buggie had herself a little boyfriend, who we will call Flip Flop boy. Marci and I jetted around the dance floor together, then with some other men in cowboy hats, then together again. Did you know that you can take an ordinary man, slap a cowboy hat on him, and he becomes instantly hot? Instantly. It’s a formula guaranteed to work on even the homeliest of men. I promise. Some cowboy took a fancy to me and we danced for several songs. He talked about moving to California and told me how he didn’t think he would mesh with the culture and their political values. Yeah, um, so where’s that Megatouch machine again? He gave me his phone number, but you know I won’t call him because that just ain’t my style, and because while I’m not a bleeding heart either, I find that this makes me ill suited to date an extremist:

Two a.m. came really fast, and as Marci and I loaded up the MegaTouch again, we had no idea that the bouncer would literally have to kick us out. It was a conversation that went like this: “Girls, you really have to leave.” And Buggie saying, “Okay, but we’ll be BACK!” In the parking lot, I heard, “We’re coming here EVERY WEEKEND.” Yeah, see? Cowboys are way nicer than normal D.C. folk. Way nicer. And you girls made fun of me! So that was Saturday. Okay. Sunday. I cringe for this entire story, from beginning to end. I’m going to shorten it significantly because, well, ugh. Okay. Here we go.

I’ve been giving something a lot of thought, and frankly, I just need opinions on it, so fire away on this. A few situations have come up that I can’t write about for one reason or another, and it makes me question my entire loss of anonymity and the integrity of this blog. It’s never happened before that I can’t write about something, but now that day is here and I feel trapped. Of course we all know there is nothing I can do to go back and fix it, but I’m not sure what to do from here. I’d just sort of been mulling it over for the past couple weeks. Then I turned an old old old online profile back on. I know, I know, I said I would never do it again. But, I had a good reason. Or so I thought.

I had my zip code in as Phoenix. I was trying to plan ahead. Okay, not really, I just wanted to fish around in my city of choice and see what was in the pond. It didn’t last very long because I got slapped around by the therapist who told me to just change it back to D.C. and give it another chance. So I did. And got emails. And never changed my user name…Velvet. Nothing else, nothing about Dupont, nothing about anything else identifying, just Velvet.

So I get an email with the title saying, “Have I read your blog.” Um. Yeah. I am BAD at this game. Bad. Anyway, the emails ensue, and he asks me to have dinner Sunday night. I agree, mainly because his profile says he’s too busy to get involved with someone. Fucking awesome. There’s a non-committal situation I can get behind. Okay, so I go, intent on asking about the blog comment, and prepared to tell the truth, because lying is just too hard. Put on your seatbelts.

Me: So, what was that subject line all about.
Him: Yeah, I read some Velvet in Dupont this morning.
Me: Fuck.
Him: It’s no big deal, I liked it actually.
Me: Yeah, I’ve heard that before, and it didn’t work out so well. How on earth did you connect that?
Him: A friend was at my house and said, ‘Oh, I wonder if that’s Velvet in Dupont.’

I long for the days when I had 4 readers. Okay, no I don’t. But here goes the age old question – how do I date someone who reads what you write about them, and how would I date others (provided there are any) when one of the people knows about the others because they read about it. While you’re thinking about that for me, let’s discuss the walk home.

Straight past the dog park at 1:15 a.m. (yeah, dinner was that good,) and there are two people in there. Sort of weird for a Sunday night, but anyway, I didn’t think much of it until we got closer. I see it’s my dog park friend, and The Bartender. What. The. Fuck.

Do I need to move? Is it possible that I know and/or have dated so many people that this was bound to happen? Help. Seriously. I’m considering shutting down again and resurfacing as a new identity. Though, my writing style and constant swearing would probably give me away.

“Everyone has someone who comes into their life who they love more than that person loves them, everyone has someone who loves them more than they are loved, and everyone finds a balanced love.”

I blame Netflix. Not only did I cave and join this week, but I got my first three movies which were, “The Notebook,” “Walk The Line,” and “Crash.” I’m not much for a love story, but I’ve watched the first two, saving Crash for this weekend. I’m not here to do a movie review. I only use them to illustrate my point. Do people really love like this? In The Notebook, you can totally understand the enduring love that the two main characters had for each other, from the time they were 17, until their death, probably in their 80’s. I think most people naturally assume that that kind of love is something they will find in their lifetime.

Then I flash to my Uncle, in a nursing home, not doing very well, reflecting on his bachelor life all day between mistreatment sessions from the staff. It’s not a guarantee for all of us.

In the same day, I got a call from an ex which threw me back to another place and time. I didn’t answer the call, for reasons I will explain in a minute. But, this is my frame of mind yesterday when I walked into my delightful hour of power as I call it. The rest of you may just call it “therapy” – a necessity for me, an anxiety laden mess. Everything stresses me out. Obviously. It’s a legacy passed down from Mom and Dad. You may know them as Gloom and Doom.

Out of no where, in the hour of power, we stumble upon the “Velvet wants to move to Phoenix” conversation. She thinks I’m thinking it out very carefully, and if I go, in no way would she think I didn’t give D.C. enough of a chance or that it’s a hasty decision. From there we bounce from topic to topic, as is normal to do, and then I spit out, “Well, it wasn’t like that with Jack.” She says, “What? Who?” It occurs to me that in all the time I have been with my therapist, this incredibly important relationship has gone unmentioned. Holy Crap. So, here is what I tell her:

“I moved here the week after September 11. K and I broke up for the first time in November. He went back to Atlanta, and I stayed here since I was enrolled in grad school come January of ’02.”

Therapist asks, “What caused that breakup?”

“We had a major rift in our relationship, and that was that we weren’t having sex. At all. We tried everything, they changed my pill several times, took me off of it, we went on vacation. Nothing. We drove across the country and were on the road six months, and never had sex. I wish someone had told me that when the sex goes, that the relationship is over. It would have saved me probably 4 of the 6 years we were together. So, he’s gone, and I’m on my own now. I was working in Columbia, at a property under construction, and this flirtation developed with a man who was 42. I was 28 at that time. We tried to behave during work, but it was impossible. We started seeing each other outside work, and I basically moved in with him. We practically lived together almost a year, and here’s the bad part. He was separated, but not divorced.”

The therapist asks, “Define separated.”

“Separated as in him sleeping on the couch, her having a boyfriend or so we thought, him living up here Monday through Friday and returning to the house they shared in Petersburg, Friday night or Saturday morning for the weekend. I’m not saying it was right, but it wasn’t a difficult thing to justify. It was never an easy relationship, mostly because of the age difference. It didn’t bother me, but it bothered him tremendously, and he started accusing me of cheating on him. I would protest, explaining my schedule of waking up at his place at 6 a.m., driving from Bowie to Baltimore, dropping the dog off (remember I only had Sammy at that time,) going to work in Columbia, going back to Baltimore for some Sammy love, and then to class, then back to Baltimore to get Sammy, then to Jack’s place left me no time to cheat on him. He still didn’t believe me and eventually he wore me down. I started to miss my life with K, who was still very devastated that we had broken up.”

Therapist says, “Is this where he enters the scene again?”

I continue. “Not exactly. We started talking on the phone, but I was massively confused. I had this incredibly fulfilling sex life with a man 14 years older than me, but I couldn’t imagine things being like that with my ex. Jack and I continued, but he broke up with me several times during angry arguments about nothing. He ended up getting moved out to Herndon for a job, they put his new apartment out there, and we started to see less of each other. We decided to meet up one final time to say bye and to exchange the stuff we had of each others. We met in Rockville, and then he asked me if I wanted to see the construction project across the street he was consulting on. We walked over there, me not very prepared in my flip flops, and he showed me what they were building. We walked through condo unit after unit, different floorplans on different floors. We got to the unit that was going to be the model apartment. It wasn’t furnished, but the carpet was in. I’m sure you see where this is going.”

Therapist says, “Um, yeah, I think I do.”

“So we have sex, there on the floor. And in my mind, I’m a total mess because here I just love my ex so much, but we can’t make it work, and here’s this man in front of me who I’m wildly attracted to but yet, I’m not in love. I never was. I knew it, but never told him. He badgered me to say ‘I love you’ after he first said it to me, and I finally forced myself to do it, just to keep him off my back and from accusing me of cheating.”

Therapist says, “What did he look like?”

I smiled. “Jack is the Marlboro Man. Through and through. He’s rough, classically good looking, dark hair, blue eyes. He’s got it, that’s for sure. He never had to worry about me cheating on him.”

Therapist says, “So go on, what happened after that?”

“Well, he went back to Petersburg, and he had obtained these incredibly bad rug burns on his knee from our time on the floor in that condo unit. When the wife saw him she asked ‘what the fuck happened.’ The way he told me this, I could hear this desperation in his voice. He said, ‘You have no idea how hard it was. I stood there in the kitchen, grabbing the edge of the counter, telling myself to just turn around and tell her I’m in love with someone else. I didn’t answer fast enough and she asked again. I ended up telling her I was doing some electrical work in a unit and cut up my knees but I doubt she believed it. I’m thinking that I should just tell her. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to her, and I think she has a boyfriend anyway. She’ll want full custody of our son, which I’m sure she’ll get, and you and I can live up here. He’ll come visit, us I think. He’ll understand one day that his dad was in love like had never been in his life and he’ll appreciate that I stuck around for as long as I did. But he won’t want to deny me being with you. I know it. He has too good a heart.'”

Therapist says, “I’m stunned. I can’t believe you’ve never told me this.”

“Yeah, me neither. I’ve had some good love in my life, really good love. I guess it comes up now because, well, one, he called me, but two, I’ve been lacking for this kind of passion for the past few years. Basically since I’ve been here.”

Therapist says, “Go on.”

“Okay, so I panicked a little. I know you’re not shocked by that. I just got scared that he was about to give this up for me, and I didn’t know what to say. The lines between K and Jack were significantly blurred. I didn’t say anything, and then eventually told him that I needed to try again with K. He said, ‘When I come for you, are you going to leave him?’ I said, ‘No.’ He said, ‘So you are saying it’s now or never?’ I said, ‘No. I’m saying that this isn’t right for us. Too many people would have to be hurt for us to be together, and it isn’t right.’ Of course that was an excuse. I’m fierce when it comes to my happiness. I would have done anything to be with him if I truly wanted to be. I just didn’t want him to leave all that behind for me, only to accuse me of cheating on him for the rest of my life. We eventually drifted apart physically, K and I started to see each other by doing some back and forth travel, and I stopped returning Jack’s phone calls. I never called him.”

Therapist asks, “Roughly what time frame are we talking about?”

“I guess I was about to graduate grad school, so early 2003? Yeah, because that was the big snowstorm in Feb, 2003, and K and I were stuck inside the house. When we could finally get out of the house, I went to work. He stayed at my place, searching through everything like a lunatic, and found my journals where I wrote about everything that happened with Jack. Those were the days before blogs. It was really ugly, and solidified the fact that K and I would never be together again, despite months of trying. I sold my condo, moved to Rockville, and pleaded with K to try again with me. But it all fell on deaf ears. That relationship with Jack hurt just about everyone. He eventually moved back to Petersburg to try to repair the damage to his family. But before he left he said, ‘One day my son will know that I loved you, and he will understand that it’s worth it to find a love like that.'”

Therapist asks, “Do you regret it?”

“No. Because that man loved me like probably no one ever has before in my life. And to know that feeling of being loved, so passionately, so intensely, well, it’s something everyone should have. Even if they don’t feel the same way in return.”

The author of the quote at the top of the post is me. And I believe it, wholeheartedly.

Last night the evening got away from me faster than Suri Cruise will run from her nutjob parents when she’s 18. I had initially decided I couldn’t make the Happy Hour in Adam’s Morgan. But, I ended up stopping by and saw the usual suspects. What I didn’t count on was that one of the four people sitting up at the bar would be a friend from the dog park. A friend whose dog, Lincoln, is Thora’s boyfriend. Yes, my dog has a boyfriend. Just be happy I’ve spared you the Sammy and Thora blog though.

Now, keep in mind…the bartender still works at Pharaoh’s.

My friend, who I won’t name until he says it’s okay or we come up with a fun alias for him, came over and sat down. I said, “You know, I have a funny story…” And he says, “Yeah, I already know. You and the bartender.”

How on earth does that little fucker beat me to it each and every time? Lord. Apparently the conversation went like this:

Bartender to my dog park friend: Hey, are you here for the blogger happy hour?
My friend: No, what?
Bartender: Yeah, these are bloggers. I used to date this one girl…
(Blah blah. I don’t know how the rest of this goes, but shortly thereafter, I walk in.)
Bartender: Her. There she is.
My friend, seeing that it’s me: HER?
Bartender: Yeah, I’m the Bartender.

So my friend relates this conversation to me and I just can’t stop laughing. First of all, NO ONE RECALLS MY BLOG from almost a year ago when this dating occurred. And second, I’ve heard that this same conversation happened between the Bartender and one PlayfulinDC last winter. Except that when she told it, she said that he asked her if she knew me, she said yes, and he said, as he grabbed his own shirt with both hands, up by each shoulder mind you, “Yeah? Well, I’M THE BARTENDER.” (It’s like the Wiz in New York. “I’m the Wiz…I’m the Wiz” – or maybe that’s from Seinfeld, yeah, the real commercial was “Nobody beats the Wiz.” Except that someone did because I think they are out of business.)

So. The Bartender finds it necessary to put his arms around my friend and say, “Yeah, we’re buds now.” Why are my worlds colliding? Is it possible I have made the entire circle through the D.C. social and dating scene and it’s time to move?

All of this is hilarious. What is even more hilarious is that someone is up to no good this morning. I’ve sat idly by watching as people search for some fucked up shit related to me, but this? I’m especially amused by “bar sex.” For the record, I don’t know what he told you my friend, or anyone else for that fact, but: WE DID NOT HAVE SEX IN PHARAOH’S!! WE JUST MADE OUT!

Maryland, Baltimore, United States, 0 returning visits

Yeah. Gotcha.

Bar sex? Huh.

UPDATE ~ 15 minutes after posting. Um, do you people have lives? I use the word “bar” and “sex” in almost every post. This search ain’t gonna get you anywhere. Hellooooo Tacoma Washington though.

Washington, Tacoma, United States, 30 returning visits

Tacoma’s order of ops? Goes to blog. Takes five minutes to read post. Then, very interestingly, goes straight to November, 2005. Aah. You have a good memory my west coast friend. Scrolls to 2nd page of November, can’t find mention of Bartender. Goes to Search Box. Types in “Bar Sex.”

Christ.

Update 2 ~

Add Ontario, Canada to the list of people searching “bar” and “sex.” People. all it’s going to return to you is basically EVERY SINGLE ENTRY I’VE WRITTEN!

Ontario, Toronto, Canada, 9 returning visits

Ok. I’m done calling all you people out. I shall sit back and watch though. Funny funny.

People. I love you. I know that you come here for dating, good, bad and otherwise. And yet, I have entertained you from atop this soapbox, bitching about D.C. and my favorite topic, the cops. Wonkette got me again, thanks to them for the linkage. But, tonight, you shall get what the original Velvet was created for – dating. I am here to entertain.

All right. Sunday, I had Date 11 of the 14 date obligation with, shall we just call them IJL? I mean, that’s what they call themselves. The details of the date, set up by whatever I named that chick – Cathy I think, were fine. She sounded like she knew what she was doing. I met Date11TheBoroughsBaby at Daily Grill at 1:00. Anyone who knows me knows this is prime skin cancer hour and I do not like giving that up for what might be a shitty date. And we know that it’s not like IJL is going to suddenly discover an arsenal of good looking men who they forgot to set me up with before. But, being that it was my first one “back out there,” I decided I should behave and not cancel.

I saw him walking up to the restaurant and my first impression wasn’t the greatest, but I shall shine the light on myself for a second. I was wearing a sundress, flip flops, and my bathing suit underneath the dress. I was too lazy to change. Or shower. So I smelled like Eau de White Trash in line for the roller coaster at an Amusement Park – Coppertone SPF 8! (Never go lower than SPF 8 or God Forbid, not wear any sunscreen, okay! Trust me, I’m a pro.)

They seat me first, and as I’m going to the bathroom to wipe the sweat off my face, here he comes, with the other hostess. We said a quick awkward hello and I trotted off to the sink to swim in the cold water for a minute. When I returned to the table, he stood up to greet me. Um. What the fuck. None of these guys have done that. Okay, so he’s a gentleman. Nice. Points for that even though that act of standing up when I come back makes me feel like an idiot.

Not a lot of details to share. He’s from NY, hence the name. We ate. He paid the bill despite my best efforts to throw money at him, and we exchanged information. He was comfortable with himself, and I could go out with him again. Can I see myself ripping off his clothes? Jury still out. And if the jury is still out, um, that could be a sign in itself. Next.

Date 12 was Tuesday evening in Bethesda. I get to the restaurant and I’m late because I stopped at Loehmann’s. Stupid Velvet. Remember the layoffs! But at least I didn’t buy anything. (When did clothes become ugly? Hang in there Seven Jeans, I need to squeeze another year out of you…) The hostess brings me over to Date 12. Instantly not attracted. Not my type, no negotiation on this. But a really nice guy. Just talks a lot. Way too much in fact. Let’s knight him and give him his name: Date 12 Sir Talks A Lot. There.

He grew up in Bethlehem, PA, also the hometown of Velvet’s Dad, and I do know a bit of Bethlehem history. Yet, any time I discuss Bethlehem with people, and describe where my grandparents lived, I get that face. Apparently, it’s the wrong side of the tracks, literally. I had a boyfriend in college who was from Bethlehem and he said, “Oh, NO ONE GOES OVER THERE!!” This guy tonight? He said, “I don’t know where that is. I’m guessing South Side though from what you described. A lot of immigrants lived and still live up there.” Yeah, what do I look like with this fucking FLAG OF GREECE spread across half my back? But I digress.

I learned all I needed to know about Beth Steel. (Note to eyes: If you fucking glaze over again when I need you to feign interest, you are dead to me. I will bring you back for more laser surgery since you loved it so much the last time…remember? You sealed yourself shut for two fucking days and refused to come out! Try me.)

Suddenly in my head, I’m whisked away to New York and I’m having sex with James Gandolfini. I have no idea where this daydream came from, but I was trying to wager what sex with him would be like. Would it be Tony Soprano “I’m in control/holding a gun to your head” kind of sex, or would it be a big joke of an experience with a semi flaccid penis that barely registers on the scale? Oops. I realize I have now missed several crucial minutes of the Bethlehem Steel story. Damn. I hope he didn’t cover the part about how they closed because my Grandparents had died by then and I never followed the story. According to my date, the Hispanics have taken over my grandparent’s neighborhood. And now, Papou and Yiyia are rolling over in their graves.

I wanted to tell my favorite story about my dad and growing up in Bethlehem, but his stories kept going. I also learned more than I needed to know about some company called Green Thumb something and ugh, I can’t even get into it. It sounded like a weird job. I was speechless. Of course the one line I’m always dying to use came to mind: “Did I tell you about my latest yeast infection?”

The bill comes, we pay, we leave. He walks me to my car, talking now about not liking the dressing up for his job. He laments how he hates ties. I say, “I wonder what the purpose of ties really is.” He says, “I know the whole history of the tie.” Sometimes, I will never learn. Seriously. Stupid mouth. You’re next after the eyes for some surgery, and I’ll have you lasered shut if possible too.

Verdict? Obviously there was no way I wanted to rip his clothes off. In fact, I wanted him to put more clothes on. Please, more ties. Several of them. Really, the look great on you. Nice as you are, I just can’t imagine you with nothing on.

Two to go. Then, I’m lubed up and ready to go out on real dates. Oops. Poor choice of words. Lubed. Heh. Eh, fuck it. Just…hit…publish.

Holy Shit. That’s really all I have to say about this weekend.

Friday night, I deemed the “Night of Not Giving a Shit.” I wore some ridiculous outfit that I care to never speak of again, but let’s just say it included a wifebeater. This violates all my fashion rules, but it was fucking hot out and really, I just don’t care anymore. It was a pretty uneventful night out with the girls in Adam’s Morgan. Though, some guy did buy all of us shots, and I said, “You’re not from here, are you?” He said, “Nope. I live in Texas. How did you know? My cowboy boots?” No, but thanks for pointing them out because now I just got misty….down there. But I told him, “Because a guy here would never buy a random girl a drink.” He said, “Really?” Yeah dude, really.

I went home first, because, well, I hate Adam’s Morgan. If I wanted to be immersed in the type of crowd that frequents Adam’s Morgan, I would just find a way to go back to college. Ugh. I was happy to hear the Queen of Quantity say, “I’m fine with never going there again.”

Saturday night, as the contrarian, I deemed it the “Night of Giving a Shit” and dressed appropriately for a “couple drinks” at Chi-Cha with The Queen of Quantity. (You know a “couple drinks” means I got annihilated, right?) During the course of the evening, I developed a line to use on the guys that is so stupid but seemed to work. It rivals my prior use of the line, “Is your name Mike?” Let me rewind for a second, okay?

The year is 1992. The bar is in back country Connecticut, a watering hole where the yuppie kids go to get bombed. My friend Michelle and I go with a bunch of guy friends, and the place is packed. Michelle sees a guy she likes, and wants me to get him for her. I say, “Okay, I will.” I walk over, no clue what I’m going to say, then it hits me. “Are you Mike?” He says, “No.” I say, “Sorry about that. You look just like this guy I know named Mike.” Lie lie big fat lie. Then he says, “Well, my brother is named Mike…” And there you have it. Michelle pops by, I introduce them, and off they go. Except that she lost his interest, came back to me, and wanted to return the favor. I really wasn’t interested, but she liked the game, so I picked some guy out of the crowd. Michelle saunters up and says, “Is your name Mike?” He says, “Yeah.” And she ran away. So, maybe using the name Mike wasn’t the best among this crowd, all born in 1972 or 1973 when Mike was the most popular name.

Back to present day. My new line yielded all sorts of responses. It’s simple. The Queen of Quantity is going to be mad at me, cause she doesn’t want you bitches running up and down U Street using this line, okay? But the rest of the story falls flat if you don’t know the line. We have a patent pending in D.C., but the rest of you can use it in other parts of the country, and do report back on how it works? But you in D.C.? Off limits until our patent with the Patent & Trademark Shack Expires on July 31, 2006.

Ready?

“Are you in a band?”

It’s soooooo stupid, but it works. The first guys we talked to started telling us they live in Philadelphia and were only here for the weekend. I told the Queen of Quantity what they were saying because she couldn’t hear them and she said, “Philly’s not that far.” My response was, “Not for you! You got guys in every neighborhood, you need to branch out. I got nothing. Let me start with someone on 18th Street!”

But, the responses we heard were quite funny and ran the gamut of possibilities:

“No, why? Do I look like I am?”
“That’s funny, people always ask me that.”
“My friend already told me you girls were saying that.” (Oops.)

I saw some guy walk in and asked the QofQ if he was in a band. After assessing his orange sweater vest and pink polo shirt underneath, she said, “NO, and he never was.” Good lookin’ out QofQ. I had goggles o’ beer by that hour.

It’s the best line ever. Our problems are solved. I will use that line until I’m dead. Or the rest of you start macking on my lines, then I’ll have to create another.

We left Chi Cha, popped into Stetsons where the QofQ got her ass grabbed by another girl, then went into Local 16. Somehow, we ended up attached at the hip with these guys we started calling, “the band.” That mere statement made a couple stupid girls all giddy with excitement. One asked the other, “They are in the band? Ohmigod!” I didn’t know they made people this dumb anymore. And where were they hearing a band anyway? No band plays at Local 16. Christ. Go back to Frederick, Maryland, okay? (Please. If you live in Frederick, no need to send me emails. That is what we call ‘tongue in cheek.’ A joke.)

Leaving Local 16, on the way to Cafe St. Ex for some fried chickpea goodness, some guys jump onto us and introduce themselves. Then one put his arm around me and said, “My bad, gotta walk on the outside.” I said, “What are you doing?” He said, “I’m yo man now.” I said, “Yeah, well my man cleaned my kitchen today and I know it wasn’t you!” He said, “Yeah, I may not clean your kitchen but I’ll flush yo pipes.” Then he turned back to his friend, currently hitting on the QofQ and said, “Man! Stay on the outside of the girl!” I said, “What is he, in training?” That took care of them. Off we went on our merry way. This could have been the end of a perfectly acceptable and hilarious evening. But. No.

Cafe St. Ex. QofQ and I get some beers, are joined by “the band” (oh great) and we head downstairs. We somehow had an entourage of people following us, who maybe thought we were following “the band?” After a few short minutes in that dungeon downstairs, we decide to go back up to the bar. As we’re walking toward the stairs, some girl backs into the QofQ and knocks her drink all over her. The QofQ just shrugs, walks by, up the stairs, making a left at the landing. I’m behind her. I get to the landing, where I’m about to also turn left, out of sight of the drunk girl, and go back to the bar. Then, you heard it. The kind of thing that reminds you of the whole place stopping, the music coming to a halt, the needle off the record. It was so loud and so mean, that you couldn’t have not heard it. And it was her boyfriend who said it.

“SLUT.”

The Queen of Quantity stops and says, “Did they just call me a slut?” I turn and look at them, as she’s out of eyeshot, and the guy waves me off as if to just get rid of me. I took a quick inventory of the situation. I quietly apologized to my Yuengling, acknowledging all the great nights we’ve had together since I moved to D.C. and took this locally (well, Philly) brewed beer under my wing. I said, “Sorry Yuengling. Tonight you will service me in a way that won’t involve being routed through my liver.”

I turned around, watching him at the bottom of the stairs, and tossed my very full beer all over him. It was like watching it in slo-mo. I could hear the Bionic Woman music in the background as everything went slllloooowww. My aim was better than a Briana Banks money shot. The beer hit his bald head and drenched him. I looked back at the QofQ as if to apologize for being so rash, and she bust out laughing and said, “Run!” He attempted throw beer back at us, but gravity and my uncanny ability to fun like FloJo in 4 inch heels were not helping his cause. We get back upstairs safely at the bar, and await their arrival back at the main bar. A few minutes pass, and no sign of baldy and the slut puppy. We tell the bartender (and the two men who we think are the manager and owner) what happened. I admitted that I threw my beer at them and the Manager said, “I would have done the same thing. At least you didn’t throw a punch. That would have been bad, and I thank you for not doing that.”

Then, baldy and the slut puppy come upstairs and sit a few seats away from us. I pointed them out to the Manager. He watches them, and the girl keeps saying, “There’s that slut” and looking at poor Queen of Quantity. From her: “I’m not a slut!” We know!!

So, the Manager asks them why they keep saying what they are saying, and an argument ensues. The Manager says he doesn’t want anyone in his bar who is going to be mean to other patrons. They get up and start heading for the now locked front door, and the girl says “I’ll call anyone I want a slut!” Then, the Manager yells to the bouncer, “I DON’T WANT TO EVER SEE HER FACE IN HERE AGAIN!!!”

Fucking awesome. Of course the whole time this was happening, the annoying “band” were yapping in our ear, despite me telling them to shut up.

On our walk home, the Queen of Quantity said, “Those people can’t live around here. No one in our neighborhood could be that mean to a neighbor.” I had to agree. I’m starting to despise the fact that I live in a neighborhood with nightlife heavily trafficked by non D.C. residents. I’m sorry to say it, but the people who don’t live here are the ones who come stumbling out of the bars at 3 a.m., screaming and smashing beer bottles, then driving off to somewhere else. It’s another thing I’ve grown to hate. But in the spirit of being balanced, I’ll show my love for something else: Cafe St. Ex. Oh how you will be getting all my drinking dollars from here on out.

Dear Cafe St. Ex: It’s not just your fried chickpeas, it’s your fabulous management that will ensure I will come back over and over and over. Love, Velvet

I had originally written the following over the course of the past couple months. I added to it here and there as things struck me. However, this morning, I came into work to find out that the layoffs of last month were “just the beginning.” The homebuilding industry continues to suffer because of the stupidity of the Fed in keeping rates so low and giving the money away. People are walking away from homes under contract because the values have dropped so much. Too bad Greenspan didn’t realize that we have this thing called a “self-correcting economy” and it can really only take so much tinkering before it snaps back in the opposite direction and fucks you in the ass.

So. Yeah. Layoffs just beginning. Today is a payday and a Friday, and 4 people in my department are apparently being laid off. There are only 10 of us. Doesn’t sound good, does it? If I squeek through today, I might not squeek along much longer. And I shall say this now:

If I get laid off, I’m leaving D.C.

Well. Don’t act shocked. You knew it was coming. Here we go with my original post.

Dear Washington D.C.:

I am no longer in love with you. I don’t know when it happened, but I have fallen out of love and I’m not sure if you can do anything to change my mind. You are hereby on notice that you are on a probationary period. If you can’t comply with the following list of demands, I will be off in search of a better life within the year.

In no particular order:

1. Please find several thousand eligible, attractive single men living in other parts of the country and convince them to move here. We have to tip this stupid 3 to 1 ratio back. Use your best marketing efforts.
2. Strip all political talk from the conversation topic arsenal of at least 70% of the people here. More than 70% would be appreciated, but I’m confident I can avoid the other 30% who think their opinion actually matters. I fell into a coma shortly after I moved here with all this political talk about nothing. Do these people really think anything is going to change? Most of these politicians are crooked and self-serving and if you think otherwise, then I’ve got a bridge to sell you. It’s made of Velvet.
3. Get rid of the hypocrites. This is non-party specific. Both Conservatives and Liberals alike are guilty. What’s that you say? Politics and religion attract and breed some of the biggest hypocrites? If we got rid of them, there would be few left? Eh, it’s a chance I’m willing to take. Shake some trees, and let’s see who falls out and who can hang on.
4. Please tell the men here that if they have had sex with another man, even just once, then they are, in my book, gay enough to be off limits. I don’t want to find any of my potential boyfriends with another man’s ass attached to the end of his penis. Ever.
5. Please close down the following establishments: McDonald’s on 17th Street, Soviet Safeway, Heaven and Hell. While you’re at it, also please annihilate Craigslist M4W ads. All of them. Forever.
6. Remind people, especially those three girls from the ‘burbs, walking together that it is NOT okay to waltz side by side by side while forcing oncoming pedestrians into a dog shit filled tree box. The polite and correct thing to do is double behind your yappy friend. None of you are saying anything important anyway. Bitches. And take that gum out of your mouth, who are you? Jessica Simpson? Gum chewing looks ridiculous on anyone over 14.
7. Tell the ASSHOLE bike riders that it is NOT OKAY to bob and weave through traffic in the morning on K Street. Stay on the side of the freaking road as close to the curb as possible. Ooh ooh! AND, If they want to ride where the cars ride, then they should STOP AT THE RED LIGHTS AS WELL.
8. Make sure all Bridge and Tunnelers (read: you people from far away) know that it is totally unacceptable to block S Street because you want to valet your SUV at the most overrated restaurant in D.C. Lauriol Plaza. Move over to the side of the road and let me pass you. You don’t own the god damned place. In fact, can we just add Lauriol to the list of places to be shut down? Great.
9. Sigh. I’m a dog owner. Come rain, snow, heat, no poop bags, I pick up the poop, even if I have to use street trash, crawl in a bush or hell, use my bare hands. But some dog owners suck and they need to be told that when their dog craps in the middle of the sidewalk, they have to pick it up. Because the person who steps in it will drag their shoe down the sidewalk, spreading it everywhere, making it impossible for my 2 human legs and 8 dog legs to dodge it.
10. Dare I get started on the cops, again? Ok. I will. Please do something about this very poor excuse for a police force. I have lived in Miami, Phoenix, Atlanta and New York. I have never seen a lazier group of police than here. Never mind that none of them are good looking (NYC wins first, second and third place on that) but they are totally and completely useless. “I understand you want me to put my elderly, passive dog with a slipped disc on a leash, but do you think you could arrest this man who just put a knife in my spleen first?” Heh. The cop would probably tell me to shut the fuck up.
11. Actually enforce the cell phone law. Those talking on their cell phone without an ear piece, slamming on their brakes in the middle of the street, that law was made for them, yanno. Remind them, okay? Dispense a few tickets on that item. Make some money off the stupid.
12. Re-educate all drivers so they know that STOP SIGNS are octogon shaped red things that tell you you need to stop your car. There is one at the corner of New Hampshire and S Street. It doesn’t say “Slow down to 30 m.p.h. and proceed, taking out any pedestrians in your way,” It says STOP!
13. Teach people that the left lane is for passing. And, just because you are driving the speed limit and I want to go faster, doesn’t mean you can block the left lane. It is not YOUR JOB to make me obey the law.
14. Revoke every cab driver’s license and make them learn it all over again. Better yet, send them somewhere else and get us new cab drivers. With meters. Thanks.

Anticipation – foreknowledge, intuition and presentiment. To look forward to with pleasure.

Have you ever known that something was going to happen, yet, you had no idea what circumstances would actually force the event to commence? When you envision this event in your head, what details do you use to help yourself understand what is inevitable? Do you imagine the worst? The best? Somewhere in the middle?

A few months ago, some things happened that ultimately resulted in the temporary closing of my blog. But during those events, I remember describing to someone that I could feel the walls closing in. It was as if every few minutes, something else happened to indicate the path I was on, and I didn’t know the outcome, but I could tell where I was headed. Parts of what happened, I had forecasted way before the simple minds of the parties involved probably even hatched them as ideas. But other parts? I never knew people could sink so low, and do so much bad to someone else for no reason other than plain spite. I continued to be shocked at that elusive thing called “human nature.” Sort of like being in a car going 100 miles an hour, you’re not driving, and you can see out the windshield but you can’t see over the horizon. You see almost everything you hit, but a few things sneak by without you knowing and that clouds the outcome even further.

Let’s change the scenario a tiny bit. What happens when you know the ending event, but you don’t know how you are going to get there. I would guess that if the event is a bad thing, then you would dread the details. My analogy here is a morbid one, but it would be for the people on the September 11th planes. I think they all knew what was going to happen, but didn’t know how they would get there. Would it be fast? Would they fly around for a few hours? Would they be killed one by one? Of the above two scenarios, I can’t say which I prefer – knowing the details or knowing the outcome. But I still maintain that having an event unfold piece by piece is torture. Just give me the news doc. Seriously. I can take it.

Finally, what if you know what is going to happen, and you deem it to be a good, even a great thing. The unfolding of those details that will get you there can be exciting, and yet, somehow anxiety-inducing at the same time. Those unknowns can make you nervous, happy, or put you on the edge of your seat. Those unknowns can elicit the most genuine feeling you have had in months. You may imagine the details, script how they could possibly occur and relish in the pure delight of what you expect to happen, but you will never really know. There always end up being feelings you have that are new and unique to you, that you never anticipated. Those feelings, those unknowns are what I look forward to – the unique and genuine feeling about something just so wonderful remind me that I’m not in control, but my emotions are very much alive. Finally.

Due to the recent increase in the amount of google image searches for “Velvet in Dupont,” I figure some of you seem to want a picture of me, those in particular being from Canada, somewhere out west, the Carolinas and Philly. And yet, all of you have ended up on the same page from October, 2005, with a picture of my loves, Sammy and Thora. (Respect the stats, peeps.) So, okay, since I aim to please, I present to you, dear readers, my breasts. Check the header. Satisfied? No? That’s because you are one of the few who are sending me some creepy emails. Now, stop.

I’ve got nothing interesting to say. The recent full moon apparently fucked my life up from one end to the other. My poor Speedracer, just 40 miles shy of warranty expiration, has a broken passenger door and has spent the last week in the ER, with some part on its way from California. They didn’t have a loaner for me on Friday, when I dropped my car off, and I said it was no big deal. Yeah. Until Monday.So, when the car wasn’t fixed over the weekend, how did I get to Gaithersburg to go to work Monday? I rode the motorcycle. Lord. If only I was smart enough to remember to NOT put on lip gloss before the ride. I ate probably three bugs, not including the ones that got stuck in my Lancome Juicy Tubes. And, when I went for a run at the gym Monday night and wiped my face with a towel, it was black! Good lord we live in a dirty ass place. On my ride, Connecticut Avenue was closed off and I was that dick motorcycle rider, weaving between cars. I always said I’d never do that, and look at me eating my words. And bugs.

So today I took the metro. To the end of the line folks. Then I had to get a cab. Jesus, how on earth can a cabbie in Maryland charge $15 for a ride a few miles? I swear, who the hell wants to be driving around in Maryland anyway? They should gouge you if you ask to go near the border, but within the same town? Actually, that’s not nice, because I, freak that I am, love Rockville. Love it, love the Pike, love everything about it. So, okay, I’ll behave now.

Luckily today, after much whining, they gave me a loaner car. It ain’t no Speedracer though – well, in size. Parking in the city is nothing short of a bitch already, but with this thing? Oy. And it goes 90 mph easily, without even feeling it. However, since it’s my policy to embrace things that are bigger and faster, well, there you go.

Still playing phone tag with the Lunch people about my practice dates. Phone tag is mostly all my fault, because I’ve been remiss in calling back. It’s hard to care, really.

Yeah, that was boring. Even I stopped paying attention after I was done discussing my boobs. Anyone need smelling salts?

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.

Velvet: What?
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.
Velvet: What?
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.)
Velvet: Goodbye!
(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.

It’s been a good break, but let’s admit it. You all come here to read about dating, and dating you shall get. Something occurred to me today. Ok, that’s a lie. It occurred to me several months ago but I just haven’t done anything about it.

My friends at “It’s Just Lunch” have been suspiciously quiet since our last conversation sometime in February. (Remember when I say “conversation” I’m really referring to a fight.) When I called, of course someone new picked up the phone. (Lookout sarcasm.) I’m shocked they have any turnover at all!

NewGirl: Thanks for calling It’s Just Lunch, this is Cathy.
Velvet: Hi. I am a member and I haven’t heard from you guys in a long time.
NewGirl: What’s your name?
Velvet: Velvet the Sucker.
NewGirl: Hmm. That doesn’t sound familiar.
Velvet: Well, seems you are new there.
NewGirl: Oh yes, we’re all new. You probably worked with Karla.
Velvet: Yeah, she was a real brain surgeon. Got everything wrong.
NewGirl: Well, they brought a bunch of us in to clean things up.
Velvet: Yeah, I think that’s how it works around there.
NewGirl: Can I put you on hold for a minute while I look for your file?
Velvet: Sure.
{About a minute elapses.}
NewGirl: Okay, can I get your information and call you back? I can’t seem to locate your file and I don’t want to keep you on hold.
Velvet: Sure, my phone number is 202-887-5966.
NewGirl: Great. I’ll call you back as soon as I figure out what’s going on.

How excited are you all? The ball is in play bitches! Based on the fact that they do not use computers, email or anything other than scraps of paper to record details, there are so many possibilities for how this can play out. I suspect the last chick burned my file, but we’ll see. Cathy is either not going to find my file, in which case we’ll have a big fight and I’ll either sue them to get my money back, or I’ll get a lifetime supply of dates because they have no clue what they’ve done with my information. Or she’ll find it and toss me back out there with whatever scum has schlepped into their office in the last six months. And I can ease back into the dating world with people who I don’t care about impressing. I can re-acclimate to the scene. Dates to practice! Like a scrimmage!

Spinach in the teeth? Oops, need a toothpick. Forgot to shave the legs? Oh well, better luck next time. Spill the wine in his lap? Sorry man. None of it will matter, but when it comes time to date a real man, I won’t screw it up.

Aah yes, we can thank my brother and sister-in-law for getting me into this hellacious program. And you can bet your ass that the first chance I get, I will be paying them back. I might buy an It’s Just Lunch franchise for my niece’s 18th birthday! HA!

Last week was our condo’s annual meeting. Our President resigned, and as a happy, contributing “Member at Large” for the past year, the remaining board voted me as President. I balked, but they basically said I was the biggest bitch (I concur) and would be perfect for the job. Wonderful. I’m watching my life get more complicated and all I want is for it to become simpler.

My forehead has been hurting for almost two weeks. Everytime I acknowledge that it is hurting me, I realize that I’ve been furrowing it. I’ve been furrowing my brow. I’m giving myself a stress headache. Daily. Hourly. Jesus. I’m going to become one of those women with that crinkle between their brow.

Karen Walker from Will & Grace comes to mind first. Now, while I love me some Karen, I don’t want the perma-crinkle in her brow. Since I can’t afford her botox (or can I?) I must find out the cause of said head crinkle and make the cause go away.

You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?

I’m tired of this rat race. It took me an hour and 45 minutes to get home from work almost every day last week. It took me an hour and ten to get into work when I tried that useless thing called “metro”. Too many people live here, life is too hard and it’s killing me. Very slowly, it’s killing me. It’s killing you too. You just haven’t realized it yet.

Besides the obvious that I was born in the wrong decade and should have been a hippie, cough, an economically conservative one who believes in the death penalty, I’m not sure what to do about this feeling like something is just missing and I want to quit my job and run away to find it. In place of the something being missing, I have a life that has become nothing short of a pain in the ass to live.

I metroed to work this morning, wondering if Christina Aguilera has a better life than I do. I don’t know why she popped into my head, I heard something about her I guess. I’m an US Weekly freak. And I love Christina. Anyway, I wonder if she loves performing so much that she just gets on the tour bus or however she travels and claps that they are going to the next city, next venue. I doubted it. It must get tiring. It must feel like you’ve sold your soul to the devil. Then the image popped into my head of me at the checkout counter, with the devil behind the register, and my soul on the counter.

Jesus Christ. It’s not for sale. That’s all I could think after my brain gave birth to that image.

I do miss home. New York. Lovely bustling New York. But, I can see myself in a small town, working at a store, or a restaurant a few days a week – making just enough to get by. My dogs can run in my yard, no one bitches, there are no cops impeding my ability to get to work to earn the all mighty dollar to pay taxes to ultimately contribute to their salary, there are no floods, no evacuations, no traffic, no crazy people calling the police because they saw me with my dog off a leash, no history, no one to dodge on the sidewalk because I won’t know anyone in the new place, sigh, no traffic. How I despise traffic. When my ex and I drove across the country together, I remember being fascinated at how long we went without any traffic jams, or traffic reports of jams and rush hour.

I think my dating hiatus and thus, lack of distraction from boys has really put my mind in the place to pay attention to other things. Sorry it’s not as upbeat or sarcastic as my dating posts. But think! Maybe if I move, I’ll have a whole new pool from which to fish. And the stories could go on forever! Well, not forever, but long enough for me to date everyone in the new town until I decide to pick up and move to the next place.

There has to be a better life. This isn’t it. Not by a long shot.

It was a traveling weekend for Velvet. While I usually spend my weekends baking in the sun, duty calls. After the 7+ year courtship of HandyMandy, the CosmicGoof finally made an honest woman of her. I have been friends with these two for quite a few years, and you would think they could get married in their homestead and my favorite U.S. city, Phoenix, Arizona. But noooooooooo. My fat ass had to fly to Detroit, where there are no cowboys for Velvet to take home as a parting gift.

Aah Michigan. It’s a land like no other. When you ask anyone in Michigan where in the state it is from which they hail, they immediately fashion their hand into a mitten shape, thumb alongside the palm, hand flat, and they point:

It’s amazing that the entire state behaves in this manner, even doing it on the sly, under a napkin, because it’s just so ingrained in them.

So, leaving my brother’s house just in the nick of time (21 hours baby,) I head to a place called “Stockbridge, Michigan” for the wedding. I’m glad I’m not one of those prissy girls who is intimidated by directions, driving and finding places.

Finding La Casa of HandyMandy’s mother was no small accomplishment. Couple that with the fact that I do my best blog writing while I’m actually driving the car, I’m flying down Interstate 96 east, with pen in one hand, camera in the other, directions balanced in my lap. Stockbridge is a small town buried between several major interstates, but not immediately accessible by any. Directions from my beloved Mapquest indicated portions of my journey would be on unpaved roads. What I would have preferred for my directions to tell me was that I would be passing this:

and this:

Ok. So, on to the wedding. I was so happy HandyMandy chose to get married at her mom’s house. I’m soooooo anti-establishment formal wedding. I just don’t believe in spending tons of money on a wedding. (Frankly, I don’t really believe in spending any money on a wedding, but okay.) I’d rather take that money and sink it into a house and just send out an announcement that “Billy Bob and Velvet swung by the Justice of the Peace on their way home from Famous Dave’s BBQ and got hitched!”

Seriously, what is the point of spending all that money? Isn’t the wedding really just about the marriage? The union of two people in love? Why do the flowers, reception halls, cakes, food selection and limos have to complicate things? And ugh, the weddings themselves!! The humiliating bouquet toss, the peer pressure of the drunkards to make the sober guests participate in such delights as the Electric Slide and the Chicken Dance. Good Lord. It makes me understand why it is necessary to be drunk for any and all weddings, including one’s own.

I was painfully sober though, to witness not only the atrocities mentioned above, but the groom’s grandpa who seemed to have Tourette’s syndrome. While the LADY was carrying in the cake, he screamed, “I HOPE HE DOESN’T FALL!” During the ceremony he just started screaming out something I couldn’t understand. I was also sober to witness the groom’s father backing the grooms jeep up to Grandpa Tourette’s, almost taking out HandyMandy’s cherished pug Mojo in the process. Mojo narrowly escaped injury death as Grandpa was shuttled off, screaming all sorts of funny ass shit on his way.

On a not so light note, a guest at my table told me that 7 families a day are moving out of Michigan. Work is drying up, and some major homebuilders have pulled out of the entire state. And if you also listen to my seatmate on my flight home, Michigan’s economy is dying and people have to go elsewhere for jobs.

So, that answers my question from the whole weekend. Why are Michigan speed limits 70 mph on all highways, non-interstates included? To get the people out faster, silly!

And on my flight home, and continuing in the spirit of jokes, I ask myself, so, what do you have when you build a virtual hell on top of a swamp and breed a bunch of dirty lying politicians, hangers-on, and bottom feeders?

A couple quick things first.

1) I’m still in touch with the Police. The Sarge, who I now love, said she is having trouble locating exactly who was driving that car. The car is coming up as one of theirs, but she said it could be her station or another station. I told her the car was parked outside 7-11 again, this time in a real spot, but with no officer nearby, and that it’s definitely a cop car. She has to do more checking around then she will get back with me today. Something interesting – he was in a light blue uniform, as opposed to the normal dark blue, which she said means he could be from another overlying district. Anyway, I’m in limbo. I don’t think I’m getting the runaround, I think this guy probably isn’t from her station and she can’t quickly figure out who it is.

2) I got an email from one Virgile Kent yesterday. He attached pictures from his camera from the infamous night at Eye Bar. I continue to be amazed at the things that happened that night of which I have no recollection. Those pictures contain proof that apparently someone, and I’m not naming names (Cough, me) may have shown some things on camera normally reserved for the occasional boyfriend and the inside of my bra. So, I told my boss about it. Convo mode.

Boss: This night is sounding more and more like someone slipped you the date rape drug.
Velvet: Why would someone do that?
Boss: Um…I think you know.
Velvet: Yeah, but whoever he was I would have probably had sex with him anyway, so why bother drugging me? Besides, my jeans are so tight that you would almost need me to be conscious to help get them off.
Laughter and head shaking from boss.

That was tongue in cheek people. Try not to take it seriously. Well, the tight jeans part is true. Every time I go to buy jeans and come out of the dressing room the girl says, “They are too big. Get a smaller size. They stretch out a lot.” And I reply, “Are you sure? Because I think they just pushed my hips so close together that I may not be able to deliver any children by the standard method.”

******

This morning on my walk with the loves of my life, some construction worker leaned out the window of his truck and did the catcall whistle at me. How cliche. But, living in the city, I haven’t had that happen to me in, well, a long ass time. I round the corner and attempt to cross the street and Thora just stops in the middle of the road. I turn around and say, “Thora, come on, you can’t stop there.” There is a guy passing us, going in the other direction, and he turns around and says to Thora, “If you don’t want to go with the pretty lady, then you can go where I’m going and I’ll go home with her.”

Hmmph. Had I temporarily lost my mojo and somehow got it back?

So it got me thinking – about all the kinds of men and experiences I’ve had with them. Then I came up with an analogy. It applies to women too but for my purposes we’re going to just use men as the example.

Meeting and learning about a man is like peeling an onion. There’s the outside layer, which is the barrier, and not very easy to get through. It’s dry and crusty and not very inviting. Sometimes you really have to try hard to penetrate it. Once you are inside, you have to peel the layers back. Sometimes there’s dirt between the layers and you have to decide, “Is this worth washing or should I just toss it out?” Sometimes the layers are deep and the onion gets juicier, the more you dig, the better it gets. Or, you can dig and find out that some of the layers are rotting – from the inside out. You can ultimately get to the core, and, well, there could be a giant game of twister going on in there, proving that you’ve wasted your time, or the core of the onion could end up being the sweetest part, and totally worth plowing through.

Is the guy who hung out the window of his truck to whistle at me an onion with a lot of layers? Probably not. What you see is what you get with that type, he wears his heart on his sleeve and tells people what he thinks when he’s thinking it.

I’ve not gotten past a layer or two in the last year of dating. And if I have, there’s a bunch of dirt in there. I’ve tried, and maybe I’m ready to try again. At least, during the rain storm, when the clouds cleared, I thought, “Hmm. It would be funny to have a bad date to write about.”

But it would be even better to have a good one.

Um. Wow. I don’t know what to say. Seems we all love a good DC Cops bashing festival.

DC Blogs: http://www.dcblogs.com/2006/06/dc-blogs-noted_28.html

Wonkette: http://www.wonkette.com/politics/metro/metro-section-todays-show-is-brought-to-you-by-the-number-187-183803.php

Post Express: http://www.readexpress.com/read_freeride/2006/06/local_blog_log_spicy_beer_not_needed.php

Thanks all. You can’t see it from where you sit, but I’m blushing.

Most of the time, I have a thought, usually when I’m driving. Sometimes when I’m in the shower, and rarely, but on occasion, just as I’m falling asleep at night. See a pattern? All places where I’m not distracted by anything else and my mind can clear. Also places where it’s totally inconvenient to write it down. But, the thought leads to another, that leads to another, that gets crafted into a post you see here. Sometimes though, thoughts pop in and out of my head. They don’t have a well thought out beginning, middle and end. They can stand on their own, sans commentary. We’re Equal Opportunity Thought Writers here at V in D, so these thoughts need a home too. I see this as the innerworkings of my mind. Or as the Queen of Quantity says, “Life really is much better inside my head.” Welcome to the Velvet Variety Show.

*****

Dear Velvet – Please stop. You are really out of control and this behavior really hurts me. You are not living a Jimmy Buffet video. This is real life. I need a few days off…Filled with Piss, Vinegar and Yuengling, Your Liver.

*****

After an off-site meeting in Pennsylvania:
Boss: Did you think that meeting was useful?
Velvet: I did, but I was playing the game.
Boss: What? What game?
Velvet: The “what one person would I have sex with in this room” game.
Boss: This is gonna be good. Who was it?
Velvet: Well, I narrowed it down to two actually. There was no frontrunner.
Boss: Clearly the Architect was in there.
Velvet: Damn, you’re good. How did you do that? Cause everyone else in the room was over 70?
Boss: No, because I’m think I have your type down. Ok, I have no idea who the other one was.
Velvet: I’m sort of embarrassed. The Engineer.
Boss: REALLY? I didn’t see that coming.
Velvet: Yeah. There’s something dirty about him.
Boss: He’s old.
Velvet: Maybe that’s it.

*****

Dear Person Leaving at my friend’s Company in Health Care to pursue a career in the Art World:
I’m laughing at you. You have no idea I’m coming. You may not realize it, but I’m closer than you think. You should not try a new job in a field that relies on people having disposable income to keep you in business. Stay in Health Care. People may like art, but they always get sick. When times are tough, people are going to pay to get well, and they sure as hell won’t be paying for art. Disposable Income. Those are the words you need to remember. Art is not a necessity. Healthcare is. Love, Inflation

*****

Chips Ahoy were much better back in the days when they had the maze on the back of the bag.

*****

“Is it bad that I hope they are the next people to get run over by a metrobus? Would it be worse if I was driving said metrobus?”

*****

Dear Mommy:
Tonight you took forever to get home and the rain and thunder came back. Thora was scared. She stayed in the bathtub shaking all night. Love, Sammy, the Self-Proclaimed Lifeguard of R Street

Dear Sammy:
I routinely get phone calls at work from people asking me what the hell you are doing. They said you sit on your little throne outside, barking at everyone down below on the street. All day long. You are NOT, in fact, the Lifeguard of R Street. R Street is a street, not a pool. And knowing how much you hate water, I highly doubt that anyone would hire you to be the lifeguard of anything. What would you do if someone was drowning? Call 911? Please! Tell Thora I’m sorry, but the traffic was bumper to bumper in town. Love, Mommy

Dear Mommy:
Sammy’s an asshole. I wish it was just you and me again. Love, Thora

*****

Dear Velvet:
Tick tick tick. Do you have any plans for us? Cause there’s other places we could be yanno. Time is running out. Sincerely, Your ovaries…remember us?

Dear Ovaries:
Yes, I remember you. Once a month I find out that yet again, you’ve done a job that I really don’t give a shit about. So, I don’t need you. And knock on your cousin Uterina’s door and tell her I don’t need her either. I don’t want any of what you all are dishing out. Kids suck the life out of everyone they come in contact with. Now get out. If you all would abandon ship and exit my body, you would free up enough room for me to eat some more Samoa’s.

*****

In a Meeting with our Advertising and Marketing Firm:
Vice President of a Marketing Firm to Velvet: We are going to need a Marketing person up in that office in Pennsylvania. Is that going to be you?
Velvet: Ha! Speedracer barely drives outside the beltway.
VP: I think it should be you.
Velvet: Yeah, I’m not working out of that office. I can barely get to our own office in Gaithersburg.
VP: Well we need another “you” then.
Velvet thinks to self: I don’t think the world needs any more me’s running around.

*****

Sexual harassment, as I unfortunately learned with my last employer, is rarely about sex. It’s about power. The person doing the harassing is the one who is exerting the power, real or perceived.

Good lord it is a hot son of a bitch in this swamp city we call D.C. Seriously, could it 1) rain any more, and 2) be any more humid?

This weekend, the craziest of all Canadian (ex) bloggers descended on this city for some drunken debauchery. (Note to self: I am not 21 anymore.) It is only when friends come to town that we get to be tourists. Unlike other visitors, her kind of tourism was right up my alley. See the monuments from air conditioned Speedracer, eat crabs in Annapolis, drink, then venture out to Tyson’s to do some credit card damage, ultimately eating at Maggiano’s. Okay, I bought more underwear. It’s a totally different selection at the famed Tyson’s Victoria’s Secret, infamous for their racy mannequin poses in the windows last fall. Meow.

Friday night we met up with I66, KassyK, Virgile Kent and CircleV. (CircleV is a hottie in case you kids didn’t know.) I hear that VP of Dior was there, but when I read that, via email exchanged the next day with KassyK and I66, I was a bit surprised. I could not, for the life of me, recall this, but it rang a faint bell when mentioned. Sorry girl. I even think I may have spoken to you at some point. How did I get that drunk? Let’s see…

Yuengling at my house. Stella at Eye Bar. 2nd Stella at Eye Bar. Got it. Vodka shot. Okay. Still good. 3rd Stella. I’m still okay at this point. Then, another shot. And I have no clue what it was, and then more Stella got tossed in there, mix it up with my 4 crackers for dinner, bake it in an oven of about 100 degrees and 100% humidity and out comes a drunk Velvet. Drunk as in, don’t remember leaving Eye Bar, don’t remember how we got to Play, don’t remember being told we couldn’t get in somewhere, possibly Play, maybe not, don’t remember anything about 1223. That’s not like me.

The last time this happened to me, where I legitimately could not recall a whole block of time, I was in Paris. We apparently took a shuttle from the airplane into the terminal, and I had no recollection a few hours later. But that was because I was on some meds to knock me out for my flying anxiety made worse by September 11th. But Friday night? I really have no clue how any of that transpired. Four beers and a couple shots should not have done me in that way. But, no more shots for me. Lesson learned, over and over.

Ok, so back to Connecticut Avenue. What I do remember is busting through the crowd at Play to go to the bathroom, then coming out, not being able to find anyone, being completely drenched in sweat, and leaving. I sat in a planter outside Citibank, and then my phone rang. Luckily it was the Canadian (woo hoo!) and she came outside. Then I apparently sat on the sidewalk, rolled up my jeans, and we walked home from there. I only know this to be true because there are pictures on my camera. Many many pictures I don’t recall, and many texts on my phone, both sent and received, and I have no knowledge of any of them. I66 told me by email the next day that I offered him my couch so he didn’t have to go back on metro. Yep. I consulted my phone, and he was right. I could have conducted World War III via texting and I would have had NO IDEA.

Anyway, it’s become my personal mission to not drink as much as I do. I have realized that for some reason, what one person drinks is always of great interest to their comrades. Every “night of” I’ve witnessed is spent bringing shots to tables, strong arming friends into doing them, buying more drinks, saying “You’re slowing down!” Every “morning after” is spent recalling the number of drinks, shots, times, locations. Why is it such a competition? Those days are so over for me. And not because I’m a goodie-goodie. Believe me. I can lay down a bet that I’ve done more partying than most of you. It is a bet I would win, hands down. But those days are getting further and further behind me, and I like keeping them there. It’s good to get out now and again and tear it up, but not at the cost of not recalling a few hours worth of time. What if I lost my group? What if my friends weren’t around? What if I walked home alone – which I’ve been known to do. I’ll stop what if’ing now. I have to make better decisions. Not just with drinking. All around. It starts…now.

Just like with my real birthdays, I was going to let my blogiversary go by unmentioned. Seems as though I got in just under the wire though, as the minutes tick away to midnight.

I thought about this one year milestone a few times over the past few months. I was going to post something totally out of character for me, but then with recent events occuring to both a bloggie friend in Canada (SJ shout out sans link) and a bloggie friend in D.C., I thought perhaps it was best to not be too salacious. Blogging and being honest has gotten some of us into lots of trouble.

So, today’s was to be a wholesome post, if any. That said, today I ventured out at lunch with my eye on picking up ONE THING. But I made a detour. Oops, is all I have to say. Let’s see…

Okay. I know what you’re saying. Damn Velvet isn’t going to tell us what’s inside the bag? Let’s take a look. Sammy? Do you want to do the honors?

Sammy! That is not for you!!!
Sammy: “Damn right bitch. You know I prefer crotchless!”

Awww….Thora got herself a pair of angel panties.

A mass explosion of bras and panties. Everywhere.

The real teacher’s pet in this room is not one of the dogs. It’s these ruffley pups. Aah, the plans I have for you…

Heh. Okay. Just a little salacious. Happy Blogiversary to me. Yes…that’s my ass.

I know, I started as a dating blog. I haven’t given up. Even though I’m in a dating coma, I’ll be ready for him, whenever he happens along.

Ok. I’m still not ready to get back out there. It’s boring! But I’m making preparations. I’ve found a standard hunting guide and reinterpreted it a little to make it apply to the dating world. Welcome to Man Hunting Velvet Style.

1) Take a Hunter Evaluation Course.
Yay! I passed! They said this blog was proof enough alone that I’m equipped for this job.

2) Purchase a Hunting License for the current seasons.
Hmm. A license you say? I’m looking through my licenses and, well, I have a lot of other certifications, do any of these count? I have a D.C. Driver’s license with Motorcycle Endorsements and a Certificate for graduation from the “Atlanta School of Bartending.” (I’m a Mixologist and shit.) I’m also certified in Soil Erosion and Sediment Control. I can close down a construction site with my card. “You have to put more rocks down at the entrance to control the velocity of water runoff exiting your site!!! The road is all muddy and the soccer moms can’t get through here to pick their kids up from school!” I’m a notary public also. I have a notary stamp should you need it.

3) Know all applicable state laws.
Note to self: do not disclose you ride a motorcycle. It threatens everyone’s masculinity. Also, never reveal to them that you have a blog, for fear they turn psycho and read it every 10 minutes. Don’t steal another girl’s boyfriend or eek, husband.

4) Scout locations to hunt and ask for written permission.
“Hi, Local 16? This is Velvet. I was planning to come in there tonight to scout and hunt. Can you send me written permission? Thanks.” I’m still waiting for this by the way. I think I heard laughter in the background before they hung up. Someone must have been telling a good joke.

5) Learn the habits of your chosen game.
Boys like to talk about themselves, watch football and sleep with their hand down their own pants. Some of them play Playstation or that X-Box thingy. And they like Tivo. All of that happens on the couch or at a bar, so that’s a good place to find them. Does anyone know of any couches I can walk by?

6) Study suggested hunting techniques.
I read “The Game.” Immediately dismissed as useless trash. No one I would want to be with would be dumb enough to fall for those lines. Oh, it’s for picking up women you say? That’s what you think. I could make it work on the men. And I wouldn’t want those men in my life. I’ve gotten better advice from my work, all of which I can apply to this scenario. From the boss, “If they’re not talking to you, they are talking to someone else,” and “Aim for at least one new deal a week.” Okay, well in this case, aim for one new hunt an hour. Gotta maximize the time spent on the prowl.

7) Choose a proper firearm.
Pushup bra with tranquilizer bullets loaded in the nipple chamber? Check. Tongue Ring with my perfume on it so I can deposit it in his mouth and he’ll never forget me? Check. Tattoo needle filled with ink so I can stamp my name and number on his face? Check.

8) Find clothing appropriate for season. Remember your hunter orange!
I’ve also worn my thong undies. But they are not orange. I’m a big fan of pink. Does this count?

9) Be sure to wear a safety harness.
Um….are we talking about this?

Good lord. I have visions of that thing being installed in my house, and drilled so far into the concrete that it won’t be able to come out. Then I’ll want to sell my condo, and for the first time ever, a Seller’s Disclosure Statement will have the words, “Love Swing conveys with unit.”

10) Create a Hunting plan, tell someone where you’ll be and when you’ll be back.
I always leave my neighbor with all information I know about new dates, and all my computer passwords should she need to get in to my email to see who I was last talking to and what story he may have concocted. I envision that should I not return from one of these hunts, and my non-return be deemed “foul play,” that the boys of Law and Order will find me. It’s nice to know that all my conversations are logged in email.

11) Hunting Day has arrived! Get out there and have fun!
Scan the available prey dating pool. Zone in on targets. Perform cursory check of targets for wedding bands, wedding band indentations and other signs of baggage visible to the naked eye. An example would be his wearing his pants too high around his waist. Other examples are the fact that he has no friends beyond the virtual world. In this case, you might be lucky enough in that he won’t actually be out and about in your target range, but still be careful. Approach target in a circuitous manner to view from all sides. Pick which side is best. Imagine yourself on that arm. Prowl through the crowd dispensing your phone number as required. Remember, cute after a few beers in a dark bar is not the same as cute when the sun comes up and you are sober.

12) After the hunt, review your hunt and make notes for next time.
Email pictures taken to Mom. Immediately discard the ones she approves of. Eliminate any non-verbal communicators who text you before actually calling. There was also something in the real hunting guide about “measuring the antler point” but I’m afraid that doing this after the hunt is too late. I may already find myself in the arms of some man packing a small antler. Wouldn’t be the first time. I’m the Goldilocks of Cocks. (“This one is too big,” “This one is too small,” “This one is juuuuust right.” Shortly after that, I get dumped.)

13) Take appropriate care of all game harvested.
Always harvest on their turf. Two reasons: 1) You don’t have to clean the sheets and 2)You decide when to leave – and it better be soon! Get your clothes and get the hell out of there. Climb over his snoring body in stealth mode and remember – If you did it right, when you first walked into the door of his place, you acted as though you were casually ripping off clothes and carelessly tossing them around in the heat of the moment. That’s for effect. Really, you must have a mental map and complete inventory of where everything is. Bra on the lampshade, undies on his cowboy hat. Oops. I digress. Anyway, that way you can get dressed in record time. (I’m actually a little too good at this, I’ve been told. I have to remind myself to dumb it down to, “Have you seen my bra?” instead of retrieving it from behind the refrigerator like I’m in a timed obstacle course.)

14) Clean your equipment and store in a secure area.
This is pretty self-explanatory really. Clean your equipment damn it and store it in a secure area. Christ. Do I have to tell you everything?? HIV tests fucking suck whether the world famous tattoo artist didn’t use gloves and died of AIDS the year after your first tattoo or if the condom broke with your anal retentive Wall Street Trader Boyfriend. Not that I would know. On either case.

15) Share stories with your friends.
Uh. This hasn’t worked out so well for me in the recent past. Fake friends can disguise themselves as real friends for a long time. But I’m usually willing to trust again. And I’m willing to post it all here, on the blog, for your reading pleasure.

Shh…do you hear that? No? You can’t hear that?

It’s the sound of Velvet pulling out all her hair. Currently I’m in the middle of malfunctioning electronic hell. My air conditioning is busted and my favorite toy is jacked up to a battery charger because that too is dead. A SarcasticGayMan I know said I’m having “bad luck with electronics.” Well, thankfully not all electronics. So here I sit, amidst panting dogs, in an overheated apartment, wishing for a cool breeze to kick in and for this damn bike to start. And it’s 10:00. Good lord. Where did the weekend go?

Friday I met one Whisky Pants for some drinky-poos and Ethiopian Food. I felt like cracking that joke, “What are we going to have, two empty plates?” but I behaved. That Whisky Pants, she’s a smart one by the way. She’s much better suited to give advice than I am. And much nicer to the drunk tourists and bus stop dwellers.

On to Saturday. I went to the Yankees Nats game with DCOE. Now, to read DCOE’s recap of the game, my lord. Too funny. And true. And sad. I have to say, I was really surprised to see so many Yankees fans out there. I would have worn my New York shirt just for a show of support, since I am from those parts, but I thought it would be tacky to wear a non-home team shirt to a Nats game when I clearly live in D.C. Um. I was wrong. The Yankees fans were out in herds. By the end of the day though, I was glad I hadn’t worn it. I love my Yanks but the fans are just way too obnoxious.

The first thing I noticed about the crowd was, “Where the hell did all these hot guys come from?” I have never seen so many good looking men in one place. Where do they live? Arlington? Alexandria? Further out? Or are they not from here? DCOE and I were shocked. I contemplated asking one of them what bars he frequents, just for a social experiment, but I was too chicken. (Here comes an ode to DCOE.) And by chicken I mean, not drunk enough.

The game became quite intense, prompting DCOE to say in the 8th Inning, “Well, now we have a baseball game!!” I realized that while I will always miss NY and forever consider it home, I’m glad I don’t live there anymore. New Yorkers are too easy to pick out of a crowd. I like making people guess, I don’t want it to be obvious where I’m from. But how can you pick these people out? Is it their accents? Maybe. Is it their obnoxious booing and such when the Nats hit a homer? Maybe. Is it their overgelled hair that contains more product than the shelves at Bang Salon? Maybe. But what really gives it away is the gold chains. People from New York seem to be the only ones left on the planet who still wear yellow gold. I think I melted mine down in the 80’s and made a spoon out of it, but whatever. Platinum and White Gold people! Gah. I’m trying to reason with a crowd that still uses Aqua Net. Okay, I’ll save my breath.

So…back to check on the progress of bike charging and to plan the funeral for my thermostat. It seems that somehow it got broken into several pieces when the air wouldn’t turn on today. I’m not sure how that happened. I think it may have had something to do with the fist that punched it. Several times. That fist by the way, is extremely tan thanks to the sun that shone all weekend long.

It pays to read your stats. Otherwise, I would have not found out about this:

http://weblog.housing.com/weblogs/news/archives/2006/06/housing_news_re.html

Sometimes it’s nice not to whine about dating. And have people notice that sometimes I can write snark that counts. And on that note…

Today I returned home and began my nightly race, The Dupont 500, in search of parking. I noticed a cop standing on the corner of my block, talking to a girl I sort of know from the dog park. I circled the block, parked speedracer, and walked home. The cop was still on the corner, but this time he was talking to another girl, the epitome of a yuppie chick from Connecticut – blond hair fresh out of rollers, the L.L. Bean Tote, Lily Pulitzer skirt, white cardigan and pearls. She was digging in said L.L. Bean Tote and I could hear the cop say, “Ma’am, you crossed AGAINST the light…” Well well well. The cops finally got off their asses to do something about this out of control situation we have brewing here in the district.

As I’ve said in the comments in other blogs today, I almost ran over a stupid girl this morning while driving down 17th Street. To me, crossing against the “Don’t Walk” sign is acceptable only when you don’t see any other cars coming. However, since our world is vastly made up of stupid people, like the dumb bitch this morning who jumped out in front of my car, they need to be told when to stand on the sidewalk and when they can cross.

I go upstairs to get the doggies, leash them up and head back downstairs to see if I can chat up the officer and get the story. I start with the usual Velvet charm, “Officer, where were you this morning when a girl jumped out in front of my car and I almost hit her?” He laughed. Then he told me that based on all the pedestrians who have been hit recently, they are cracking down. He said he’s writing tickets to everyone crossing against the light, and it’s citywide for the next 30 days. Amen. It is about time. I asked him when they are going after the bikers, and he said, “They’re on the list too.” Fucking Awesome.

People, let me help you with something. Are you smart enough to cross the street yourself? Most of you. But, what if a car comes out of an alley, just on the other side of that intersection you are crossing? That car does NOT have to yield to anything when it has the green light, except for an ambulance or a cop. You have foolishly been led to believe that “Pedestrians always have the right of way.” Not true. You, as the pedestrian, are not allowed to be in the street, crosswalk or otherwise, until the light turns in your favor. Ten years ago, when I lived up north, this was very simple for my fellow New Yorkers to understand. I hear it has gotten bad up there now too. But you people here in D.C.? You’re complete morons. Why? Keep reading.

When you are standing on a corner, trying to cross, and you SEE A COP WITH HIS TICKET BOOK OUT, STARING AT YOU, don’t you think that oh, maybe, just maybe you should quickly become law abiding? I’m not high and mighty. Believe me. Thora and Sammy rarely find themselves on a leash. But you can bet your ass when I see a cop, I don’t saunter by him, almost begging him to give me a ticket. I leash those dogs up in a split second. Come on. How dumb are you? I sat at my window and watched pedestrian after stupid pedestrian get caught and ticketed. Hilarious.

While I’m up on my soapbox, let’s discuss those of you on bikes. People, according to the District of Columbia’s Department of Transportation (DCDOT) you riding your bicycles are considered vehicles. This means that you ride to the right of the road, not bobbing and weaving down the middle of K Street during rush hour. I hate playing whack-a-mole with you idiots on your bikes. This also means that you stop at red lights. You can’t make the rules apply to you when you want, and ignore them the other times. Also, you do not get to take up a lane on 17th Street in the mornings. You are a bicycle. Get over to the side of the road and stop at the lights like every other vehicle. Don’t believe me? Read this.

The problem here is that there are just too many of us using the roads. Walkers, bikers and car drivers. I prefer to make the stupid people move out to the ‘burbs but I know we can’t do that. Living harmoniously is hard. But if people follow the laws and the cops actually enforce them, it can work. Start giving a few tickets and publicize it and watch this city shape up. Of course, one more thing is needed for there to be less accidents and better traffic flow. Brace yourself, I’m about to give away a huge secret on how this whole operation can work better. I’m not throwing this around for shits and giggles. I’m serious. Ready? It’s called “being courteous.” I know. You have no idea what I’m talking about.

Courteous is not walking against a “don’t walk” light.

Courteous is not deciding as a biker that you can pass a car and so you dodge out into the middle of the road in front of cars around you are going much faster.

Courteous is not forcing your car into a crosswalk when there are people who have the “walk” light, trying to get through that crosswalk.

Courteous is remembering that you live and/or work in a city that is population dense. If you hate living in such close proximity to other people, then I would like to refer you to houses my company is building on the Maryland/Pennsylvania border. Your nearest neighbor is miles away. And there are no crosswalks.

Based on the overwhelming response of the prior post regarding dating men in their 20’s and 30’s, I’m doing a follow up of sorts. Related, but indirectly. There’s something else I’ve had in the hopper (you know, half on paper / half in my head.) I have been giving this idea a lot of thought.

A couple friends who I will turn to for advice happen to still be immersed happily in their 20’s. I’m always amazed that their advice, collectively, is much different from what I hear from my friends in their 30’s. Generally speaking, after 30, we become much sharper about dealing with other people, but we also develop an edge to us as well. Some might call that “edge” bitter.

Take for instance the generic plea to friends about any sort of relationship trouble. Inevitably, my friends in their 20’s say things like the following:

• It shouldn’t be this hard.
• It shouldn’t be a guessing game.
• If he likes you, he will be over all the time.
• When so and so and I got together, we were inseparable.
• Or, they make excuses of the “maybe he’s just busy” variety.

But give that same plea to someone who is 30 or older and you get a whole host of other ideas:

• He’s just not that into you.
• Move on.
• He’s dating other people.
• He’s keeping his options open.

So this begs my question – why is it that when we are in our 20’s, we can throw ourselves into a budding relationship head, heart, feet first? How come when I dated a man in my 20’s, we had a starry eyed view of love, and it just seemed so easy? How come now falling head/heart/feet first into love is much more rare at 33 years old? What I confront more often is a commitment phobic man who never throws caution to the wind to hole up at my apartment for weeks on end. There’s no calling in sick to work to lay in bed all day. There’s no staying on the phone for hours on end. Are we really too busy to cultivate love, or have we lost faith? Why am I asking questions like stupid Carrie Bradshaw. (Ugh, don’t even get me started on that show and how it ruined dating for all of us.)

Did staying single for so long make us more independent and more suspicious of jumping 100% into a new relationship? Or are we single in our 30’s because we are incapable of throwing that caution to the wind in full force?

There’s definitely a shift at that milestone of 30. There’s a shift in our perceptions of relationships – both our own and other people’s. I see things happen in friend’s relationships that I would never tolerate. Again, none of these are hard and fast rules. I know you all can pop up with an example of someone in their 30’s who can throw that caution to the wind and fall in love hard and fast. But it’s rare. More rare than it is for someone who is younger.

Something else I noticed is that the number of men in pursuit of Velvet slowed down in recent years. The funniest part of this is that I feel I’ve gotten “better” in many ways in the years since 30. I’m in better shape, I take better care of myself, I’m better off financially, career-wise, etc. As I’ve grown and shaped myself into someone who would be a good, active half of a “relationship,” the men interested in that seem to have disappeared. I wondered if they got married. I wondered if they had girlfriends. I wondered, and still wonder if it is just the city in which I live. I think it’s all of the above and more. I think men pursue women in their 20’s more than an older woman. But why?

Is it because they think a woman in her 20’s will be somehow easier to date? Less commitment-seeking? Not operating off some “biological clock?” Is it because they think a woman in her 30’s is on to their tricks? Is it because a women who is somehow “together” doesn’t leave any room for them to be the savior?

I have no idea, obviously. I’m still trying to figure it out. From 20-30, I can recall so many methods men used to get my attention. I told you about the guy who followed me to work to ask me out. Another ex climbed on the roof of my parent’s house to watch me sleep. (Okay, that is weird, but he was nuts.) Another drove from Connecticut to Miami to see me in college. Countless men stopped next to me at red lights and rolled down their window to talk or ask me out. A man who became a boyfriend met me by pointing at me from across the bar and pushing a bunch of people out of the way to get to me. Another walked up to me with a pitcher of beer and said, “Can I pour you a drink?”

Again, was it due to age? Were my paramours and I all flying by the seat of our pants and hopeful for the promise of love? What is making you men at 30+ so much more guarded? If I’m uglier, please just tell me!! I can take it! I’m a big girl.

I’ve heard it hundreds of times from the girls. Dating a man in his 20’s is drastically different than dating a man in his 30’s. How many of us on the “other side” of 30 have said, “This just keeps getting harder.” Yup. I don’t think we were wrong. I’ve given this a lot of thought and done some sniffing around. I wavered on how I should write this up, a total narrative seemed just too boring. So I’m going to get a little creative on you all. I’ll make statements or answer questions for both ages. For the purposes of simplicity, we’re going to pick the ages 25 and 35. Then some commentary will follow at the end.

Approach in a Bar:
25: “Hi. What’s your name?” (Simple, honest, direct.)
35: “Yeah, my friend over there made me a bet. He said I couldn’t get you to talk to me because people here in D.C. are really rude, but I said that a girl as pretty as you could never be as rude as everyone else here.” (Multi-faceted, complicated psychology going on here – puts down his friend so you won’t want to get with him while saying how nice and pretty he thinks you are and also compliments you into talking to him.)

Check comes at a Restaurant:
25: “Here. Let me get this.”
35: Makes no move for check. More often than not, you end up splitting it.

End of a Date:
25: “I had a good time. I’ll call you later.” (He actually calls you “later” which means later that day.)
35: “Take care.” (It’s almost a week before you hear from him again.)

On Back to Back Phone Calls:
25: “I know we just hung up, but I thought of something funny I wanted to tell you.”
35: N/A. A 35 year old man won’t call you twice within two days, lest you think he wants to marry you.

“I said no, we’re not having sex:”
25: “Okay. But I can’t wait to.”
35: “Shhhh……”(as he’s unbuttoning your jeans.)

“Are We Dating Other People?”
25: “I dunno. Are we?” (Tossing it back at you.)
35: “Hey! Look at that mailman over there! Ha ha! He’s wearing a hat!” (At all costs, trying to change the subject and make an escape.)

“Look how cute these earrings are!”
25: “Yeah. They are.” (Really means it but also thinks: “I can’t afford them.”)
35: “What? Were you talking?” (Thinks: If that was a hint, then I’m gonna point at my crotch next time.)

Ok. They are just examples. I know I’m exaggerating a bit here, but I’m trying to illustrate a point. Dating has gotten harder. Much harder. Forget that now half the men I meet have baggage in the form of ex-wives and kids. Somehow I feel like I’ve gone from hooking up in someone’s dorm to dealing with men who have families already. I’m not sure when I crossed over. I think I might have slept through all that.

Anyway, when I graduated college and moved back to lovely Connecticut, dating was easy. Not just because I was in a small town and knew a lot of people, but because it just came so naturally. I went out in New York City a lot, and every time I went out, I met tons of men. Men approached me in bars with ease. Men pursued me to no stop at times. Some guy who lived in my apartment complex followed me to work one day just to pull up next to me at a red light and ask me out. See? Easy. No tension. Low drama. No baggage.

I spent 6 years in a relationship that ended when I was 30. Back to dating.

My first impressions of dating at 30 were that now I was dealing with older men than I had in the past. They were grown ups, or so I thought. My rebound boyfriend, referred to in this blog as “Rockstar,” was the perfect relationship to have after the ex. He was attentive and did a fair amount of chasing. But, he had baggage in the form of two ex-wives. No kids, so not a big deal, but still, it was my first taste of dating as a 30 year old.

The next man who hopped down the rabbit path forever redefined for me what I want in a man. He was 39 when we dated and had no visible baggage. But, he wasn’t attentive or emotionally available. So I revise to say that on paper he was what I wanted, but not a living version. Despite the fact that I fell in love, continued to dream about him incessantly and have bumped into him on several occasions, the sting of losing him (or the idea of him) took a long time to subside. I actually saw him the other day when I was walking the doggies, and he stopped for a second, made like he was going to turn back, then I looked away, and he kept walking. Watching him double back then turn back around and continue walking, I realized that was pretty apropos of our entire relationship – misunderstandings and mixed signals.

He exited my life in January, 2005, and “Let the dating begin.” Eighteen months ladies and gentleman. Eighteen months of dating, twelve months of blogging about it and all I can tell you is that it is harder now than it has ever been. And it continues to get harder with each passing year. Men in their 20’s seem to function off their heart. If they like you, they just like you. Nothing will keep them from pursuing you. Nothing will keep them from calling you when they want to talk to you. Nothing will keep them from being with you when they want to be with you. They haven’t been kicked around enough to truly fine tune their “game” and create a bunch of rules. They say what they mean and they mean what they say.

A man in his 30’s is different. He’s scared that all available women are trying to bag him. He will sometimes date much younger women because of his commitment phobias. He doesn’t want to give out any false hopes, and generally seems to play a lot more games than I’ve seen men in their 20’s play. He’s noncommittal, inattentive, protective of his privacy and protective of his wallet. (Good lord, keep your money dude, I’ve got my own.)

I know I’m not without reproach. I’m not as forgiving as I used to be. I’m not as flexible. I’m pickier in my 30’s. And everytime I, gasp, fall in love with a guy, it’s because he’s somehow better than the last guy I fell for. What that also means is that the bar gets set higher and higher. (Read: I become pickier.) But, I don’t waste people’s time. I have a two date rule, then I’m out. (I actually know in one date, but I promised my parents that I would do the stupid second chance thing.) Men in their 30’s don’t do this. They can date and date and date you, and never give any indication that they aren’t feeling it until you push for the “talk.” Games. I hate games.

By their 30’s, men and women alike have had relationships that have shaped them. And whether we like it or not, we carry baggage out of those relationships. If that means we are pickier, well, then, it’s the truth. I’m not willing to compromise what I want just to be with someone who may or may not be right for me. But more importantly, if I’m going to share my life (and my home, and my dogs) with someone, well, then he better be amazing. I haven’t met him yet, and right now I’m not even trying. Maybe I should forge ahead and date men in their 40’s? 50’s? Hmm. Food for thought…

Not Safe for Family to Read. Okay??? You three. Get off here. Now!

I was driving to pick up some sushi today and something occurred to me that had me laughing so hard I almost had to pull over because I couldn’t see through the tears coming out of my eyes.

Someone I had sex with…um. Ok. I know I never talk about this kind of stuff, but this is just too good. Someone I had sex with was a little odd – like they either didn’t know what they were doing or they had a list of positions they wanted to do because they hadn’t done it in so long they had to make up for lost time. Anyway, something about the experience has stayed in my head, but not in a good way. It finally occurred to me that the reason I cannot look back fondly on this experience (among other things) is that he made this smile all during sex that was creepy. And as I’m driving along with my sushi, I scream, “THE JOKER! HE WAS THE JOKER!” So when I get back to work, I google image searched The Joker, and I got this, which is so uncanny of his facial expression during sex that I screamed out loud in my office. Fortunately they are used to that, and no one came running.

After I saw this picture, I realized there was something else about the face too. Not just the smile, but that whole eyebrow thing too. Ick. No wonder I never went back for more.

It made me reflect on some funny ass shit that has happened in the boudoir. But nothing, not even airplane bathroom mishaps and having someone stop right in the middle to declare that they have to pee, takes the cake over the man who will forever be known now as “The Joker.” I feel dirty. And not dirty in a good way. Dirty like I need a vaginal transplant to wash the shame out of me for that one.

Today, for you, a guest post. Don’t worry, it’s not like that last guest post that makes me vomit and has since been deleted. We have a new screening process here at Velvet in Dupont and not just anyone can post here. Brain scans, tests for sanity, psychiatric evaluations must be completed. So. The following date story is from my friend, named She-ra because of this story, who endured this evening so she could provide some entertainment to my otherwise snoozeworthy, coma-inducing, dateless, dating blog. Take it away She-ra.

Another night in the life of a typical DC woman…

All right, I know, I know…I partly had it coming to me but here’s the data I was working with: Endless nights doing the bar scene, and nothing lasting to make of it…2 rounds on Craigslist, both of which yielding a few months worth of dating just one of the inane amount of repliers…each with whom I now have developed friendships. So I was giving it another whirl…and this is the story of last night.

It all started with a post a while back. A very forthcoming post..stating my general intentions and my general preferences. Embedded was indication of my deal breakers as well. As always 95% of the responders didn’t take me too seriously when reading the few deal breakers and sent me a little note despite them having one, more or all of the deal breaking qualities. The other 5% seemed genuine and reasonable…and I proceeded with the typical repartee with them. One responder in particular wrote a note indicating that he wasn’t writing in response to my solicitation, but more to ask me if I really thought that this outlet for dating increased my odds of finding someone, or if it just bombards my inbox and wastes my time as I sift through the rubble. I referenced my data and told him that I just like to keep my eyes open to all available resources.

Let’s name this bloke, shall we? Let’s call him He-Man (rationale to come later.)

Within a day or so of banter, He-Man told me he was meeting some friends at a bar that happens to be quite local to me. I considered heading that way just to check things out, but got distracted and didn’t make it. We continued the jousting of words for the next week or so…emails, IM, text messages, the routine.

So yesterday he sends me an email inviting me to a show. After reconciling that I would have to show up late because of previously made plans, and getting this reply: “You have my freaking phone number” when I was asking how I’d find him (trying to get some indication of what he looked like since that hadn’t been discussed at all…to which he obviously didn’t bite.) And then getting this one: “Come when you want. Get the ticket from will call…you don’t even have to find me inside if you don’t want to” followed by him iterating with “like I said, find me or not…use the ticket” well, I was a little intrigued by the seemingly odd tone. Despite Velvet telling me, “Damn. He is a dick, isn’t he? Ugh. I would burn that ticket. But that’s just me,” I was gonna give it a shot anyway. I like shows, dick or no dick, I’d probably have fun.

So to the bar I go. Upon arrival I text message, “Here.” Enters to the scene: 6’3″ blonde if at all misshapen could be construed as a mullet-esque ‘do, muscle man (now get the He-Man reference?) as he meets me at the door to give me the ticket. I go in, off we go to the bar…beers are served, less than 3 minutes pass, the conversation nose-dives into his ex’s current boyfriend. How she met him online; how He-Man tapped into new boy’s email account and found emails about threesomes, open to “safe or raw,” 300/day solicitations for swingers clubs, oh and how he continued to respond to online posts (even one written by He-Man himself) well after he and ex-girl were dating. I know this girl and this playa’ extensively after the animated, heated, impassioned, descriptive, endless tirade about how heinous he is and how she can do much better. On and on it went. Oh and I’m told that she’s 25 and naively forgiving of playa’s indiscretions, after which I’m also informed that He-Man isn’t 28 like he originally declared on email, but instead is actually 36. No biggy, just an interesting tidbit.

As the conversation is Oh My God there is a winding down, I’m privy to He-Man’s confession that he thinks the notorious (as after ths long of hearing about it, they indeed are notorious to me) couple could be coming to the same show. Given information, it’s no wonder that He-Man continued to 180 his head to stalk the door for their grand entrance. He-Man continues to buy beers that I’m sucking down at 1/5th the spped…so my beers are stacking up…but they are mine (according to him) and to be consumed by only me. Ha ha. I continued to take my time.

First band…retarded. almost excruciating to sit through. Therefore, I’m left with little to distract me until the headliner comes on…meanwhile, the door is fascinating to him. Later, several times, He-Man makes it a point to insert into the conversation that “we will never be anything, but it’ll be cool just to hang out.” I find this humorous, because although I’m feeling the same thing, I’ve never heard someone just throw that out there…and never could imagine saying it with such inappropriate and random timing. It almost seemed like he was doing the preemptive breakup thing. At this point, I’m just getting a kick out of the whole scene. Muscle man whining over a beer about his ex-girlfriend while beating his He-Man chest putting the present chick in her place. I’m in a good mood, so I’m just taking in teh odd moment with intrigue and fascination.

The headliner hits the stage. He-Man’s digging the music. he’s pulling me into him to dance to his beat. He’s getting more touchy feely. The door is out of site. I’m in my own world as I tend to be at shows, just enjoying the music and not caring about much else. He-Man’s moved by the music, hugs me several times, lifts me from the floor with his He-Man muscle-clad arms. This goes on throughout the show, band comes out for an encore, the crowd goes wild, He-Man’s loving it. The band wraps it up and He-Man’s needing a snack. He’s a big boy, needs food. I’m game, we head down the street for a snack, random chat with other concert stragglers. Conversation is somewhat forced, but again I get notified that “nothing will ever come of us” as if that was the topic, and as if I had asked. Oh and as if he didn’t kiss my neck 4 minutes beforehand as we waited to order the snack.

He-Man belly satisfied, we’re off for our separate homes. He-Man’s chivalrous, so won’t let me walk the 3 blocks to my house alone. He-Man’s also lazy, so doesn’t want to walk it either. I’m fortunate because I don’t want He-Man escorting me to my door without some witness. I know more about his ex’s boyfriend than him, so how am I to know that he can be trusted? Taxi! Three blocks later, I exit. He-Man gets out of the car, gives a He-Man hug. I head to the door, He-Man takes off in a cab. I’m not through the door before I start laughing out loud.

Jump to the morning…3 He-Man text messages that arrived after I was fast asleep, another two this morning. None said “Nothing will ever come of us” but I haven’t checked my phone in a while so that little FYI might just be waiting to destroy my fragile heart. *Sigh.*

Fifteen years ago from tonight was my Senior Prom, which I attended with my high school boyfriend. Normally the evening’s events would be dinner, prom, hotel in that order. We didn’t exactly do it that way. I’m not a follow the rules kind of girl. We ate. But then we went to the hotel. We made it to the prom eventually, but, well, my hair was a mess by that time.

So, fast forward 15 years. Staring out at a sea of traffic in front of me this morning, trying to get to work, I wonder, how the hell did I get here? Not on 495 per se, but here, to this juncture in life. When did I turn 33? Where did all these years go? It’s a mystery. When I look back, I see a complete blur, reminiscent of the Motley Crue video for “Home Sweet Home” where they speed it ahead and their tour just flies by in a whirlwind. And now, I’m caught up in a life that I’m not sure is mine.

I’m looking through the windshield of Speedracer and I feel like I could chuck it all. So easily. I tell myself over and over that I’m doing this thing called life all wrong. Totally wrong. I’m not living it. It’s living me. It’s using me. It’s making a mockery of me. I don’t know what it’s doing but it’s using me and I’m not paying attention.

We get one body, and roughly 80 years on earth. No one knows where we were before. No one knows what happens after we go. All we know is what we are and what we can be when we are here. Thoughts like that put things into perspective for me. I’m spending countless hours a week commuting, countless hours working for the man. Why? Who said this is the right way to do it? I would trade all this in for a house at the beach and a steady bartending gig. I could be involved in conversations about fishing and tanning instead of politics and how much it sucks to date in D.C.

Three summers ago, I went to the Florida Keys for a much needed vacation. I ate at a well known restaurant in the Keys, and remembered the bartender as the same man who served me drinks at this same bar while I was in college, 8 years earlier. (I went to U. Miami and we often trekked down to the Keys on weekends.) I asked him about it, wondering if he was the same man I recalled. He said, “Yup. I’ve worked here 23 years. I haven’t been north of Key Largo in the last 17 years.” That sounded so incredible. That man is what I aspire to…someone who just doesn’t care what else there is because the life they have is so very much the life they want.

My industry is crashing down and for the first time, I don’t care. I’ve checked my bank accounts. They are all in good shape. If I were to get laid off, the solution would be so easy. Find someone still enchanted with D.C. to rent my condo. Pack the dogs, hit the road, reclaim my life, and be forever the girl who showed up at the prom with her hair a mess.