Year: 2006 (Page 3 of 4)

So this weekend I had a dream that all in the same day, I walked my dogs with Nicole Kidman, ate lunch with Jennifer Lopez and went to the dry cleaners with Jenna Jameson. La Kidman loved Sammy and Thora, I told J. Lo that she’s much nicer now that Marc Anthony straightened her out and Jenna J and I talked porn and strippers. Um…I think there’s a problem when your guilty pleasures of celebrity gossip and porn stars infect your slumber. I might need to suspend my subscriptions to US Weekly and Excalibur Films…

Anyway, the Queen of Quantity and I went out Saturday night to the 18th Street Lounge. Between the things that happened to us, and the conversations that ensued (between us and with others) it was an enlightening evening of Human Nature of the sexes. Long before venturing out Saturday night, I’ve had my own opinions of what people will do when it comes to dating and the potential for love. Men have this code: “Bros before Ho’s.” Women, well, we don’t seem to have that code. I’ve watched seemingly confident women who profess they have no trouble finding boys to date, step over and stab their friends in the back for a man they barely know. Watching these women trade friendship to become pathetic and needy is always interesting. For me, these women are the ones I bid “Good Fucking Riddance” to. And people always get what they deserve. This never pans out the way the woman expects, but does she ever wonder why she chose to jettison the friend for the man? Probably not. At least not the selfish whores. And I laugh at selfish, pathetic whores, so all this works out fine for me.

So, back to present time. Seated on the 18th Street Lounge patio, the place starts to get crowded. A man circles and approaches. Here we go. “Hi Ladies, can I ask you a question?” We nod. He says, “Do you find it hard to meet people here?” Um. Okay. Now I’m disgusted. Every time I am approached at a bar, I try to be nice, as I imagine my poor brothers and male friends at bars approaching women across the country. I wouldn’t want a woman to be a nasty bitch to my brothers or my friends, so I’m not a nasty bitch when I’m hit on. But, we are pleasant as continues into his best technique lifted direct from “The Game.” His friend approaches, says something to him, then we are all introduced. It was just too staged. Men. Please. The best line you can use in a bar is, “Hi, my name is ____.” The rest of it just sounds too contrived.

Anyway, Neil Strauss Junior and his friend start speaking in Spanish (WTF??) and that allows me to turn my bitch on and turn my head completely away from them, back to the Queen of Quantity. They get the hint and leave. Um. What the hell was that? You’re going to come over, and try your best, and you don’t get shot down, and then your little friend comes over and you turn on the Espanol? They asked if we spoke Spanish, and while I have a working knowledge of it, they were just making it too hard.

The Queen of Quantity and I go back to talking. A man backs into the Queen of Quantity, unaware that she’s sitting there, and I say, “Hey, you’re about to sit in my friend’s lap.” He turns around and says, “Sorry. I got pushed. Hi, my name is Chris.” (Much better than the last dude that came over here, Chris.) Chris ends up being a very nice, very genuine boy. But I say boy because he and his 25 friends arrived at the 18th Street Lounge via the Party Bus for some girl’s birthday party. (Birthday girl by the way was wearing all the blue eyeshadow that the world has produced since 1981, the year of her birth.)

As this guys friends see he is chatting away two girls, they start coming over one by one. First we meet “Mr. High Five Goldchains.” Then we meet “Mr. I got sunburned but only on my nose so I look like Rudolph.” Chris was nice. Those next two, downright scary – not for any reason other than their damn aura was screaming “I just got in here with my fake ID” even though they all said they were 25 or 26. (Lie lie big fat lie.) I said something that Mr. High Five Goldchains thought was funny, and he attempted to high five me. People. Please. High fives are meant for THE HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL FIELD ONLY. I then proceeded to bitch slap him for 25 minutes about how he would never pick up a decent girl with that high fiving routine.

So while we’re all talking, one of the girls from the party bus gang comes over and grabs Mr. High Five Gold Chains and says through her gritted teeth, “Um….what are you doing over here???” I said to him, “Your girlfriend wants you to return to their group.” He said he didn’t have a girlfriend, blah blah. That makes that exchange even funnier, for a woman will ALWAYS piss all over her guy friends like a damn dog, just so he can’t get with anyone else. Again I ask, why? When I was her age, I went out with my brother’s best friend all the time (because we found ourselves both single and living in the same town) and he would pick the girl and I would hunt her down. I always got him the girl he wanted. Why don’t women do this for their guy friends? I’m always more than happy to see a guy friend make progress with a woman, and if I can help, even better. Life, you see, isn’t controlled by us, even though we think it is. We can help it along, but why get in the path of two people who might be interested in each other? So to the little 24 year old girl wearing the giant turquoise stone around her neck and insane jealousy on her sleeve??? Get a clue.

Queen of Quantity and I proceed to discuss, during a moment alone, that a man’s height will directly affect his aggressiveness factor. The tall guys are the ones who just stand around acting cool, waiting to be approached. The short guys are SO FREAKING AGGRESSIVE. I have seen this play out time and time again. What is that all about – is it like a “I have nothing to lose” theory? I remember two years ago my friend Sara and I went out with a guy friend of ours and he brought along this little pint size man, probably around 5 feet tall. Maybe 5’1. Anyway, every time Sara got more than a couple inches away from him on the dance floor, he would aggressively grab her back, as if to say, “You’re mine, don’t go anywhere.” Very odd.

Exit 18th Street Lounge, stage left.

We made our way to Biddy Mulligan’s in the circle. Surprisingly, the QofQ (I had to shorten that shit, it was way out of hand) saw someone she knew quite well. He, in all his hotness, with all his friends, in all their hotness, came over to our table. The night was looking up, finally, if not for the adult company who didn’t arrive via “party bus.” One of the men started bargaining with me for my Prada bag. I kept saying no and he kept upping the ante. People are weird. Then they all left because one of the guys wanted to check out another bar, and I went to the restroom. When I came back. the QofQ had a visitor. Um. Sorry I left you alone.

She’s talking to this guy and her eyes are glazing over. He turns to me and starts saying something about how he hates that everyone asks the “What do you do for work” question. Now, I don’t mind this question, and I don’t see the reason that so many people hate it, but to each his own. I guess it can be offensive for people in professions who then get attacked for advice. The QofQ said when she’s not interested in a man she says she’s a nanny and that sends them running. Then the conversation took the turn so I asked him what he did for work. And he snapped back with “What do you do???” I said, “I’m a nanny.” When he finally answered, this is what he said:

“I work for a middle eastern think tank.” He went on to explain it, but I had had just about enough at that point. Then HIS friend came over (Christ, is there a patent on this fucking routine?) and the QofQ’s man friends came back, rescuing us from further inane conversation.

What did we learn?
1) Women need to figure out how to stick together and stop selling out their girlfriends for some dick. (Literally, figuratively.)
2) “Hi my name is” is the only acceptable line.
3) Don’t cockblock your friends, male or female.
4) Don’t high five anyone. Ever.
5) Short men are sometimes (eek…most times I’ve seen) over aggressive.

Last week I became paralyzed while uttering the sentence, “I’ll have the salad with dressing on the side please.” I stopped mid sentence. Someone walked by with your cologne, and it took my breath away. I was rendered utterly useless. Stuck in an inability to speak. There are the flashbacks. Loud and clear. Vivid.

Three times. Three times yesterday. The song hasn’t even been on the Billboard charts in the last year. I never hear the song except for yesterday. Three times yesterday. It brings back a memory so intense that it has single handedly reshaped my life since I last saw you. Going about my daily routine, I get a flash. A flash of us dancing. A flash of us laughing. A flash of us kissing. A flash of you pulling a piece of my hair out of my eyes. A flash…of your hands on my hips.

“I’ll just sit right here and let you take me back. I’m on that gravel road, look at me. On my way to pick you up. Standing on the front porch looking just like that.”

Tonight, I went drinking with Moxie and Chase. How can I put this? Okay. When you sit down at the bar with someone and they say, “I’ll have a vodka cranberry and a Bailey’s with coffee and what will you be having?” as they look your way, you know, you are going to be in for one hell of a night. Moxie displayed her Moxie, as she showed us how to chat it up with the locals. (Channeling DCOE for a second….”And by locals, I mean homeless man who stumbled in for a beer.”) Then Chase and I shared Atlanta stories, since we are both ex-Atlantans. Then I bored them to tears with my stupid stories, and there you have a night! The highlight? The story of Moxie’s mom calling her leasing office to make friends with them and work a deal on her rent increase.

Anyway, these girls are in loooooove with their respective men. It’s nice to hear their warm and fuzzies. I waltzed home, drunk off my ass, wondering what life has in store for me, vowing if I saw HotBroker at this late drunk hour I would say something direct to get a reaction. Alas, no HotBroker. I did have a present when I arrived home, however.

The watermelon I bought at Soviet Safeway yesterday exploded in my kitchen. There is watermelon juice all over the countertops, the floors, and watermelon guts all over the walls and the cabinets. How exactly does a watermelon explode? Life for the single girl, it is really such a bevy of surprises.

Gah. More drunk Velvet and an exploded watermelon. Snooooore. I’ll try harder tomorrow.

Totally off topic today.

Dear Alan Greenspan:

You are an asshole. You kept interest rates WAY TOO LOW for WAY TOO LONG, in an effort to keep the housing market going. You manipulated an entire industry to prop up the rest of the U.S. Economy. Thanks a lot. Many people who had NO BUSINESS buying houses are now in homes that they can’t afford. People are filing bankruptcy, consumer debt is at an all time high, the foreclosures are starting, and you’ve retired. Nice job.

Guess what? Where you created “opportunity” you also created leeches. Investors flooded this market and basically ruined it. Never mind that they bought tons of homes that they planned to flip, but they skewed all the marketing data with their demographics, and threw a monkey wrench into the entire system. The housing industry couldn’t keep up with this demand – the abnormally low rates robbed demand from what could have been a steady future. All the homebuilders packed in the bodies, and everyone worked like dogs.

Now guess what? While you’re enjoying your retirement, every single public national homebuilder is freaking out. They are getting contract cancellations left and right. They are refunding deposits based on technicalities and threats of lawsuits. They are whispering about layoffs. And the people on the outside don’t know this, but a large portion of those in the homebuilding industry are about to hit the pavement looking for jobs. Thank you so much, for you’ve done wonders for our economy. Lower rates so that the rich can get richer, put the housing price out of the average man’s reach and all the rich left the market. Now the rest of the average men, working in homebuilding are about to be out of jobs.

I sincerely hope you are enjoying your retirement. I hope that while you are sipping your Pina Colada, you don’t choke on a pineapple or a cocktail umbrella. Because that would be a shame.

Love,
Velvet

I think my last post reached an all time comment high for me. Thanks again to everyone for the warm welcome back.

Ok. Let’s get to it. Tis’ the weekend of drunken debauchery.

Friday night, I met up with Marci, Law-Rah, Ninja and Eternal Freshman to help the celebration of one Diet Coke of Evil’s birthday. We had a conversation about the old hair bands, a topic near and dear to my heart. It seems like yesterday that I wavered on who was hotter – Axl Rose or Sebastian Bach. Heh. The days of either of those men making my heart go pitter patter are very much over. Time has not been kind to either. I would have been better served to invest in a crush on Tommy Lee or Nikki Sixx. Damn those boys certainly held up well. Apparently snorting coke and fucking porn stars really worked out well for them.

Anyway, one of DCOE’s friends was a fine specimen who Eternal Freshman and I were eyeing from across the bar. We exchanged some verbal notes on him, but while we were speculating on his age, I saw something that ruined it completely. He high fived a girl. Um. Again. He HIGH FIVED a girl. Who does that? Ninja and I put our asses in a cab and went home (each to our own home, you dirty minded people…no more hooking up with bloggers for Velvet, remember,) but Eternal Freshman continued onward for dancing with the gang. Sadly, I got a text from her as I was walking the doggies. It said, “You were right. No on high-five. I’m on my way home.” Phew. Glad to see that some of my basic red flags are still trustworthy.

Saturday night I met up with one KassyK, Virgle Kent and Thicky for some drinking and some dancing. Fine, make that a lot of drinking and a lot of dancing. Apparently, I, who barely drinks and lately barely eats, was able to drink a Bombay Tonic, 3 Redheaded Slut shots, half a Long Island, a lemon drop shot, some other shot ordered by VK’s friend D, wash it down with two beers and only realize how drunk I was as I hit the pavement outside and shoved a piece of pizza in my trap. Good thing for me I was drunk because Adam’s Morgan at 3 a.m. is a place I rarely see, and hope I don’t see again soon.

Parts of the night will forever live in obscurity as each of us together cannot seem to reconstruct the evening, beginning to end. I remember Thicky’s arrival. I remember VK dancing with some bridesmaid. The reason I know she was a bridesmaid is because she was wearing a wifebeater that said, “BRIDESMAID.” Heh. And a polka dot bra with the bra straps down at her elbows. (VK, that was easy, she was like half undressed already!) Anyway, I wandered off, found an incredibly hot man, swapped spit and returned with a hickey on my neck. Nice. Don’t get any ideas, I’m still not in the mood to be involved with anyone.

Sunday I parked my ass on the roof and got enough sun and skin cancer for all of us. You don’t have to thank me, someone had to do it. Around 6, the Queen of Quantity and I went to Cafe St. Ex, Local 16 and Chi Cha Lounge. We chatted with some locals. (Locals as in, “We live on U Street” not “We live in Stafford County.”) I finally hit the wall and went home to crash relatively early. I must have been tired because apparently EVERYONE decided to call or text in the middle of the night and I heard exactly none of their calls.

Monday, snooooooooooore. Is this weekend update over yet? Monday the Queen of Quantity (Lord woman, you need a shorter name) and I went to a frat party pool party in Arlington. Actually, it was the usual scene: Girls all bitchy, guys are nice. Hmm. Whatevs. I just wanted to get some sun and tear into the fab watermelon we brought, but none of that happened. Apparently in Arlington, they put swimming pools between two buildings that are 6 stories, so the buildings block the sun for the most part. You get sun in the pool area for what? 3 hours? I wonder what Einstein architect designed that shit. This is why I lay out on my roof where the sun shines all day and I can take my top off.

My plan for Monday was to go to Rolling Thunder. Here’s my thought. I’ve tried to date these metrosexuals in D.C. and it just doesn’t work for me. I had better luck with the beefy Harley riders. I’m thinking that’s the way to go. And what better than Rolling Thunder? It’s like thousands of potential boyfriends all in one place! But sigh, it just didn’t happen for me this year. Maybe next year I’ll go.

Also at some point during the weekend, my brother called me from our parents house and said he walked into the computer room and saw my blog up on my dad’s computer screen. Um….I’ve been through so much in the last month that all I can do is laugh my ass off at this piece of information. I really don’t have anything to hide. I only hide things to prevent the lectures.

So, Mom and Dad. (Or Gloom and Doom…the alter ego’s.) I’m not going to tell you not to read, and I’m not going to block your IP address because I only do that to assholes with mental problems but, you can’t lecture me. Okay? And occasionally, you two do and say shit that is damn fine material for me. So you’ll have to deal with reading it, Velvetized, here on the blog. You will have to remember that I don’t always make the best decisions and I know this. Yes, I do drink. No I won’t go to church to try to meet a “nice Greek boy” because I don’t think they exist and I’m Agnostic anyway. Yes I lay out in the sun. No I don’t want skin cancer but it doesn’t stop me. Yes I date boys. Yes, things happen with these boys you won’t want to know about. And yes, I’m sometimes a complete asshole to these boys, but only when they deserve it. I’ll try to remember to warn you when anything I’m about to write is going to move from PG-13 to rated R. And for everyone else? I’ll try to keep that R Rating. I know you love it.

The last few weeks of my life have been about regrouping and reassessing. There have been many unfortunate casualties during this time away from the blog, but I had no choice. After a lot of consideration, I have decided that blogging will not be of those casualties. Not now, anyway.

Due to a series of truly unbelievable, venomous, vindictive events that transpired, I thought it might be best to close up shop. I gave the idea of quitting Velvet and returning to a life sans blogging, or blogging anonymously, a lot of thought over the past few weeks. The idea of an anonymous blog is incredibly appealing. I could essentially have my life back. But I kept coming back to the fact that I have worked really hard, poured my heart and soul, literally, into this blog, and into writing. I am a fighter, through and through. A fighter to the bitter end. I’ve been places that I hope to never see again – emotionally and physically.

What helped tremendously was the rallying of support I received from so many unlikely sources. Seriously. It always amazes me that the people you expect to count on, master the art of hibernation; Those you wouldn’t imagine would help, end up far exceeding your expectations. I’ve seen friendship redefined for me several times over in the past few weeks.

On the rest of the matters, I’ve taken what I will coin the “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” strategy. In life, we can’t erase people from making their mark, however big or small. But this blog is a different story. I can erase whoever I want. And I have. Delete delete delete. Backspace backspace. Highlight, select all, cut, paste to clipboard, close without saving. I know it’s bad to just obliterate some things off the map, but I’m doing it. You may notice there are a few posts missing. Call it Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Blog. Buh-Bye. Thanks for flying with Velvet. I hope to never see you again on another flight, ever.

While I’m on the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Blog, I’m also no longer tolerating any negativity in my life. So that means if you submit a nasty comment that hits way below the belt, you might be asked to exit the plane while we’re still circling the airport. Definition of “way below the belt?” Don’t worry, it’s nothing that the normal, sane, non-bipolar, 99.9% of readers are guilty of. Devils Advocate? Fine. Downright obnoxious? Deleted. Worse than that? IP Banned. Welcome to my rules. Negativity has no voice here.

I do believe when moving forward in such a final, no-looking-back manner, that it’s important to have learned something. The closest of my friends can and did sniff out trouble long before I can, leading me to one major conclusion: I have got to find a way to become a better judge of character. I overlooked some very obvious red flags. Sigh, I miss the old days of playing ball in elementary school. With those colored jerseys, you always knew who was on which team. In life? Not so much.

I can’t say what will happen from here forward. I’m frankly quite burned out on dating, and I’m very depleted of trust. And since you need enthusiasm and trust to date, well, it ain’t looking so good. Of course, I could and probably will change my mind. The heart is a resilient muscle, and it seems to quickly forget what happened to put it in such a bad way to start with. But right now, my heart is elsewhere.

In addition, with respect to internet dating, I’m also done. I know, so many of you recommended it at one time or another, but it doesn’t work. Not for me, or anyone I’ve spoken to about it. I’m hanging up my CL/Match/Yahoo hat here in Washington D.C. for good. I’ve met nothing but lunatics and sociopaths online, occasional normal man tossed in, but I draw the line at my personal safety being compromised. Even if I have two dates a year with people who I meet in real life, I’m much better off than having 25 or 30 a year from the internet. I know I’ve said that the more dates you have, the better the chance of meeting someone, but not when you are scraping the bottom of the barrel.

The reality is, a dating blog doesn’t have an endless life. Eventually, it comes to a point where you realize, you just can’t tolerate such a high level of emotionally draining experiences over a long period of time. How much more can you readers really be interested in reading about men who I seem to tire of somewhere between two hours and six years? That said, I have a lot of ideas to keep us on topic, but they don’t involve dating deranged mental patients for entertainment.

I don’t know exactly where Velvet is going, but I know this much – I’m too tired to continue going to the places I’ve already been.

Saturday night I went to two parties. There was a sexy little bastard at the second of the parties, and I was trying to figure out who to fish info from. He seemed exceptionally friendly. Me likey friendly. I sent a text to my BestGayFriend-M about it because I couldn’t manage to get him alone. The text said, “Who is this SexyBastard? Meow fucking meow.” So I watch him reach for his pocket and pull out his phone as he’s talking to the husband of the funniest married couple I’ve met, ever. I hear him say, “Oh, it’s from Velvet. Let’s see what she’s saying.” Mind you, I was sitting across the table at this point in time.

Face all shades of red, I scream “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” But it was most likely too late. I think husband saw most of it. At least SexyBastard’s name, and well, that’s really all you need. Anyway, BestGayFriend-M said, “Oh, there’s a story there. I’ll tell you about it.” Later on we’re in the car driving home and this happens:

BestGayFriend-M: I helped him find a place. We did all this looking around and finally we found a place but then I find out he filled out paperwork with another broker.
Velvet: Oh, ok. That’s all I need to know.
BestGayFriend-M: Why? It doesn’t have to be.
Velvet: Yes it does. You just told me at SarcasticGayMan’s party that I need to pay closer attention to warning signs and red flags.
BestGayFriend-M: Yeah, but he’s a nice guy.
Velvet: Yeah, he is. But anyone who would use a broker for 95% of the work, then go with someone else doesn’t have a good character in my book. That doesn’t bode very well to what kind of a person he is. I’m all about people with good character.
BestGayFriend-M: Well, I’m not sure you should not date someone because of that.
Velvet: Mmmm. It’s enough for me. Seriously. I couldn’t do that to someone, switch pitchers at the last minute.
BestGayFriend-M: It’s a good point. Okay. But if you change your mind, he and I are going to be doing some work together this week.
Velvet: No. I always say this: People tell you exactly who they are within five minutes of meeting them. You were right about the last thing and you’re right about this. I shouldn’t have broken my rule.

So many rules. But there is greater loneliness in being in the wrong relationship than none at all.

Three Hilarious Conversations:

I. “I Got Time”
Today. My Great Uncle calls. We exchange the how are you doing pleasantries. Then this:
Uncle M: I made a big mistake.
Velvet: What are you talking about? Picking that home to live in?
Uncle M: Well, and I never got married.
Velvet: I’m not sure how that’s a mistake.
Uncle M: Well, I don’t want to settle down just yet.
Velvet: Oh, ok. But aren’t you going to be 84 next weekend?
Uncle M: Yeah, but you know, I don’t want to be tied down just yet.
Velvet: That’s fair. I know how you feel.
Uncle M: There’s a girl here I’ve got my eye on though.
Velvet (not realizing what’s coming next:) Oh? That’s great.
Uncle M: Yeah. She wants to be a doctor.
Velvet: Um…..did you say wants to be?
Uncle M: Yeah.
Velvet: How old is she?
Uncle M: Probably about 30.
Velvet: Well, good for you!

I have got to get back up there to see him. His 84th birthday next Sunday…must go.

II. “I Just Can’t Look At You In The Same Way Again”
I can’t get into the details of this next story (brother reads and all) but let’s say I entertained my boss this morning with a very X-rated story. (Yes, yes, I know you are going to email me asking for the deets, bad boy.)

Boss is sitting in my office in one of the two visitors chairs. There are signs all over our building to ignore the fire alarms today, and just as I’m telling the story, an alarm goes off. I had to start yelling a little, but it’s not the kind of story you want to yell. And of course, right as I’m at the pivotal point, the alarm stops and I say a couple words just a little too loud that made both of us blush. Damn big mouth on me. Later, he’s walking by my office, looks in and starts laughing, and shakes his head.

Velvet: What now?
Boss: I can’t believe you. I just can’t look at you in the same way again.
Velvet: Is it better or worse?
Boss: Oh it’s definitely better.
Velvet: I got skills and promise and all sorts of stuff going for me.
Boss: After that story, uh, I would say that yes you do.

Later, someone comes in my office when he’s sitting in there, and the other person wants to sit in my other visitors chair. (Who invited these visitors anyway?) But my sweatshirt is on it. My boss leans over and says, “Here. Let me grab that. After the story I just heard you might not want to touch it.” Sigh. It’s days like this that I think I could never move.

III. Guess Who’s Back???
Phone Rings at work. I see something very interesting on the caller ID. The office is a ghost town. I pick it up.

Velvet: Hello, Happy Homebuilders.
Voice on other end: Velvet?
Velvet: Speaking.
Voice on other end: It’s “Hot Broker.”
Velvet: Hey.
HotBroker: That’s all? Hey? I thought you would give me a rash of shit for not calling back sooner.
Velvet: I’ve dished out rashes of shit to everyone who has come my way for the past three weeks, so I’m burned out. You’re off the hook.
HB: (laughing) Well that’s good. Not for them, but for me. So the reason I wasn’t calling back is that I don’t have any more information on the building for sale. There was a stall on the seller’s side and it should be worked out any day now.
Velvet: That’s fine. I was in Arizona last week for a, brace yourself, Active Adult conference.
HB: (laughing harder) Uh, I really don’t see you as the person to be hanging out with a bunch of active adults.
Velvet: Yes, make your jokes, it was me and a thousand 70 year olds.
HB: I don’t even really see you as an adult.
Velvet: I know. I’ve been told I act like a 12 year old.
HB: So where’ve you been? My dog takes me by your house all the time but I never see you.

Needle off the record. Rewind. What? Trying to think on my feet. Think Velvet, THINK!

Velvet: Well I always leave the balcony door open so you have to call the dogs. They’ll come to see you. And we’ll come down.
(Yeah, that doesn’t sound eager at all. Good going Velvet. Nice Rapunzel reference by the way you stupid girl.)
HB: Great. Ok, we’ll do that. Walking through your neighborhood is a pain in the ass cause I get hit on by the gay guys.
Velvet: Well, I guess that answers my question.
(It was out of my mouth before I could stop it.)
HB: What question.
Velvet: Uh……
HB: Damn! Everyone thinks I’m gay. When I wear a suit I get hit on non freaking stop!
Velvet: Well now I know you’re not.

HB launches into stories of my gay gym, gay sex that happens in the showers at my gym, getting hit on by gay men, their gay pickup lines, what the gay hood used to be like. If he didn’t catch me so off guard, I could have tried harder. I’m an expert in all things gay you know.

We hung up with plans to touch base in the next few days. Unless of course his “dog” walks him by my house before that. Fucking meow. Let’s go buddy.

Sammy and Thora: Stand post at the balcony and alert mommy if he comes by! I’ve been stalking lusting for this man for months now. I can’t lose out again. Go, Now!!!

Sure, I’ll come out for a drink with you all!” Famous last words.

I’m back bitches. When I hit the ground at Dulles and turned on my phone, I had a text message from the Queen of Quantity. “Are you home yet? We’re going out tonight.” I texted back that I was on the runway. She called. I said, “Hell fucking yeah I’m going out tonight.” That was exactly the person I needed to talk to. And there you have it. Several tidbits first, however.

Home. I was incredibly happy to see my dogs. Damn I love those little shits. I was also incredibly happy to have dinner with a friend. Thanks for that, by the way. You know who you are, wink wink.

So, it was a good trip. I got the work stuff accomplished and I realized that I have a true love for Phoenix. So, while the market isn’t right at this point, I’m diving in to buy something in Phoenix when the market stabilizes. Too bad I didn’t think of this when I lived there before. Oh yeah, I didn’t have any money when I lived there before. And I probably would have bought it jointly with my ex. Gamoti. Just the thought of that gives me the shakes. That’s the phonetic spelling of Greek profanity by the way.

Sad to report that my heart still aches. This will probably take longer to get through than I thought. Do they make a pill for this? What I’ve learned is the next time I feel panic-ridden I need to check out sooner, before I say things to people I don’t mean to say.

I’ve been getting a lot of emails from you all on recent subject matters. I can’t thank you enough for this. I seem to get as many or more emails than comments, and in this case, having these conversations off line was much better. So thanks.

Ok. Let’s get to it. I met up with The Queen of Quantity and Esther, as she asked to be named, and others at Cafe Citron around 10:00. Ha! It’s still 7:00 for me, if I’m still on Arizona time. I really push the envelope with that time difference by the way. So, I arrive, they have a table already and a bar tab rolling. For someone who woke up in Arizona yesterday, it was a night of massive, incredible drinking. Seriously, I don’t know why I say the words, “Sure, I’ll have a drink with you all” when that basically means, “I’ll get annihilated and stumble home at 2:45 a.m.” That shit still makes me laugh because I really do mean “one drink” when I say “one drink.”

The bar was a sea of EuroTrash. Sad but true. We almost got in a fight. One of our crew is getting married next week, and another in the group who knows the owner of Cafe Citron or something, had reserved a special table. Some girl jumped on it and started dancing and wouldn’t leave. Fight brewing, the girls at the table next to us said, “We got your back. Take that bitch and her stupid friend.” Holy moly. I’m too old for fighting, I might break a hip, but I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had to. The girls, outnumbered, finally left our table.

Now. The truth. Brace yourself.

When Velvet gets incredibly drunk, she fantasizes that she could really pull off life as a stripper. I have my lineup of stripper songs ready to go. And I’d be a damn fucking good one too. Very drunk. Dancing on a table on Cafe Citron. (They told us to!) And, yes, off come the clothes. Damn you Bombay Sapphire. That’s your fault.

Now, I don’t need an audience for this event. In fact, I don’t need anyone. I’m a one man, er, woman show. But, yes, I was approached. Several times. Aggressively. Seems that something about watching a woman rip off her clothes and a man is convinced he must have her. Ok. I’ll play.

First victim. All over me. Country of origin: Venezuela. Asked for my name. I replied: Renee. Yeah. That ain’t my name. Would NOT leave me alone. When I tried to get away from him, he put his hand, yes, his whole hand, down the back of my jeans and yanked me back to him through the crowd. Several times. I couldn’t get rid of him and he kept coming back to harass. He was acting like a jealous boyfriend and I’ve had that already in the form of one crazy named in prior posts as “The Cop.” I finally had to tell him to get the fuck off me. Let’s say that he wasn’t pleased. I could envision his last girfriend cowering in the corner as he beat the shit out of her for buying a skirt with a hem above the knee. Exit stage left, stat!

Second victim: Tried to get me to jump off the table into his arms. Country of origin: Brazil. Asked for my name. I replied: Diane. That ain’t my name either. Saved me, briefly from Victim Number One’s advances.

Third victim: Grabbed my hand as I was trying to go to the bathroom. This one was actually a few inches taller than me, as opposed to the others. Country of Origin: Afghanistan. Asked my name. I replied something incomprehensible like the teacher on Charlie Brown, just to see if he would ask me to repeat it. Nope. That mofo nodded like he heard what I said.

At the end of the night, our engaged and about-to-be-married-any-minute-now friend lost one of her shoes. Who loses one shoe? It was truly hilarious. But she went to look for the missing shoe and when she didn’t return in a timely manner, I went to look for her. As I wrestled through the crowd, there were hands grabbing me all over. I finally took one hand, dangerously close to my breast, and threw it back at the body it was attached to. Are these guys fucking kidding me? Do they seriously think this shit works? Let me give you a hint. Lose the attitude and the groping technique and try this again by just saying, “Hi.”

Someone ended up giving our friend a pair of shoes. Again, I ask: Who comes to a bar with a spare pair of shoes? Out of the smoke and standing on the sidewalk, Esther says, “HELLO! GIRLS!!! I was sending the smoke signals all night to be rescued and no one helped!!” To which everyone responded, “SHIT! I WAS WAITING TO BE RESCUED MYSELF.”

I don’t think I need to go back there again. But ladies, dinner friend included, thanks for yanking me out last night and being friends. Y’all are awesome. Completely awesome.

It’s like a marathon of convo mode. Well. It works best. This one is a phone call.

My friend HandyMandy in Phoenix: Hey, what are you doing?
Velvet: Walking to my boat, I mean rental car to pick up some peeps and go to dinner.
HandyMandy: Damn, I wanted you to come out with us.
Velvet: We’re just going to dinner. They are 80, and they were out until midnight last night. I doubt they want to do more than just eat and come back.
HandyMandy: Want to go to a country bar?
Velvet (As CMT.com blares on my laptop back in my room): Do I? Hells the fuck yeah!
HandyMandy: Ok, Call me at 9:00. But here’s what you’re gonna do….Take 51 South to I 10 East toward Tucson. Exit at Elliot Road. Turn left on Elliot and Right on Priest. You will be going to a place called Graham Central. We’ll be in there. (Sidebar: Did I hear Gram Central? Shit. Velvet doesn’t need to be in a place like this when we’re so close to Mexico. I’ll end up arrested for sure.)

Before she hung up, she told me it was a “huge bar.” According to this link…I see that.

So, hmm. Making my way across I 10. I see my exit and steer the giant American made boat I’m driving across the road. So not used to this car. Speedracer would have gotten me here sooner.

I park and get out of the car. Holy fucking cowboys Batman. Jesus Christ. All I can see is a sea of men in tight jeans with cowboy hats. Holy. Shit. Did I mention that I’m not coming home? Good lord. And I’m just in the parking lot at this point.

Ok, so you must now put this all into perspective for a second. I’m (of fucking course) sauntering up to the front door of this monstrosity in the usual 4 inch heels, jeans, white peasant type shirt thing. From the girls we have a sea of tank tops and cowboy boots. Let’s say that I stand out a tiny bit. I’m a casualty of my geography. Right now, I scream “East Coast Snob.” I’m very conscious of this so I overcompensate in being nice. And I get tested very quickly as some guy approaches me in the parking lot.

Guy: Hey, are you going in there?
Velvet: Yep.
Guy: Well, here, I want to give you a guest pass to L.A. Fitness. We’re having an event this weekend and….
Velvet: Save your breath. I don’t live here.
Guy: Where do you live.
Velvet: D.C.
Guy: Hey! Congratulations on getting a baseball team again!
Velvet: Thanks! They are closing the gay strip bar and drag club to build that stadium, but I’ll survive I suppose.
Guy: Let me finish handing these out and I’ll come in there and buy you a drink.

Uh. What? What the hell just happened? Shit that would NEVER be so easy in D.C.

So I get to the door, show my ID and it takes them 45 minutes to find my damn birthday on it. Then the guy looks at me, smiles, shakes my hand and says, “Welcome to Arizona.” Dude, are you fucking kidding me? In D.C. they push you in toward the bar hawking the $15 drinks du jour. I find my HandyMandy, so named for her master cooking and sewing abilities, and we join her friends. They are already surrounded by a bunch of cowboy hats. And yes, I took out my camera. I seriously, could not stop. And the “I’m from out of town” worked pretty well, until I got drunk enough to use the “Guys just don’t wear their jeans this tight where I’m from” line. I got pictures of it all.

And drinks? They cost like $2 or $3. My bar tab was a joke. Everyone was drinking on it and it didn’t break $30. And I tipped the girl $20 and I thought she was going to cry. Again, in D.C. these damn bitchy bartenders act all deserving and shit. I waited tables and/or bartended from age 16 to 28. Twelve years of restaurant wages. You can bet your ass whenever someone gave me an OBVIOUSLY generous tip, I went back and thanked them. Yet, when I tip well in D.C., no one says a peep. So fuck all of them. Good or bad, they get 20%.

I took tons of pictures. I’d post them if I remembered my flipping USB cable, so the pics will have to wait. I saw HandyMandy perform a strip tease type of dance, all by herself on the dance floor. I line danced. Some cowboy tried to teach me to slow dance, but I’m totally just boobs, hair and high heels. Not much else. I’m unteachable. He insisted that everyone can be taught. “Cowboy, no, seriously. I can’t dance, but you should watch me surf the net. I’m real good at that.”

The Cowboy took me back to his place and found out that I’m good at a few other things as well. He was…fierce. When he started slathering me with oil I was like okay this is how a dick just magically ends up in an ass and I’m out. But the next day I realized I wanted another round. And I also realized I had forgotten to get his damn phone number.

I hate ending with the question thing, and this one is really rhetorical anyway. Do you D.C. folk remember what it’s like to go to a bar and not have ONE CONVERSATION about politics? It was sooooooooo nice.

Yesterday:

Velvet (to boss’ voicemail:) Hey. It’s me. Listen, two things. First, you should have come here because there’s no one here to laugh at my sarcastic jokes. Second, I’m, uh, not coming back. Can I get a transfer? Thanks. Call me.

I didn’t hear back from him yesterday. Is it possible that I could have pissed off yet another person in my life? But we talked today. Back to convo mode.

Boss: I got your message. Yeah, we can transfer you out there. But what should we do about your dogs? How can I get them out there?
Velvet: I haven’t thought that part out yet. If I don’t get them here soon, they ban animals flying into Phoenix airport for the summer.
Boss: Why?
Velvet: Too hot.
Boss: I had to leave the office. Rick was really getting on my fucking nerves.
Velvet: (This is the person in my office who hates me.) Awww. How sweet! He has you all to himself and he’s dying to play nice!
Boss: I can’t take it. I actually had to go downstairs and get a drink to cope. Then I went back upstairs and he was all in my face so I walked out with my computer and now I’m at Starbucks.
Velvet: But he can see Starbucks from his window.
Boss: So listen, can I buy your condo from you? I’ll give you $200,000.
Velvet: Um. I can see how you would think that is a fair offer in this soft market…
Boss: Ok. $202,500.
Velvet: Now you’re talkin! Now, if you can just double that number, I should be able to break even.
Boss: Hey, I heard you were really sick. How are you?
Velvet: Yeah, can you believe this shit? I’m at a Conference for building houses for people over 55, am easily the youngest person here and I’m sitting around my room coughing up my lungs while they go out, get drunk and gamble! They are all staying out until midnight, which is 3 a.m. for us!!
Boss: So you’re not out drinking?
Velvet: Hell no. Though, I do need it this week.

So, it’s Wednesday night. The work portion of this trip is finished. Golf clubs and suitcases are being loaded into vans on their way to the airport to all points out of here. Soon, this place will be a ghost town, and I’ll be the only one here sunning my Greek ass. And I don’t plan to come home until I’m 11 shades tanner and several shades saner than I am right now.

Unfortunately for me, my emotions peak and bottom at places that I never thought existed. This never used to be the case for me, but as I get older (groan,) I find that my priorities change and my attitude toward things change. For instance, tomorrow when everyone is gone, even though they are work friends, I’ll be lonely.

Last week I had a convergence of pre-flying jitters, PMS (something that never used to bother me,) and was (and still am) harboring a fantastic cold. Everything bothered me much more than it does at other times. Something as simple as people not getting along is enough to make me cry.

I’m trying to come back to life. It’s been a rough rough seven days. Sorry. And hell, I feel like I’ve done a lot of apologizing lately, but the people who really matter don’t seem to care about my apologies.

Saturday. I’m sitting on the plane on the runway at Dulles, I lean my head against the window. I look out at the torrential rain coming down, pummeling the planes as they take off in front of us, waiting for one of those planes to just not make it into the air. Waiting for it to come back down, crashing in the Dulles suburbs. Or maybe that’s the fate saved especially for my plane. “Life can’t suck any more than it does right now,” I thought. Well, I guess it could. Of course it could. Someone could be dead. Bite my tongue. But no, just me who feels dead.

I’m already panicked about flying and have plane crash dreams averaging about once a week now. But add to my fear of the weather the fact that I’m really sick. Allergies turned into a really bad chest cold. Head clogged. Ears clogged. How can I fly like this? I just coughed up the contents of a third world country sewer and several vital organs. You’d think they would put me in quarantine.

Instead I’m sitting next to a woman obviously bothered by my sniffling and coughing. And “sitting next to” is questionable because she’s spilling over into my seat. Oh, am I bothering you that much? Sorry I’m having trouble breathing but I’m a little stuffed up and part of your shoulder and arm is crushing my good lung. Suck it lady. Go find an empty seat next to a seemingly healthy person. My germs will find you sooner or later.

I’m sad to report that what’s his name and I are no more. I appreciate all your well wishes on that front, but the curtain is down on that show, and the theatre as they say on Mondays, is dark.

Arriving in Phoenix, I’m hit with massive amounts of nostalgia. I lived here with my boyfriend of 6 years exactly five summers ago. In fact, we moved to Phoenix on April 25, 2001. I returned to Phoenix on April 22, 2006. I forgot how much I loved it here. I forgot how much getting away from home can give you clarity.

I’ve already paid hundreds of dollars to extend my trip. The return flight is sufficiently delayed, extra time at this resort cost more a day than my motorcycle payment and condo fees, and I’m driving a rental car that is three times the size of my own vehicle at home. But still, life seems simpler here.

I feel like sending for the dogs and staying here for good. I could change the name of the blog to “Velvet in the Valley” or “Velvet in Phoenix.” It might not be as juicy, but it would sure be easier on me. I could start over. New life. New friends. New blog. Leaving all the old mistakes behind. I love my job, but my company does have a divison here. Sigh. It’s fun to dream. I haven’t called my boss yet to tell him not to expect me back for a while. I should really go do that.

I woke up this morning realizing that my act of checking out without an explanation isn’t fair to you. You guys have followed me through the past year and I have been nothing but an open book. I shouldn’t clam up now. I owe you an explanation.

I’ve made a couple huge mistakes in the recent past that I don’t know how to fix. I’m not sure they can be fixed, which is why I checked out the way I did.

First, I started a relationship with someone who always knew about the blog. It started as a friendship, but then it escalated and I couldn’t take back the fact that he knew the blog address. He professed that he was fine with me posting whatever I posted. He didn’t want to read it first, he was fine with my continuing as usual, posting when I had something to say. However, once I had a less than positive feeling about something that happened, and I posted it, it put him on the defensive – rightfully so I suppose. I feel it changed the nature of our communication. Normally I could vent, and “the guy” wouldn’t know, and we would all banter about it in the comments and I’d get over it. Once he knew, however, it was always out there, and he could alter his behavior because of it. Or I could perceive he was altering his behavior. In any case, I violated my own rule. I cannot present to you, my dating life, if the person I am dating is reading and responding in the comments. Colossal Mistake.

Second, allowing a guest post from him, while it seemed funny at the time, was probably another mistake. That was never the point of this blog, it’s my perspective, not someone else’s, and despite the fact that it was mostly humor and obvious embellishment, a mistake nonetheless. Immense Mistake.

Third, since this person is also an online persona, my friends and I actively participated in email exchanges with him. Of course it is all very innocent, but it is always a bad idea to be simultaneously building a relationship with your friends in the front row. I take the full blame for this, as I initiated this communication. (Interestingly enough, not only did this happen to me, but it happened with the two friends mentioned in a prior post. One person was building a relationship with the email target while others were emailing as friends.) Primo Mistake.

Couple all these problems with my panic attacks that seem to be increasing in frequency. I was at the gym last night and got the crushing chest pain and lost my breath for about 10 minutes. I had to lay down for a few minutes before I could get the energy to walk home. Nice. This morning, same problem. Woke up, rubbed my eyes, realized that my Tim McGraw sex dream was really in fact, just a dream, got up, turned on the shower and the panic set in. If I wasn’t living in “meeting hell” at work, I could probably go to the doctor and get something to fix this…anti-anxiety…morphine. Whatever.

Anyway, I’ve made these mistakes, and I don’t know how to fix them, other than stepping back for a while and letting it all settle down. I’m out of town next week, so I know I’m at least looking through a week and a half of no posting, but beyond that, I can’t make any promises. I have to figure out how to extricate myself from this mess.

Last night I had yet another plane crashing dream. This time I was on one of the planes hijacked on September 11th. The hijacker couldn’t manage to fly the plane upright and he was flying upside down through the grass and everyone was yelling to not look down. But, of course, I looked down and my eyelashes grazed the grass. I swear I could feel this in my sleep. I’m like those damn kids in Nightmare on Elm Street. Afraid to go to bed for fear of what will happen while I’m sleeping. It’s bad enough this panic and anxiety grips me during my waking hours. But now there’s no rest. I can’t escape it while I sleep either.

For the first time I have all these little problems and none of them are family or dog related. Well, that’s a change for the better.

I’m wrestling with other things as well. Obviously. And I don’t know what else to say because I’m mulling it all over in my head. I have a lot going on and I’m not sure where to focus my energy. I just know that I have all these little problems and I seem incapable of solving any of them. Blogging hasn’t suffered from receiving my attention thus far, but I’m afraid that it might soon.

I’ve got that “I’m going to bed and putting the covers over my head for three weeks” feeling.

Bless me bloggers, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last entry.

It has been a good weekend. I met a blogger friend who came to town for a visit. The power of the internet is truly incredible, for it has brought to me, many things in my life that I may have never found. Both cars I’ve owned, many friends, many boyfriends, places to live, jobs, the grad school I attended, all came about through a dalliance with the internet. I wouldn’t trade my life with the internet for a life without. However, buyer beware. Sometimes online people don’t let the truth get in the way of creating a good “persona.”

Some of you have asked me about the “character” that is Velvet. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a character. This is my life. I am an open book. I divulge 99% of what happens in my life, and it is 100% truth. Many of you are so supportive, and every so often I get an email from someone who has read this blog for a long time but feels intimidated to comment. Please comment away. I love to hear from you. But, the few of you telling me things like “it was a good blog while it lasted,” or “I can’t wait until you screw this up so you can get back to some bad dates” is hurtful. And selfish. We’re not here for you, we’re here for me. Me me me. (Now who’s being selfish? Ha, I know.) Seriously, it makes me think that you don’t see there is a person behind these words. A real, living, breathing person.

Speaking of, right now I’ve never felt more alive. It was nice to have a day sans clouds after the rain, literally and figuratively.

Laying in the grass holding hands, your head on my arm, talking about everything that came to mind, telling you things, making plans for things beyond tomorrow. I’m so excited to discover what’s around the corner, but I’m so content and at peace to just let it happen. Wednesday I truly had a panic attack. I didn’t want to sabotage this, but I seriously thought about it. Not because of you…never because of you. But because I don’t know anything other than bad situations. A couple readers sent emails and slapped me around a little. A couple friends called and slapped me harder. Unlike many in my past, everyone is on your side. Damn that is a good feeling.

I’m looking forward to this. Every time I’m with you I feel more and more alive.

I absolutely think the world of you.

Ed. Note 5/25/06: Reading it now just grosses me out.

Right on time. I’ve been expecting you.

I was talking to my eye twitch.

I’m starting to panic. I’m having massive anxiety, which is nothing new. Crushing my chest. Can’t breathe. Lost my breath on the drive home from work yesterday and couldn’t breathe in anymore. Have barely had anything to eat because my stomach is in knots.

I don’t stay over. I don’t stay over. I don’t know what else to say, but I don’t stay over. Call it another of my PostSecrets along with getting tattoo’s so that I will always remember who I once was, or that I despise being in people’s weddings. This secret? I don’t stay over.

I can feel it. The mental shutting down. The “I haven’t been wrapped up with anyone in so long that I don’t know how to do this” feeling. The “I really do like being alone” feeling. The “Am I going to mess this up on purpose feeling.” Panic. Sheer panic. More like terror.

When I panic, I’m like a caged rabid animal. A bull in a China Shop. I freak out, completely. And I must take to my bed. Trying to take deep breaths, but it’s not helping.

A few years ago, someone asked me why I never stayed over with him. It’s a question I couldn’t answer right away. But about a year after I was asked, and after he was gone from my life, I figured out the answer.

I don’t stay over because I don’t want to fall in love.

Last night I returned home with my bra stuck into the top of my jeans. I thought it was well hidden, but the combination of low rise jeans and a baby tee (Kitty’s Diner, Open 24 hours) created the perfect bra evacuation route. How embarrassing. It’s a bad idea for the bra to come home in a different place from where it originally exited the house.

The bra, a Victoria’s Secret number, almost fell into a puddle. That would have been a fabulous waste of $45…which leads me to think, Why do I pay $45 to hold my boobs up when plenty of men would do it for free?

Dear BH,

You are crawling inside my heart. I have absolutely no idea how this is happening. After the last one who got inside, ever so briefly, I fired the guards, hired new ones, built a moat and added several man-eating alligators and crocodiles. I have a whole new security system in place, guarding all points of entry into the heart, and yet, there you are.

Friday, after the arrival of the crazy Velvet family was complete, you called while I was walking the loves of my life. I called back, got voicemail, and left a message assuming you were doing some heavy drinking after the week you just endured. You called back while I was in the hotel dropping Gloom and Doom Mom and Dad off for the first night of their two night stay. I answered your call – in front of my parents!!! I never do shit like that. I prefer to keep my life secret from them, and you know, just write it here on the blog for the rest of the world to see I suppose. Anyway, I told you I would call you back when I got home. And my brother said, “Nice smile on your face. Who was that? A boy?” I said, “Maybe.” My mom said, “Of course it was, look at her face.”

I could hardly contain myself waiting to be alone so I could call you back. I was jumping out of my skin.

Having a conversation with you when you were tipsy and I was painfully sober was soooooo fun. Do you remember asking me to go over to your house? I said, “I can’t, my brother is here.” You said that you were jealous of my brother for getting to spend time with me, and that you wanted me all for yourself. We talked about spending the upcoming weekend together, and you said, “Next Friday, and the Friday after that.” Damn. Damn damn damn.

Last night you said that cooking me dinner is on your list of things to do. You are too sweet. This just feels so good, and yet, I can’t help but think that the other shoe has to drop. It’s too good. You’re too good. I’ve had so many bad dates over the years. I’ve had so many crazy experiences with men. I’m not yet convinced that you won’t become yet another of those in a long list of failures, but I have hope. I have hope because you couldn’t possibly be this good at being someone I could see sticking around for a while.

Kisses and throwing caution to the wind,
Velvet

A visit from my parents is unlike any other experience in the world. The event, which I liken to any of your favorite natural disasters – tsunami, hurricane, tornado, is preceeded by several (hundred) phone calls clarifying directions, and asking if I want any of the old broken down things they just found in the attic. This particular visit occured during their Spring migration north, from Florida back to Connecticut. If you felt the rumbling of the entire Eastern Seaboard all last week, well, that was them. Feel my pain. Feel their wrath.

Over the years, I’ve developed a very sophisticated formula to determine when it is time to leave my parents house or when it is time for them to leave mine. The formula is: 48 hours minus the time in their presence equals hours left to go.

After the intial hug and kiss are exchanged, their SUV starts exploding. First to come out is the cooler, contents of which include tiny bits of salsa in the bottom of an oversized jar, leftover restaurant food from four nights earlier and milk. Other things that jump out of the cooler resemble their once, fresh, former self. When no one is looking, I toss the rotting produce into the garbage. It’s very difficult to do this in front of parents who routinely said to me growing up, “No, Velvet. Eat around the mold.” If they catch me, my pleas of “You don’t have to live like you are in the Great Depression anymore” fall on deaf ears and they threaten to strip me of my, our, last name. “You are not one of us” my father seethes through a mouthful of rotting banana. 47 1/2 hours to go.

The next thing to come out of their SUV is usually a bag with my name on it. It has a plethora of free marketing items pilfered from various businesses during their winter in Florida. I am now the proud owner of 18 letter openers that say “Bob’s Insurance” as well as three cup holders from “Palm Beach Nissan,” four of those gripping jar openers from “A-1 Title Services,” two first aid kits from “Palm Beach Medical Center,” and several travel size tubes of KY from “Asian Nights Massage Parlor.” It’s interesting that my parents will constantly tell you that they are “so busy” and they “don’t have time” to do something, yet, the collection of all these items from various businesses must really be a job in itself. Now I know exactly what they are so busy with. “Honey, today Bob’s Insurance is having a grand re-opening. We should go down there and get some stuff.” 47 hours to go.

Now, since my brother was already here this weekend, my parents booked a hotel. They stayed at the Omni Shoreham on Rock Creek Park. Please let me tell you something: This is not an Omni Shoreham kind of crowd. We are talking a Comfort Inn, Motel 6, free gooey donut breakfast in the lobby before 10 a.m. type of family. But my brother found a fabulously cheap rate on the internet which rivaled any other option, and they decided to stay there for two nights. 46 hours 54 minutes to go.

Since their SUV was so overpacked for this, well, all of their trips, there was no room for my brother and I to accompany them to the hotel to check in. (My entire family suffers from a disease called “Packus Rattis Itis” and they are physically incapable of throwing anything away – it causes them to break out in hives and hospitalization becomes inevitable.) So, I supplied the directions and we stayed at my place awaiting their return. When they did make it back to Dupont Circle, we parked their car in front of my building where I was told it would stay for the weekend. Why, you ask? Because it costs money to park at the Omni, and well, we can’t be having any of that. So Mom and Dad made friends with the metro this weekend. 45 hours to go.

When we all came back upstairs to my place, Dad asked for a bag of ice. I gave it to him without really thinking to ask why or what happened. Sometimes you just learn that the details aren’t really important. However, the story eventually came out later. As they were checking in to the Omni, the bellhop tried to grab for Dad’s bag (you know, the bag marked with the logo for “Connecticut HVAC; 24 hour service!”) Dad, not wanting to have to part with any additional dollars swung the bag in the opposite direction from the bellhop, lost his balance and fell down the stairs. How’s that for making a grand entrance into the Omni Grand Lobby? 44 hours, 58 minutes to go.

So we’re back at my place on Friday night and all goes relatively smoothly for a few hours. There’s t.v. watching, dinner eating, metro system explaining. My brother and I decided to just take them back on the metro so they didn’t end up in Anacostia. We got back into the hotel, reenacted dad’s falling down the stairs incident, and made our way to their room. We found the keycards wouldn’t work. Mom speculated if they were at the right room. Dad wasn’t sure. My brother called the front desk and asked. They confirmed (after I stuck the card into most of the doors in the hall) that we were in fact, at the right room, and they would send someone up right away. I asked, “Is it possible that after the lobby incident, they just don’t want you here and they are trying to tell you to get out?” 41 hours to go.

Security arrived to let us into the room. He said, “Oh here’s the problem, you left the do not disturb sign on the door. That’s why the keys don’t work.” My dad said, “Really?” Security man said, “Heh heh, no sir, I’m just kidding.” At this point you had to wonder how these people who could be fooled by that comment, can navigate their way up and down the east coast. Kind of makes you scared to drive on the same road with them, doesn’t it? 40 hours 48 minutes to go.

So we’re in the room now, checking things out. They have a great view of Rock Creek Park, as well as the not-yet-opened pool. Mom busts out of nowhere with, “Did they say that the minibar was complimentary?” We all looked at her and I said, “I don’t think the words ‘mini bar’ and ‘complimentary’ ever occur in the same sentence.” Again, see above comment. How is it that these two can navigate the east coast? 40 hours to go.

Saturday comes. Starts off humid, potential rain stays at bay. Mom and Dad come over and we all eat breakfast. They bring coffee, and 114 sugar packets marked “McDonalds.” (Thanks for that, next cake I make I’ll be tearing sugar packets for hours.) We eat, drink coffee, watch t.v., read the paper, and plan to go see the Cherry Blossoms. While I would prefer a cab, you just don’t do those things in the Velvet family, or again, you would be stripped of your last name. Metro it is and it’s basically a disaster from Metro Center. The crowds, the lines, the rednecks. It was all too much for me to bear. 24 hours to go.

An entire loop around the Tidal Basin later and we metroed our way back to civilization. Laying around my apartment, waiting until dinner time, we all watched t.v., surfed the internet and read more of the paper. We were eating dinner with my neighbor Abby and her parents. I think dinner went off without a hitch, we put Mom and Dad back on the metro and walked back to my place. Abby’s dad said, “I like them. I don’t know why you call them ‘Gloom and Doom.'” Sigh, it’s a nickname well earned. Trust me. 16 hours to go.

My brother stayed over with me. At some ridiculous hour, a bunch of guys started jackhammering the street. Gotta love Dupont. My brother got up to close the window and said, “Hey! Mom and Dad are down there already. Damn!” They came upstairs and it was only then that I realized the clocks jumped ahead overnight. Fucking awesome. 5 hours to go. 4 hours to go.

We were so close. SO CLOSE! The weekend was going to have been a breeze. Dad started packing the car with the things that they had strewn across my tiny apartment. When we went down, he couldn’t find a bag in the car and started bitching about my mother being a packrat. Uh, yeah. Not like he never goes to the store, finds a good sale, and buys enough of said sale item to last three lifetimes, but I digress. I yell up to the open window to ask mom where this alleged bag is that my dad is looking for. She says she’ll come down. Dad quickly slams the door to the SUV and we start to walk back to the front door of my building. 1 hour to go.

Mom comes out the front door. I said, “Forget it, you can find the bag when you unpack.” She says, “Why did you tell me to come down here?” I have NO IDEA what happened from this point forward, but there was screaming, there were F-words yelled at high decibals in the front of my building and it got ugly. I quickly buzzed the door and said, “Get in. Come on.” We got in the elevator. Fighting continues until Abby and David jump in the elevator too. Mom and Dad turn from screaming to that, “Oh, hi guys!” with the big happy face. Remember when you were little and your mom would be yelling at you, then the phone rang? And she would pick it up and say in a totally different and nice voice, “Hello?” Yeah, that. 45 minutes to go.

Back in my apartment, fighting resumes. Holy hell, the yelling was so loud the dogs were cowering under the coffee table. These units are pretty soundproof except for the front doors. Anything can be heard through the front door into the hallways. It’s ridiculous. So, my neighbors got hear the following. (20 minutes to go, by the way.)

Mom: “FUCK YOU YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!”

Dad: “SHUDDUP!”

Mom: “DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU!!!!”

Dad: (silence)

We walk them down to their car. Pack them up, shut the door, and they drive off. I look at my brother and say, “Is it too soon to high five you?” And he said, “They came, they destroyed, they left.”

Zero hours, zero minutes to go. Until the next time.

Before I get down to it, I have to thank Pat and the folks at DC Blogs for this. Also, of course, I have to thank all of you for contributing and commenting on the Breakup post. Very cool.

Changing Gears…time for another letter.

Deep breath. Okay. I’m okay.

Things I liked about our second date last night: Sitting by the window in the restaurant with you. Touching your hand. The fact that that your hand touching mine is enough to make me boil over with excitement and anticipation. Being that couple on the corner who everyone else screams, “Get a room” to. Knowing that we have planned two more dates. Telling me you wanted to see me “again and again and again.” You being my first phone call this morning. Feeling like we were the only people in the restaurant. Feeling like we were the only people in the city. Feeling like we were the only people anywhere.

Feeling alive. Feeling so incredibly alive. Remembering this feeling from long ago.

The GW Parkway was closed this morning and I was at a standstill for over an hour before I turned around and found an alternate route to work. Not once in the hour and a half in the car did I become raging mad. I smiled the whole way to work. And thought about you.

This sun rose this morning over Washington D.C. but it was shining only on my face.

Velvet

Here they are folks. Looking at all of yours, mine really aren’t as good as I thought they were. (Though, I did dump someone once on this blog. Do I get any points for that? Anything? How about when I threw a turkey sandwich at the MotorcycleInstructor? Ok, I’ll stop now.)

• You are out of quarters. This game is over. (Velvet. Haven’t used it. May never use it.)
• Don’t call me, don’t look at me, don’t think about me, don’t even think about trying to talk to me ever again. (Velvet, to high school boyfriend.)
• I just deleted your numbers out of my phone.
• Talking to you has become a pain in the ass. (DCOE)
• I’m gay. I’m joining the military. So I can be with men. (Requested Anonymity)
• Guess who called me today? Your wife. (My college roommate actually said this to a guy and yes it was true.)
• I was thinking, I don’t really want to be in a relationship right now. I thought I did, but I don’t. And I know you do, so it’s not fair. (Asian Mistress)
• or a similar one from: I thought I wanted a relationship, but I think I am just not the relationship type. You know, I am probably never going to get married or have kids or anything.
• Think very carefully about the next words you are going to say to me, because they are going to be your last. (Velvet. I’m dying to use this one.)
• You are an amazing girl. If the timing were any different, I know we could be together. But, the timing isn’t right.
• I have been in love once before and had my heart broken. It took me a long time to get over that. I don’t think I could ever put myself in that situation again. I think I could fall for you, so I hope you understand that it’s better to end this now.
• My ex-girlfriend is pregnant with my child.
• When we were trying to work things out, and you said, “My pizza is here, I’ll call you right back,” I knew at that moment you loved me less than that pizza and that was all I needed. (Sadly, this is me. Yes, I said it. It’s the line that ended a 6 year relationship.)
• Did you dump her yet? (MappyB heard this one from her boyfriend’s friend who was on his cell. Volume peeps. Volume.)
• “I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore. Sent from my Blackberry Wireless.” (This is my joke with my boss, who when he asked me how my weekend was after the NewJersey breakup, laughed as I said the above. NJ didn’t really send it from a Blackberry, but this world is certainly coming to that. I’m sure it’s bound to happen to someone.)
• And, NotMiranda was dumped with a note on her car. He loved her but they had just hurt each other too much at the beginning of the relationship…”the time we spent apart was painful and [I am] almost physically ill from nerves right before seeing me.

Shit. And I thought an email dumping was bad.

Dear BH:

When I was walking to meet you at the bar, I was shaking. I was so nervous that I tripped on my shoe as I walked by Lauriol Plaza. I think someone in line laughed at me. (Sure, I may have tripped, but in an hour I’ll have forgotten about it and she’ll still be waiting for a table at the most overrated restaurant in Dupont Circle.)

When I walked in, you were staring at me. I was staring at you. You had a drink waiting for me. Did I tell you how unbelievably sweet that was? I didn’t? I’m not so slick. Sometimes I forget to say simple things like, “Thank you.”

I tripped again trying to sit at the table. As we were talking, thoughts flooded my head – the anticipation of receiving an email from you…shaking when I’m near you…biting my lip when I think about kissing you…knowing that it’s true when they say that the last guy bailed because something better really was around the corner.

The length of time we have been emailing has been a very slow procession to an eventual meeting. The length of time you hovered at my lips before kissing me was the proverbial slow dance of this friendship so far.

We left the bar and went to your place to watch a movie. At this juncture, with just about any other man, I would have been protesting to stop unbuttoning my jeans. It would be an aggravating time where the guy would see my coming back to his place as a definite signal and me wondering why “let’s go watch a movie” doesn’t really mean “let’s go watch a movie.” I say what I mean and I mean what I say. But I digress…

Then I fell asleep. For two hours! You cleaned the bathroom. You read a New Yorker. You watched me sleep. When you woke me up, you told me what you busied yourself with, while I slept. I laughed at the prospect of you cleaning the bathroom. You said that you wanted it to be clean for me if I used it. You said I looked like an angel when I slept. An interesting dichotomy from my other persona.

I sleepily got in a cab and went home. We talked on the phone. You wanted to know when you could see me again. I asked when you would want to. You said, “In an hour.”

That hour is up. I have a date with someone else tonight and I don’t know what to do about that. I don’t know at all. I’m back to biting my lip.

There’s something else – You make my heart race.

Kisses and couch naps,
Velvet

Update – 2 hours after I posted the above. I got the following email from CL#6 regarding tonight’s date: Hey, you’re going to hate me, but I’m going to have to postpone tonight. I’ll tell you about it later.

Ladies and gents…fate is a mysterious thing.

See the title? I forgot to tell you that that’s what the Ukranian blog thief told Bilious Pudenda about me. I have to say, I like that. It certainly is in competition with my other taglines. Let’s not forget from S, “Velvet is so hetero. Being around her makes me more hetero.” There’s another one I hatched that has the words Master Dater and Master Bater in it, but my favorite grad school professor is reading now, so I have to behave. Well, at least a little.

I still don’t have a name for Craigslister #6, but the email volley is in full force. He’s really pushing this forward. He’s insisting that Saturday is going to be a long night and that we are going to have chemistry and he just knows it. Ugh. Dating is hard. Listen up you little Craigslister #6! No one knows anything about chemistry until they are actually in the same room together. Shit, at this point, let’s bag the same room stuff and try for the same zip code.

On to cheery Velvet Family News. I’ve had the topic of marriage come up with both of my parents in the past week. First my dad got on my case.

Velvet: I’m making my yearly Roth-IRA deposit.
Dad: How much?
Velvet: The max. I’m creeping close to the salary cap and I’m not sure how much longer I have to contribute.
Dad: Well, you better get married, then you can continue contributing.
Big sigh from Velvet.
Velvet: Dad, I’m not going to get married just for the sake of getting married. He has to be everything I want and more. And if I don’t find it, I’m not going to settle.
Dad: That’s understandable. I agree with you.

Then Mom strikes. It’s obvious they had a “When-is-Velvet-going-to-get-married” conversation recently. Mom says something about getting married and I got frustrated with the oh-so-obvious fact that I’m clearly a concern for them. I said, “Mom, I told Dad the other day, it’s not that I’m not out there. Believe me, the blog keeps my ass out there. But, I’m not going to settle for someone who isn’t right for me.” Instead of letting it go, she started in on how I’m not looking in the right places.

Wait, Craigslist isn’t where I’m going to find a wholesome Greek husband? Really? What about match.com? AA? BDSM club? The Ukraine?

Then she said something about how she dated so many men before she found my dad and I was like, “Please! You were married for eight years by the time you were my age! NO ONE has dated more men than I!” At this point my brother, who had been on the extension, quietly hung up. I suppose he realized he was next on the chopping block. Smart move, older brother, smart move.

I’ve got a busy weekend planned, but parts of it are remaining off-blog for now.

Finally – a call for submissions. I’m compiling a list of the best breakup lines. If anyone has anything good, send it in. Let’s see where this takes us. Email me.

You’ve probably read about this on other sites, but a bunch of bloggers had their material plagiarized by a Ukranian man who stole material via RSS feed. That’s why mine is off. Sorry. You’ll have to do the linking thing or whatever, but I don’t want my blog on some random website without my being given the chance to approve it or not. Anyway, I filed a complaint with Google AdSense because the guy was making money off our content. And some drain on Google’s payroll decided to forward my WHOLE FUCKING COMPLAINT to the Ukrainian. And since they requested my contact info, yes yes. Now I’m getting threats from the Ukranian. Believe me, if I end up dead, my family has been instructed to visit the folks at Google for a cup of coffee and a lawsuit. Larissa got this article written. Good work girl!

The date with the baby Craigslister didn’t happen. It seems that he decided he wanted to do something on a night when I didn’t have my morning gym commitment. He didn’t want me to worry about not being able to drink, falling asleep, getting home, yawning. Whatever. Anyway, we decided to bag it until Saturday. Which sucks because I have plans for the next two weekends solid. I sort of wanted to be lazy and do nothing this weekend. My parents are coming next weekend (hide the porn.)

Anyway, the Craigslister (#6 y’all!) sent me texts and emails today saying that he expects big things to happen with us, that he knows he already likes me, blah blah blah. The funny thing is, that he’s like an online dating novice. I’ve been through this a thousand times where you think “this one could be different” and nope. You still end up running home. So, we’ll see.

Someone who shall remain nameless referred me to another online dating website that I had yet to post and ad with. My first and only response was from this guy. Brace yourselves. Seriously.

At least I know he likes babies. And when this mofo says, “I’m so hungry I could eat an arm,” he’s probably not kidding either.

You all will be happy to know that Velvet’s back in the game. I’ve had a very productive weekend with the girls and frankly, I’m ready to get back to the boys. (A little too much estrogen if you get my drift.)

I’ve been harboring a Craigslister on the back burner for weeks now. Basically since the end of NewJersey, that pompous arrogant motherfucker, I’ve been talking to a very nice boy. Anyway, I have yet to come up with a name for this one, but he’s five (count them) five years younger than I am. I’ve never dated someone so young. We’re going out tomorrow. So there will be a date update hopefully Wednesday. It’s almost April, and I’m way off pace with the dating as compared to last year.

In other news, I had my fabulous tattoo added to last week. Now I have half a back of artwork. Nice. But it itches, so if anyone has a scratching post they can drop by my house, that would be greatly appreciated.

This past weekend I reached a point of drunken debauchery that I haven’t seen in ages. And I mean, ages. Just know that when I drink, I get so ballsy. I’m like a more fun version of myself, but this was bad. I managed to steal a drink from every poor schlub who came up to the bar to order a round, thereby ensuring we would continue to drink for free. Then when that got old, I started tossing the bar garnish fruit around like peanuts at a hoedown. An olive landed on someone’s shirt, and he just picked it off and ate it, as if his shirt was a natural place for an olive to hang out. And two more olives made their way into some man’s pocket who had backed his ass up to us at the bar. Olive Tapenade when it’s made inside someone’s pocket? Yum.

I’ve had some other issues with my blog being plagiarized and used to make money, but it’s so not even worth talking about some man in the Ukraine with a tiny penis so I’ll let it go.

Bye bye Blogger. For I will miss your constant outages and that notorious “flag” button that has been utilized by one too many anonymous bloggers resulting in removed posts and deleted blogs.

Please update your links. Bear with me as I get all your links added back in, as well as those of you who link to me and think I don’t know who you are! I see you!!! I’m going to return the favor!!! I promise.

www.velvetindupont.com

All right. I took a break from the topic of the week. Back to the stories about single life in Connecticut and New York.

I worked at a sports bar in lovely downtown Stamford. Since I was a mere 20 years old, and unable to go out drinking for New Years Eve due to my fake ID that just fell out of a Cracker Jack box, I took a shift at work. I figured I would make decent cash. It wasn’t a bad decision.

A bunch of loud, obnoxious guys came in. I waited on them for the entire night, putting up with their abuse and such. Finally, they paid their bill but for some reason decided to rip my tip (a $20 I think) in 1000 pieces, on the table. Drunks. Sooooo frustrating.

Another waitress sees this and starts yelling at them. She got an early start on the night at the bar and was already drunk by the way. They basically told her to fuck off and ran out the front door. But she decided to head them off at the pass. She ran through the kitchen, grabbing a big plastic beer pitcher from the dishwasher as she ran. She bounded out the front of the kitchen, right by the front door where our friends were zipping up their coats and high fiving each other.

First you heard a guy say, “OH SHIT!” Then you heard a thud so loud that the people in the far reaches of the bar looked up. There ends up being a massive fight, one guy holding another back from jumping on the waitress, and the manager finally tosses them out the front door. End of story. Back to work.

I got home late that night and went straight to bed.

The next morning my brother said, “Hey, come look at the front page of the paper. Three guys got arrested on the sidewalk outside your bar last night. Apparently they came out of the front door loud and unruly and bumped into some other people and it turned into a massive brawl.”

Uh oh. Oops.

I’ve got a mess of stuff today. Blogger Happy Hour last night at Pharoh’s. I wouldn’t say I’m anti-social, but much prefer the small crowd to the unwieldy one. When Rob realized I had arrived, he said to us, “I’m glad you came. I got here at 7:00 and it was just me and the bartender.” I said: “Yeah, that happened to me once.”

KOB also came by to say a few words and I shared my horrible story about my blog getting republished on some crap site who isn’t giving myself or many other bloggers the credit and links they so legally deserve. Then KOB told me that I’ve been prolific lately, and usually with a dating blog the writer ends up finding a boyfriend and the blog dies. I told him that didn’t seem to be a problem for me. And this morning I woke up thinking, “Shit, I couldn’t find a good relationship if I crashed my car into it.”

Talked to Martin and Joe. There were others but I’m lazy and I’m trying to go out to lunch so it’s quick. Then I trotted home. Fuck. Even that’s an outright lie. I didn’t do any such thing. I stopped at Esther’s house and drank a beer with her and the Queen of Quantity. They were present for the HornyHungarian from Chi Cha last week.

Finally, Bilious Pudenda is back on the continent and he’s up to his old torturous ways. Sorry to any and all who are offended by the lunatic. I’m working on getting him committed. It will be a while though, because the straitjacket I secured for this event was stolen by Tom Cruise’s people.

Here’s your next story from single life in New York. Before I begin, I want to tell you all who have linked to me that I know who you are, and once this blog is officially moved to www.velvetindupont.com, I am going to add all your links to the new template.

It’s 1997. A very young and naive Velvet is at a jazz club with a bunch of girlfriends in Stamford, Connecticut, just over the New York border. There are a few seats at the bar, but they are not together. Two girlfriends get seats together and Velvet sits around the corner of the bar and can still easily talk to the friends, but there’s a couple on the corner.

A bunch of men walk in to the bar. Unless you were living under a rock at the time, you would have immediately recognized the type in track suits, thick gold chains and crunchy hair as refugees from Long Island. They piled up to the bar, infiltrating any pockets of space remaining between myself and my girlfriends. They were on my left, they were on my right and they hijacked the bartender to feed them their Zima’s.

I’m not sure what happened, or how it happened, but the bartender signaled to the bouncer that these goons were to be tossed out. The bouncer immediately descended on the crowd and told them they had to go. Another bouncer arrived as back up. From my left, from my right and from behind me, punches were thrown. Track suits were manhandled. Gold chains were snatched. Crunchy hair came dangerously close to taking out an eye. Zima’s were spilled. The men were eventually ejected from the bar faster than trash gets dumped in the Long Island Sound. We all know that just because you are a wise guy from New York, doesn’t mean you can beat the ass of the Connecticut Ghetto.

After it was all over, the two bouncers came back up to me and asked me if I was ok. Somehow, I hadn’t been touched in the melee. I turned to my girlfriends, sitting just across the corner of the bar from me and asked, “I wonder why they came to ask me if I was ok?”

Nicole said, “Velvet, I don’t know how you remained unscathed in that massive brawl, but you did. I will forever have this vision, made possible by the spotlight from above the bar, shining directly on your head with everything around you one big haze in the darkness. You sat, surrounded by mafia-wannabes tossing punches with two giant bouncers as you sipped your gin and tonic, swaddled in your faux fur coat. Priceless.”

What did we learn from that story?

Sometimes Velvet is completely and utterly naive about danger on the left, right and in the back. And sometimes in front of her face.

Watching the Soprano’s last night tossed me into a massive series of flashbacks about what it was like to grow up in Connecticut just over the border of New York. We spent a lot of time in New York City as a family and I spent a lot of time there as a single gal. I have very few bad memories of life in and around New York. The older I get, the more I really start to miss it. I’m not packing my bags yet, but last night was the first time the thought entered my brain and stayed there for more than 32 seconds.

Anyway, until I wash this latest hare-brained idea down the drain, I’m going to tell some stories this week about what dating up there was like. Today, you get the story of Frankie Finesse.

My pint sized girlfriend J and I were at a very happening (at the time) club in Stamford Connecticut. After I had sufficiently sprayed my phone number from one end of the Terrace Club to another, we decided to leave. We fell out of the front door, smack into a white stretch limo. Two good looking men emerged from the backseat and invited us inside. The moronic 23 year olds that we were, we hopped in.

The window between the driver and the backseat was rolled down and the driver asked if we were all having fun. From what I could see in the rear view mirror, he was pretty cute. Next thing I know, I’m asking if we can drive the limo, and pint sized J is behind the steering wheel. The driver, Frankie, slid over and sat next to me. J spun that limo around the parking lot for a few minutes, we exchanged numbers, said our goodbyes and that was the end of the night.

Frankie called. Boy did he call. Over and over. I decided to go out with him. Since I was living with my brother at the time, I didn’t want him coming to my house with his freaking limo (apparently it was his business and his only car) so I went to his house, in the Bronx baby!!!

We go on our date, and his cell phone rings. Now, this would be a normal scene for anyone on a date in today’s time. But let me remind you: The year is 1996. Cell phones were the size of shoeboxes at the time. So Frankie is on his cell phone for the entire meal, acting as much Tony Soprano that he could pull off, wheeling, dealing, agreeing to pick up some big whig and drive him around with his hookers and strippers for the night. Every call he took, he smiled at me, and rolled his eyes as if to say, “This is what life with Frankie Finesse is like, all glory.”

I decided it was definitely time to go. Like, yesterday. So we hurried out of there and went back to his house where I could drop him off and get back to WASP-Land Connecticut and the safety of my parents house, where my brother and I were living at the time. Frankie asked me to come inside for a minute. I protested, but he said he had to give me something.

Funny as I’m telling this story, I look back and think that I would never go in this guys house now. But, ten years ago, whatever. He handed me a bouquet of flowers. It was really a mess of flowers, no one flower looking like the next. They looked wild if you asked me, but what the hell did I know? I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of flowers. I brought the mess home with me, plopped it on the kitchen counter and went up to my room. To do what, I have no idea. We didn’t have internet back then.

I hear my brother go bounding down the stairs, careen around the corner, stop dead in his tracks and start cackling like a hyena who just smoked a joint.

“WHAT IDIOT GAVE YOU THESE WEEDS?”

Normally my dreams are of the plane crashing, dogs dying, pulling super long snot out of my nose variety. But, you’re haunting me again. Whether you’re following me around London or I’m sneaking into your house, you are still haunting me.

This time, I was sitting in a cafe at the window, eating my lunch, alone. My cell phone rang. Even though your number is no longer programmed in my phone, I recognized it and answered trying to sound non-chalant. You couldn’t seem to clear your voice, and I couldn’t understand a word you were saying. Trying as hard as you could, you just couldn’t seem to get the words out and eventually I hung up.

Then you walked into the cafe and sat down next to me, explaining that you were calling to tell me you saw me through the window. You were much friendlier than I was used to. It was a change from your normally serious disposition. You said that you had broken up with your girlfriend, and mentioned something about getting together. I sat there, facing you, knowing that I have waited for this moment for over a year. I knew that I was at the crossroads, and we could go back, or we could forge ahead. You were waiting for an answer.

I said, “No.”

We gathered our things and left the cafe. As you crossed at the corner, I said, “It never would have been like I wanted it to be, would it?” You shook your head, turned back around and walked home.

I get it.

I feel dirty today. Not dirty in a good way though.

I’ve been writing to a handful of Craigslist men. I didn’t bother to mention any of them because, well none of them were worth mentioning. Well, until now.

One man I’ve been emailing asked if we could IM last night. So I hopped on IM and we talked for an hour. He lives in Herndon (holy shit Batman, that’s far!) is good looking, and he is also half Greek. So that last fact encourages me to continue the conversation, even knowing I could never be bothered to date someone who lives so far out.

On IM last night he mentioned something like, “Do you have any fetishes?” Le sigh. The warning bell went off in my head as I imagined this guy partaking in all sorts of sordid activity that would make my ears burn. But of course, glutton for punishment that I am, I prodded him to tell me what he was getting at. He asked me again. I said, “I’m about to turn 33. I lived with someone for 6 years. I’ve done what I’ve wanted to do, there’s nothing left undone for me in the bedroom.” Well, I’m sure there is, but not anything that readily comes to mind.

He begins this whole long painful story while I simultaneously talked on the phone with an old friend and texted another CL guy. I was the master of communication last night. Anyway, after beating around the bush for 20 minutes, he tells me he likes to be pinned by a woman, with her legs holding his arms, and her coochie in his face. Ok, he didn’t use the word coochie, that’s my word, but you get it. Then he launched a full on attack on my email inbox with pictures like this.

Well, I guess I’m done with him. Why are all the Greeks so weird?

Last night I walked the dogs around 10:00. A guy passes me, all bundled up, and after our dogs greeted each other, we continued in opposite direction while I mutter to myself that I think I know that man. I turn around, call his name, and he answers. It was the guy from the meeting – the one where I said I wanted to do very bad things to him. He was walking his dog. Alone. Looking very heterosexual. Still not wearing a ring. We talked for a couple minutes about business, then dogs. He said he would get in touch with me today. Anxiously waiting for that moment. NewJersey who?

Apparently I enjoy the torture dispensed by the folks at Craigslist. Check this out:

• Read your ad on net and can’t belive that I could find some one as kool as u in my life time. well what can i say today is my day …. hey could u plz hang for a sec ……………………………………… ok! I am back .. sorry had to take this phone call. ok so what i was talking about … god .. i think i need memory upgrade ….. ok ok remember now …. ur search is over, cuz iu have found me … i am looking 4 same … yeah i know u might have heard it alot from prety much all the guys but this time its real .most of the guys who say that are big drama creaters themselves .. no no no NOT me. well i found a very u upfront, straight, bold, honest and interesting person .. well not as interesting as i am but still interesting enough ..ok ok calmn down i am just kidding …..:) i have many good things to tell about me so not sure where to start .. how about this .. let me give u brief intro and if u found urself interested reply and we will go from there .. i am 32, single, drama free guy .. i am well educated, down to earth (was just kidding up there … happen to have bad sence of humor), easy going person.
  keep ambulance ready cuz i am sending u my pic. just incase u need medical assistance after seeing me .. no no not cuz i am ugly just cuz i am tooo cute …ahhahahah … cum on i just said i am down to earth … ok no jokes now … i am down 2 earth person and easy to get alone … just joke around .. hope u understand .. ok ok i know email is getting too long, so b4 u delete it even reading any further i let u go and will wait for ur reply

The rocket scientist never did attach that picture. I wrote back and simply said: “Are you SURE you’re well educated? I can’t make any sense of your email. Everything is spelled wrong, I can’t figure any of this out.” And I got this:

• thx for ur response … i am wondering if u r educated? yeah my spellings are messed up and run spell check is not my style … however u couldn’t make any sence out of it .. hummmmmm … wel that makes me wonder about ur credentials ….:) wel dear i am B.S in electrical and computer engineering and masters in information system … professional i work as an engineer for telecom company … may be my writting style is bit confusing to u … but thats what i am .. if u r still interested drop me a line …

Seriously. I was wondering how bad it has to get before it gets better. Shit. Spoke too soon.

• I am responding to your ad. I would like to meet up with you if it possible. I live and work in the Woodbridge area. I have a foot fetish. I am 5-10 tall and dark brown skin and 30 years old. Let me know if you interested

And the Velvet responds with: “You’re in luck. I happen to have not one, but two feet!” He hasn’t responded. Oh well.

UPDATE:

Here’s what I posted.

I’ve met you all. First there was “Mr. I don’t care that you are pushing me away, I’ll stick my tongue further into your mouth, and grope you.” Then I met “Mr. I will send you massive amounts of text messages at all hours of the day and night.” Then I met “Mr. I’m going to disappear for a while, but when I come back, I’m going to unravel and go crazy on you.” Then I met “Mr. I think this could really go somewhere but oops, I’ve changed my mind.” What is it with Craigslist? Is there anyone normal out there? Should I give up? Should I bag this whole idea and become a nun?

Is there no one out there in their 30’s who has the combination of integrity and decent looks? I’m not looking for Brad Pitt, I’m looking for someone, normal. Just normal. Calls when he says he will. Opens doors for me. Went to college. Eh, screw it. Maybe you’re not there.

The reason updating has been so slow is twofold. 1) There’s not a lot going on in the life of Velvet. 2) I’m trying to move the blog off blogger to the www.velvetindupont.com domain. It’s coming soon, but still working out the kinks.

Saturday night I went out with a new friend from the dog park. We hit the Local 16 / Chi Cha circuit. When we got into Chi Cha, we took a place near the back, with our drinks, and surveyed the crowd. It’s typical for people to not move through bars at breakneck speed. But I noticed someone walking through incredibly fast, as if he was looking for someone. He walked right past us, and I glanced up and realized I knew him. Not only did I know him, but I’ve dated him.

Enter the Horny Hungarian, stage left. When he realized it was me he was within five feet of, he took off like a rabid animal on red bull running from a gun pointing Dick Cheney. He took off right into the kitchen of Chi Cha, where he was promptly kicked out.

He had to come right back by me, and as he did he got right in my ear and said, “What the fuck are you looking at?” Oh boy. My friend said, “Did he just say what I think he did?” I confirmed for her. She asked why he would say that. I told her he’s perhaps the most ungracious of any men I’ve tried to end things with.

Horny Hungarian: So, want to get together again?
Me: I’m not really feeling this. I’m sorry.
HH: Well, why don’t we just have sex. A Friends-With-Benefits type thing?
Me (thinking he deserves credit for coming out and asking this instead of trying to manipulate it into happening:) No, because I’m really not feeling you like that.
HH: Ok. Fine. I won’t touch you. We can watch each other masturbate.
Me: Again. No.

At this point he became enraged and hung up on me. About as enraged as he seemed in the bar the other night when he got booted out of the kitchen. What a dick.

I’m sorry the posting has been sparse. I promise I’m not disappearing, or stopping the blog. I was tossed off the horse with this NewJersey thing and I’ve got no men in the hopper. I forgot to stock up for the lean times. Give me time. I won’t get boring on you. Don’t forget, there were many years of shitty dating before the birth of the blog. I have a few completely ridiculous things up the sleeve. Believe me.

Now, there are a couple things to cover.

That email response I got from NewJersey when he was answering my latest Craigslist ad – I forwarded to a friend. I would link to said friend, but I’m not sure that friend wants to be outed. It was NOT El Guapo, even though you all made that request. El Guapo is busy being guapo, I can’t be calling him for everything. Anyway, the friend handled it beautifully.

Response to NJ from fake email without original email attached: I didn’t think we would meet again, NewJersey.
NJ: Do I know you? How so?
Response: You were the one to answer my ad on Craigslist, NewJersey.

HA! Giggling over here. That’s pretty funny. He’s gone silent now. Guess he’s over there checking his dance card to see who it could possibly be. It’s petty, but it made me laugh. I’d laugh more if he would write back and then be sent on a date somewhere, but that doesn’t seem to be what fate has in mind for this little prick.

Anyway, this week has brought a lot of interesting things into my life. This time without the distraction of men has really allowed me to get parts of my emotional house in order. Last weekend I went to see my Great Uncle M in South Jersey. It became apparent that someone was going to have to get involved in his medical care because he is having trouble understanding the nurses and doctor at the home. Since he never married and had no children, it’s up to the rest of us. Everyone seems to be doing a little part, but no one has become the advocate. My other Great Uncle (J) is incredibly busy with his own daughter, grandson and great granddaughter, so he agreed to let me share the Power of Attorney with him on Uncle M’s medical issues. I feel like I really have to get involved with this, because my poor Uncle M is so upset, and so unsure of what is happening to him. After I left, he called my parents and told them it really made him happy that I went to see him. It’s a long drive, but I certainly plan on doing more of it in the future.

With something bad has to come something good or whatever that statement is. After the demise of NewJersey, you all may have seen a comment on my blog from an obvious “ex-friend.” She realized I was hurting and decided to reach out. We had dinner tonight and I’m glad that we were able to rekindle our friendship mojo. We have a good banter, and it was awesome to know that we’re back from commercial break and it feels like nothing even happened to begin with.

I’ve been talking about me me me to my friends for the past three weeks with this NewJersey thing, and frankly, I was getting sick of myself too. While the loss is still very palpable, I’m angry enough about the way he handled it to know that I don’t miss the person underneath. I miss the idea. I’m coming around the corner at another birthday, and this is one I’m going to feel. I’ve never minded this non-stop dating before because I never wanted to set the circus down with one man before. But all of a sudden, during and after the end of NewJersey, I realized that it might be time for me. I want more. I don’t know how I’m going to get it, but I want more.

Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better. I’m still not pleased that the damn guards at my heart went out for a piss break and left the place unmanned. Then some asshole got in and shit all over the place. Lazy guards. You just can’t find good help these days. I hired extra guards and expect that all points of entry have been armed.

Anyway, I put up an ad on Craigslist, just to find one decent guy to date so that I could get my mind past this NewJersey thing. And guess who emailed my blind ad, not knowing it was me? Yes. It’s really a joke, I know. Damn irony.

• Hi there, Your ad caught my eye. I too am looking for the real thing. I’ve always seen dating as a means to find that special someone. Of course I’m going to have some fun fun along the way. Measuring someone up as a potential life partner is a lot of pressure to put ona coffee date. We share many of the characteristics you specified inyour posting. I’m 35, white, live in DC, not religious, witty (I’d like to think), and often dripping with sarcasm. I have a master’s degree and am a very intellectually curious fellow. I’ve attached a pic. I’ll tell you more about myself if I make it past the initial screening process. 🙂

Ok, before I get a bunch of comments saying “Well, you’re trying again, why should he??” I get that. Believe me, I get it. It would have just been nice if I didn’t have to get that email from him, not knowing he was sending it to me – not recognizing the stats as potentially mine.

“Velvet, this is Craigslist A.A. calling. Step away from the computer.”

I have been mum on updating the NewJersey situation. It’s a rollercoaster, so please, buckle up.
After leaving the proverbial ball in his court, he sent an email last Tuesday saying that he left his phone at work and would call me the following evening. He called as he was getting in the car to leave work. I was in a meeting for my condo board, so I told him I would have to call him back. I said, “Are you going to pick up the phone?” He said if for some reason he didn’t, he would definitely call me back before the evening was out. I called at 9:15, of course got voicemail, and he called back at 10:00 p.m. Lucky for me, he started. And he started quite rapidly, obviously he had stuff to say. None of it was bad.

NJ: Let me just say that the not calling you back thing was wrong. The whole movie situation was a mess, I didn’t know my ringer was on and I was really strugging to get it turned off and didn’t realize I hung up on you. And I got your very sweet text message that you were thinking about me, and I was thinking about you that day too, in fact, I was thinking about you the day before too, but it just like, doesn’t occur to me to write back. And I know that doesn’t make it right but…

Me: Ok. Well, the hanging up on me thing was out of hand. And you have to get that it robs any sort of security I have with you that we’re actually making progress when things like this happen.

NJ: I know. And you and I haven’t talked at all about what we’re doing, what the long term potential is.

Me: Well, the night you came over you were very drunk – yes you brought it up on the phone, and all.

NJ: Oh no. Please don’t hold me to anything I said that night. I was really drunk.

Me: I know. You knew. Because on the phone you said you wanted to talk about it, but when you came over you said you had things to say but couldn’t say them because you were too drunk.

NJ: Oh. Phew. Well. I suppose I’m going to put you on the spot then, what are you thinking about this, and me?

Me: Uh…great.

NJ: I know well…

Me: No. I’ll go first. It’s fine. I shall consider it my punishment for sending the email. Which by the way was far from the easiest thing I’ve done. I swear it sat in my drafts for a good 4 hours before I sent it.

NJ: I never thought that it was easy.

Me: I know but I think that I actually was like, physically sick when I sent that. And that’s how I know how I feel about you. I don’t consciously sit around thinking about how I feel, it just comes to me. So I see how I react to things like that, or the fact that I’ll get 20 emails in the morning but I open yours first, and think ‘uh oh I’m in trouble’ and that’s just how I know. I’m prioritizing you above other stuff. Not a good sign, depending on how you look at it.

NJ: (laughing)

Me: Shit. Are you laughing at me?

NJ: I’m laughing with you. Ok. So is that it?

Me: Uh, yeah.

NJ: Ok, well I approach the whole thing differently. I have in my mind this list of things that I need to keep pursuing a relationship. Obviously we’ve made it past a few dates, so that’s good.

Me: Yes. We have good banter. Agreed.

NJ: Well, this is about to get really deep. And I don’t know that we should be doing this on the phone, but I think we have to talk this out now because it’s gone too far.

Me: okay….

NJ: Well, I want kids. I know I want kids. And I’m not getting younger. I’m not 25 anymore, so I can’t be screwing around with people who don’t want the same things I do.

Me: Agreed.

NJ: and you don’t have to answer this now, but it is something I need to know. I want to be a Dad, and I know that for sure.

Me: I can answer it now. I think we talked about this, in fact I know we did because I said then the same thing I will say now. Based on the way I feel about the doggies, I know that it would be a natural progression for me. And while I was probably averse to it for most of my life, once my niece came along, I think it changed my whole world, and I just told my brother that she like, brought out this thing in me to have kids. But I’m not a psycho about it, and I don’t want to be one of those people doing it when I’m 45 either. It sort of has to happen sooner than later I guess, otherwise not at all. It’s not going to ruin my life if it doesn’t happen. Make sense?

NJ: Ok. Yes.

Me: So…

NJ: Well. I don’t know where to go from here. I mean, I want to keep talking about this. I think we need to.

Me: Yup. And sorry for the email.

NJ: The email wasn’t bad. I didn’t find it whiny, needy or out of line. You are within your right to know what’s going on.

Me: It’s easier to kiss something bye when it’s not giving you what you want in the time allowed I suppose.

NJ: Well, we’re still in the getting to know you phase.

Me: I know.

NJ: I mean, I wouldn’t say we’re on sure footing, because we are still in this stage, but we’re headed there. It’s only been like half a dozen dates.

Me: I know.

NJ: Ok. Well, I think that I’ve been able to say what I wanted to say. Is there anything else you want to say?

Me: Look it happened to me once before where I dated someone a long time and just couldn’t open my mouth to tell him what I was thinking. And I’m not trying to scare you, so don’t read into this, but it went on a long time and I was basically in love with him, and he gave me all the chances to say something and I never did. So I promised myself if I ever had strong feelings for someone again that I would have to tell them. So there.

NJ: Ok. So, I think we should still see each other and go from there.

Me: Ok.

NJ: It will be hard to move to a non-deep conversation after this. And I have to call my mom which is a whole other story right now.

Me: Ok.

NJ: So you don’t hate me?

Me: Nope. Far from hating you.

NJ: Good. We’ll talk soon?

Me: Ok

NJ/me: bye.

So that was Wednesday night. I got to work Thursday, and felt not great about it, but okay. I had my hour of power therapy and told the therapist everything. I thought she was going to be on the Velvet & NJ side, but she was far far from it.

Two things basically came out of my hour with her. The first was her statement that he is so far from treating me right. She said he’s playing games and I deserve better. My retort was that perhaps he really is socially inept, and I never give anyone a chance – who better to give a bit of a chance to than someone I could actually fall in love with?

The second thing that came out of the hour was my statement: A man who says that he wants kids more than anything and is basically looking for a place in which to spread his seed is fucking scary. Again: FUCKING SCARY. I’m not averse to the idea, but I don’t think that marriage and kids belong in the same bundle for everyone. I think that my attitude about this is the true way to go – I could see kids in my future, but I’m more committed to the idea of finding a man I can love forever and live with forever, than a man who would be a good father. If I find someone wonderful, but he happens to travel a lot, or wouldn’t be a good father for some other valid reason, I would never kick him to the curb. For me, the relationship part is the more important piece. The kids are secondary to an incredible relationship.

Friday comes and goes. Nothing from the NJ camp.

Saturday morning I hauled ass up to South Jersey (yeah, I get the joke) of all places, to visit my Great-Uncle in a retirement home. There’s a lot to write about this visit, but at one point he looked at me and said, “Velvet, pick a good one.” I said, “What?” He said, “Ask a lot of questions, listen very carefully to what he says, and pick a good one.” I could have cried. I said, “I’m trying. I promise you.”

Saturday night I drove back to D.C. and really sort of realized that NewJersey, absent in my life again, was, well, probably not going to make good on any of his promises. Despite the fact that he seemed to show that he didn’t want me to end it, despite the fact that he seemed incredibly interested in continuing the talk in person, despite, well, whatever. I got home to this email.

Velvet:

So another weekend has gone by and I have not called you. You have not called me either, but I understand that the guy is expected to initiate these things for the most part.

The bottom line is that I cannot reciprocate the feelings you expressed to me the other day on the phone. I like you and enjoy spending time with you, but can’t say that I feel that extra special something. (as you described it, the impulse to open your email first). I don’t say these things to hurt you; I just feel it’s better to get everything out in the open. The last thing I want to do is play games with you or waste your time.

I don’t know what else to say. Of course there’s a chance you will just tell me to fuck off, and that’s your right. But, I certainly did/do not intend to hurt you and find it’s better to express this stuff earlier rather than later.

Take care,
NewJersey

Ladies and gents: I have turned in my resignation as “NewJersey’s Punching Bag,” effective immediately. I did not write back. I will not write back, ever. I deleted his number and all his text messages out of my phone. I would break his CD into a thousand pieces, like he broke my heart, but, alas, it’s a Beastie Boys classic, and I’m going to add it to my collection.

I have to do the reply, but only for you to see. I promise, this is just my own therapy.

Dear NJ:

How positively cowardly of you to send me an email to end things when we have been dating for two months. You’ve proven yourself a real standup guy, and I appreciate you taking the time to elicit every emotion out of me in the last seven days, including reviving my hope on Wednesday that you and I stood a chance.

Please note that I’m no longer protecting your words from the blog. Your email was copied and pasted, to Velvet in Dupont, who by the way, will one day make you sorry you were such an ass.

It’s not an idle threat, it’s not my anger talking. Something very serious is happening with this blog that I can’t discuss, but believe this. One day you just might see this reply I’ve written. Only it won’t be in your email inbox. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

Signed,
Velvet

Dearest Readers: I’m ok. My shell is a little tougher because of the emotional rollercoaster I have been on with this guy. I have to say – he did a good job faking the chemistry. A real good job. My bullshit-ometer is pretty well tuned. But I missed this one. I know – a lot of you didn’t. I have to remind myself that 3rd parties can sometimes see this stuff easier. I’m going to try to listen to you all a little more in the future. Anyway, the comments are on. Feel free…you can tell me that the book never lies. You can tell me whatever you want. I should have listened, but I just couldn’t make my heart catch up to what my head already knew.

I’m going to post a running review of my “friends” at It’s Just Lunch. I’ve had this in my Drafts for many months, but for other reasons that I can’t get into right now, I need to put this review up. Each time there’s a new date or more communication, I plan on appending this entry and making the date current again. You will see this entry a few more times until May, the end of my dreaded contract with these jerks. It’s Just Lunch will be referred to as “IJL” after this point.

May 2005
Interviewed with Melanie. Spent about an hour with her where she filled out the “intake sheet” which is detailed information on what you want in a mate. She told me that their clients were mainly doctors, lawyers and congressmen. She said she I would get a call with my matches shortly. I did receive this call and they asked me my availability for the rest of May. I told them I would be in Europe, and that I was coming back on Wednesday May 25, to not set me up for the 26th, but that I would be ready for a date by the 27th. They set me up for lunch on the 26th anyway, and I got the confirmation call while I was at the airport waiting to fly to Paris. With only 20 minutes to board a flight to Europe, I was unable to call them back to remind them that Thursday the 26th was not a day that I was available.

On the flight home from Europe, all our luggage was lost. I got home at 11 p.m. Wednesday night to find that my contractor was still working in my apartment, which was now a mess in a sea of sawdust, and all my furniture was in the living room. He didn’t leave until after midnight, which was basically 5 a.m. for my jet-lagged self. I was in no condition to go to lunch, so I canceled. They never called to reschedule, eventually telling me that the man I was to meet had “expired.” Does that mean he’s dead?

Date 1: June 2005; StanderUpper
My first date was scheduled with the StanderUpper and he never showed up, after I had spent $12 for a cab to the highly inconvenient location of Georgetown. Another $12 to get back home and I was thoroughly irritated. IJL never really tells you why the other person didn’t show, they dance around it, use the word “misunderstanding” and don’t give you a straight answer. They set the date up for another time, and while he was pleasant enough, his yellow teeth were where I would draw the line. Note to self: Call them and ask them to add white teeth to my “intake sheet.”

Date 2: June 2005; IJLHater
I arrived at the restaurant and asked for the reservation for the “Velvet and IJLHater” party. The hostess said she had a reservation for “Velvet and Ryan” but not “Velvet and IJLHater.” I called IJL to ask them who exactly I was meeting. They put me on speaker phone while they discussed it, and then said, “We’re all in agreement, you are meeting Ryan.” I said, “Are you sure? Because in all our discussions you told me his name was IJLHater.” They put me on hold, came back and said that it was IJLHater.

When he arrived, I still had to ask him his name. Yes, it was IJLHater. This made him launch into a disseration on how bad IJL is, recanting the story on their hardcore sales technique. He said that he didn’t want to write them a check that day and they sent a courier to his house to pick up the check. He said that the reason they don’t take credit cards is because they are a sucky service, do zero in the way of matchmaking and he’s just trying to get through it. He gave me his number, but even though he might be right about how bad IJL is, I never called him because his negativity was over the top. As a sidenote, IJL described him as very athletic, and I think that his physique would be more of the “athletic beer drinker” type. Also, he didn’t eat with me, forcing me to eat alone, which I hate.

While IJL tried to set up this next date, they referred to him by two different names – IJLLaywer and Walter. When I called the office and left a message for the semi-competent girl working there, the other stupid girl called back yelled into my voicemail, saying “We don’t even have a Walter here.” That’s hardly an excuse, because it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t screw it up anyway. Also, when they asked me for my availability, I said, “Any day but Thursday” and they set me up for THURSDAY. This is not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last.

Date 3: IJLLawyer; July 2005
We met for drinks. This date was nondescript. He was nice enough, but totally not my type. He was, however, the only lawyer I dated. Remember that IJL said that Laywers made up the majority of their clients.

Date 4: GreekFreak; July 2005
The biggest freak so far. He also happened to be Greek. Hence the nickname. We sat down for lunch and he refused to look at the menu, ordering things that didn’t exist in a “When Harry Met Sally Mode” (I’ll have this but this on the side…) The waiter made suggestions to him based on what he was asking for, but, he refused to look at the places the waiter was pointing. When the waiter finally got our order and left, he mumbled “fucker” as well as a few other expletives, under his breath. The waiter was really being patient with him, so I was surprised. He then said, “I’m really very low maintenance.” Yeah, ok. It turns out he is from Baltimore (why would I drive there for a date, come on!) and he thinks “women in D.C. are more interesting.” Then he launched into a story about how he went out with a bunch of people and was buying everyone lapdances and he had these strippers calling him. (What? Where am I? His foot was so far in his mouth I could only see the kneecap.) He was 45, and told me that he just moved out of his mom’s house, but he still eats dinner there every night. Yup. He’s Greek all right. The funny part of this was that my friend Sara came to the restaurant and ate lunch there with our other friend. They were sending me text messages the entire time. The unfunny part is that they told everyone at the bar the whole story. I stupidly exchanged numbers with him and he called me 6 times without me calling back before he got the hint.

Date 5: DoubleDutch; July 2005
Another one like Date 3 who was nice enough, but in his late 40’s and way out of my age range. When the bill came, I gave him a $20, even though I only had a $7 salad and a water. He paid the bill with a credit card and kept my $20. By all calculations, I didn’t think the bill could be more than $25, so I really thought that was weird. I even said, because I couldn’t help myself, “Was that enough?” And he said, “It about covers half.” Sure dude. Whatevs.

Date 6: HarleyRider; August 2005
The date (#6 of my 14 date obligation with Its Just Lunch) was in Bethesda at 1 at Cafe Deluxe with HarleyRider. The hostess informs me that they dont take reservations so its not like I can go sit at the table and wait for him to come to me or have him already be sitting there. I have to guess who he might be in the waiting area. And based on their track record, it could really be just about anybody – the guy with no front teeth, the midget, the conjoined twins (although they would probably count that as two dates,) the big fat guy wearing a nametag from his job at Midas. I see this guy at the bar. I’m thinking there is no way it can be the dude because hes way hot. But at that moment he turns completely around and says my name. And I about died. Fucking finally. Slot machine sound byte please.ding ding ding ding ding.

I sit next to him at the bar and I see that hes holding a Harley helmet. (Christ, its like Ive now left the slots and just put all my money on the winning number at the roulette table.) He tells me he rode his Harley V-Rod here. (And now I just got 21 at the Blackjack table.) Of course I share my Harley story and all. We go sit down and order, have a fine lunch. Turns out that he also drives a speedracer, also has a Harley and also has a brother living in Michigan. He lives in Rockville and works downtown; I live downtown and work in Rockville. What the hell is going on right now?

After lunch we go out to the parking lot and hes like, Want to see the bike? So I say ok, of course, and we go over there. Were discussing accessories and all that fun stuff, then the rest of the conversation goes like this:

Him: So are we going to sit here making more small talk or are you going to give me your number?
Me: Uh, I’m going to give you my number. (Like how I stutter? I’m really not slick.)
(we each take out our phones)
Him: Ok, shoot.
(At this point we each exchange numbers and program them in our phones.)
Him: Ok, so call me if you want to do something sometime.
Me: No.
Him: No?
Me: I dont call boys. If you want to see me, you have to call me.
Him: Can I see your phone for a second?
I give him my phone. Is he about to erase his number?
Him: Here, I’m calling myself, its about to beep, say hi. He hands me the phone.
Me: Hi, I’m standing here with you in the parking garage, so, hi.
Him: There we go, now Ill have to call you back and you wont have to be the one who called first.

Is that charming? I think its quirky enough to be classified as charming.

Finally a good looking guy. He wasn’t as tall as I would like my man, but after scraping the bottom of the IJL barrel for so long, I was happy to have lunch with him. He called me once, but really wanted me to call him, using the line, “Well, if you ever want to get together, call me.” I’m used to and frankly prefer men who are more aggressive than that.

Date 7: EmailBuddy; August 2005
This guy was pretty cool. We established early on that we would not date because he is a smoker and despite the fact that he demanded IJL tell his dates that he’s a hardcore smoker, they choose not to, knowing that they wouldn’t be able to match him up with anyone. We stayed in touch via email and exchanged horror stories.

The staff has now changed at IJL and new people are calling me. The people I used to work with are no longer calling me. But they may as well be the same because when they called for my availability, I said, “Any day but Friday” and they set me up for Friday which I then have to change. Another note to self: Never breath the day of the week to these incompetents for which I am unavailable.

Date 8: DateEight; November 2005
I stopped using real names. We went to Panache between Connecticut and 17th on Desales. For anyone who doesnt know where that little street is, its between L and M.

I got there and the bar was packed. I’m hoping Date Eight is not mixed in the mess of Eurotrash at the bar, but then I remember the lunch people told me they made reservations for us under both our names. This waiter asks me if I need help as there really isnt a host. I say, I’m meeting someone here and I believe we have a reservation. He goes to look. I can see that they only have a whopping 3 reservations on the screen. I give him my name. He shakes his head. So I give Date Eights name. Shakes his head no again. Surprise – no reservation. Like I’m shocked at this point that they’ve slaughtered yet another detail.

The waiter says, Well is he here? At this point, ANYONE could have played it cooler than I. On the other occasions I have been asked this question, I always screw it up. Immediately I stick my foot in my mouth up to my knee and start blabbering about how I’m being set up and I don’t know what he looks like. The waiter is laughing and says, Blind date! Fun! I said, For you maybe. Once this line of questioning starts, they inevitably ask about the friend who set us up. Its too complicated to explain that Ive entrusted my dating life to a bunch of sorority girls with double digit IQs. I decided to just take a table, half to get my foot out of my mouth and half to make sure I didn’t push my foot in any further.

He arrived shortly after I did, and the same waiter (who ends up not even being our waiter) brought him to the table. I felt instantly comfortable. I don’t know exactly what it was or how to put my finger on it. Last night with Steve1, when I saw him I wasn’t attracted to him and knew I would never be attracted to him. He put his hand on my knee or touched my elbow and I almost cringed. But tonight with Date Eight, it was more like, Ok, I could see myself maybe dating this guy. I think I’m at the point where I’m now conscious of that first 10 second impression rule. Alas, he didn’t touch my elbow or knee so that I could test my theory.

Again, there aren’t a lot of details. We have a lot of odd similarities. We are both the youngest of three, he grew up two towns away from me, just over the N.Y. border, parents still married. Although, his parents seem relatively sane compared to Jekyl and Hyde over there at the Velvet Family Compound. We drank, ate, had good conversation all the way through and that was that. He was going to meet friends, I was going home so I could go to bed. I’m planning a day of Christmas shopping tomorrow. I must buy all sorts of cute clothes for little baby.

On the way out of the restaurant, the waiter shook both our hands and said, Bye Velvet! I was surprised he remembered my name so I said, Wow, you’re good. And he said, So are you. What? What has he heard?

Date 9: LowTalker; December 2005
On the first attempt at this date, IJL sent me to Georgetown on a damn Friday again, and he didn’t show up. With the new cab surcharge for gas, I spent $25 for the cab ride. So annoying. I called and bitched, and of course, they just say something neutral like, “It was a misunderstanding.” They never admit that they screwed up or that the guy didn’t show up. Finally they reschedule, for a Saturday now, when I have specifically requested they don’t ruin my weekend prime nights with this garbage.

So, either I was getting sick of IJL at this point, or he was especially annoying, but this was one of the worst dates I’ve had. Initially, they started to show us to a table, and the night dates are not supposed to be dinner, only the lunch dates are for food. At night you are supposed to have a drink, and they stress, one drink. I said, Wait, we’re supposed to go to the bar, and besides, I already ate. It was awkward, mostly because he had several chances to stop them from showing us to a table, but didn’t. So I had to do it. I hate that. And then we made our way back to the bar. I just didn’t feel like having a long drawn out dinner with him. That turned out to be the smartest idea Ive had in weeks. Two minutes after meeting this guy I knew I wanted out. He ordered a port wine and the bartender forgot to pour it. (Psychic Message sent to Bartenders: Come on people! Hurry up! I want out of here!) Finally he asked the other bartender and she poured it for him. When he took a sip of it he held it in his mouth with his eyes closed for about 15 uncomfortable seconds.

My first order of business was to ask him what happened last week when he didn’t show. He said they told him 8:00. So he got there and I was gone, by an hour and a half, as they told me 6:00. I hate them. They are the worst excuse for a matchmaking dating service ever.

He is probably no more than 18 inches away from me and everything he said I had to ask, What? He would raise his voice to repeat what he said, then retreat to the low mumbling again. Very frustrating. This is the gem of the night:

Date#9LowTalker: So, how long have you been doing It’s Just Lunch?
Velvet: About 6 months. How long have you been doing it?
Date #9LT: Doing what?

Who has THAT short of a short term memory?

I think that this man had not been briefed that these evening dates were only for a drink. This became very awkward. When I realized that he was just going to continue mumbling story after story that I got sick of straining to hear, I had to break the tension. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and the weirdest thing happened. I thought the heel of my boot broke when I was walking to the bathroom because something felt weird with my left leg and it felt like my knee was hyperextending. I made it to the bathroom thinking that I was so fucking bored with this man that half my body was in a coma. I tried to walk it off in the bathroom – it wasn’t like the pins and needles of a sleeping foot or leg – this was totally like nothing I have ever felt before.

When a stall became available, I went in to pee. Somehow, as I was crouching to sit, the bum leg gave out and I fell onto the toilet. Only me. I swear. I started to become worried at this point that I had Bells Palsy of the leg or something. I stood up and I felt very weird. I paced inside the bathroom for a couple minutes, checked the heel on my boot, poked my leg in various places, and started to recover a little. When I got back to the bar, Date#9LowTalker seemed to make a statement about me taking a while or something so I said there was a line. (Yeah, behind my peg leg.) And he said, But the place is empty. Whatever. I can’t elaborate with him anymore.

As I sat back down, I said, Well, I need to get going. I’m supposed to meet some friends in a bit. He said, What time? I said, Oh, they are gathering soon I would imagine. Then as I made a move to reach for the check, he launched into a new topic of conversation.

Me (as I’m reaching for check:) So, I need to meet some friends in a bit.
Him: Do you like movies or tv?

Ugh! I make it through this little attempt to keep me there longer and think I’m in the clear. Then, this:

Date#9LT: Have you ever done online dating?
Velvet: Uh, once.
(Yeah, once this week maybe.)
Date#9LT: Did you know a lot of the profiles are fake?
Velvet: No, really?

Then he launches into a whole story about how he caught someone lying about being a computer programmer. All I’m doing is trying to expedite the bill paying process. I finally throw some money down and as his story brings tears of boredom to my eyes, I hail the bartender to get our change. Then he starts a whole new story about politics of all things and I’m thinking, What is wrong with him? I am trying to LEAVE. He says that he thinks Libertarians are the weirdest people. Thats funny because I consider myself a Libertarian, but I dont consider myself to be among the crazy Libertarians on the ballot every 4 years. Why he is launching into a topic as complicated as politics is beyond me when he sees that I’m zipping up my purse? Get a clue buddy. Finally he poses some deep question to me and I’m seething because I just want to get out of there and I said, Theres no sense in discussing politics because there;s nothing we can do to change any of this and anyone who believes otherwise is living in a bubble. You would think he would get the hint that I don’t want to discuss that or anything else, but nope.

I guess he is really lonely. He was nice, but that low mumbling and the conversation hijacking was out of control. When we finally have our change and leave the tip, I stand up. Then, he asks, So, do you prefer movies or t.v.? This guy is FUCKING KILLING ME. It was like I was on Candid Camera. I tell him t.v. and I start to make my way to the door.

We get out in the street and I’m like, It was nice meeting you. And he says, Have you seen any good movies lately? I cannot believe this is happening. I am, at this point, being so far beyond rude because I just cannot take anymore. He wasn’t catching subtle hints like me jingling my keys, he wasnt catching giant hints like me walking out the door. Finally, a happy little blogger I know pulled up in a cab (yes, all planned out) and as she waved at me he said, Oh, there are your friends.

Yes. There they are. Thank you.

I couldn’t escape fast enough from this date. I realize now that IJL has no limits to who they will set me up with. “Hello? Velvet? We have a fabulous new match for you. He’s tall dark and handsome. You’ll be meeting him at Arlington Cemetery, walk in and he’s about 7 rows of tombstones back. Yes, he is dead. Oh? That’s not what you are looking for? I’ll be sure to tell our matchmakers.”

At some point after this date, IJL called with a new match. I believe this call came in on a Friday around 3 p.m. I didn’t call them back until Monday and the girl who called me also answered the phone. She got very flustered and said she was on another call and could she call me back. I told her I was stepping into a meeting and if she got my voicemail to just leave me a message. Then she said, “Well, you call me back.” Whatever lady. Tuesday morning I got a message from her saying that since I had not responded to them they would be putting me on hold. I have reached the boiling point my friends.

I called her back and said that I just want to be done with this, and she is not to put me on hold. So she says some bullshit like they all do, then tells me she has a match for me, and his name is Jose. Look. I’m perfectly happy to go out with Jose. I’d probably go out with Bin Ladin just to get through this contract. But, I specifically said in my interview that I was Caucasian and only seeking other Caucasians as my end goal is to get married. (Uh, whatever on that part. I really just want to give them a hard time.) She says to me, “Well, his parents could have just named him Jose.” Really? Really! And my parents could have named me Velveteen, but they named me Velvet. What the hell does that mean? So I said, “No. I don’t think so.” And she practically hung up on me.

Date 10: Ray Romano; February 2006
“DC101 Can you make it stop?” “Yes I can! It’s the sound of Velvet, screeching through another bad date.”
IJL calls with my “new match.” I delete their bullshit message and call them back. It’s essentially the same guy they describe when they call. He loves to travel and loves to hike, bike, camp, etc. Why bother listening to the description? Liars.

They set me up with Ray Romano. Date night arrives and he is really a nice guy. I have no complaints other than that he’s not my type. BUT, he did ask me how my Volleyball league was going. Um. What? I started laughing. He said he wrote down the entire description they gave him so he could ask questions about it. Now that’s pretty admirable, but it would help if everything they said was true. About 70% was truth; 30% a giant fabrication. Apparently I’m in a volleyball league and I play tennis. There were a few other things, but I snorted out my diet coke when he was telling me and sucked it back through my ears, so I couldn’t hear anymore.

~~~

It is now July. My friends at Its 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 Its Just Lunch, this is Cathy.
Velvet: Hi. I am a member and I havent heard from you guys in a long time.
NewGirl: Whats your name?
Velvet: Velvet the Sucker.
NewGirl: Hmm. That doesnt sound familiar.
Velvet: Well, seems you are new there.
NewGirl: Oh yes, were 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 thats 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 cant seem to locate your file and I dont want to keep you on hold.
Velvet: Sure, my phone number is 202-887-5966.
NewGirl: Great. Ill call you back as soon as I figure out whats going on.

Its 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 Coordinators job is to ruin your life with dates scheduled for the days you say you have open heart surgery, send you to restaurants that dont 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 lets face it, according to them, I’m a in a volleyball league, so I would say the intergrity of their information is worthless. Blech. Well, its almost over. And its practice so I don’t screw up with someone real.

Date 11: The Boroughs Baby; July 2006
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 its 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 Sir Talks A Lot; July 2006
Date 12 was Tuesday evening in Bethesda. I get to the restaurant and I’m late because I stopped at Loehmanns. 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. Lets 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 and dad lived, I get that face. Apparently, its 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 grandparents 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. Youre 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 cant imagine you with nothing on.

The Sad End:
Somehow, despite the fact that they owe me two more dates, they have kicked me out with a notice that simply says: “Your membership has expired.” Would I do it again? That answer is a resounding FUCK NO.

I got an email from NJ on Monday afternoon. He said he didn’t mean to hang up on me but he was at the movies and that he’d call me. When said call didn’t arrive, I enlisted help from the girls, and this came back as a potential response that I ended up sending. My hands shook, my whole body got cold and I couldn’t even fathom sending this. But I did.

• You’ve been incommunicado for a week now. Clearly we’re not on the same page here, and while I have strong feelings for you I have to look out for myself. I think it’s best if we don’t see each other anymore.

Then I got this:

• I didn’t know if I should send the long response or the short one. Neither one of us has ever said anything about the relationship. But your email makes it clear how you feel. I’m not going to try to change your mind. I truly wish you all the happiness in the world.

The finality of all this hit me like a ton of bricks. My mind was racing with what I’ve done. So what do I do then? I fucking called him and left a voicemail (of course) saying that I don’t want to do this on email and can he call me. I must be losing my mind. I’ve become one of the crazy people I’m used to dating. I’m sure I won’t be hearing back from him.

I’m an idiot. I have no idea how to operate when I really like someone. Anyway, this time I really have to step aside and sort it out. I didn’t expect to be this devastated. I didn’t realize how strong I felt for him. How did this happen in just barely 2 months? Forgive me if I don’t post for a bit. It’s hard to see through the tears.

Dear NewJersey,

When I shake the proverbial Magic 8 Ball, it says “Outlook not so good.”

Thursday evening I sent you a simple text message saying “I was thinking about you today.” Here we are at Sunday and guess what? Nothing. No response. It’s as annoying as stepping in my own dog’s shit as I’m trying to pick it up, that’s for sure.

So tonight, Sunday, I called you. Your phone rang five times, then you picked up, I heard you rustling for a bit, and say to someone else, “Let me turn the ringer down on this” and then you hung up. I called you back, because you didn’t realize that you stupidly picked up the phone BEFORE I was sent to voicemail. The second time you picked up and hung up. Nice. I called again because what the fuck, why can’t you just send me to god damned voicemail so I can leave a message? This time, finally, voicemail picked up after three rings. Did you get my message? Oh, well, let me reiterate it for you.

“Hi, it’s Velvet. Ok, you’re not returning text messages, now I get hung up on. Can you call me and tell me what’s going on? I’d appreciate it. Talk to you soon.”

I thought we were way beyond this. You seemed to be stepping up the pace to the next level. I guess I was wrong. You are 35 years old. Have the fucking balls to get on the phone and tell me what’s up. Tell me if you don’t want to see me again. Tell me if you have a girlfriend, or good lord, a wife. Just say it. Have the fucking balls and say it.

I thought you were different. I thought you were one of the ones who could blow me away. But I was dead wrong. You have proven yourself to become just like every other guy. And psst…I threw those fucking roses in the trash even though they were alive and thriving.

Pissed off,
Velvet

P.S. No “I told you so” necessary.

Well, so much for calling time of death on CL#2BlueEyes. He picked his head up off the gurney to spit out one last email. It was six paragraphs. Here are the highlights.

• Dear Velvet: I know I said I wouldn’t lobby you, and I’m not trying to, honestly. I did want to clear the air just a bit more and let you know fully what I was thinking in the recent past.
  I went back and reread all the emails and IM messages we had exchanged just to be sure I am not becoming a psycho-dater after almost a decade of being out of the game while married. I also checked the text messages we had sent each other. After doing these things I really can’t help but feel misunderstood by you, and a little bit frustrated that you felt I was ‘obviously too intense a personality’.
  I realize we had a very unconventional “start”, with missed phone calls, email tag, and months between reestablishing contact. I was genuinely pleased to meet you in person finally at lunch. And that is what sort of tipped the balance the day we couldn’t get together (again). I was having an awful day at work, and there was one giant unusual thing that happened, but it was still wrong of me to write you that wacky email venting everything all at once.
  And that’s what I wanted to let you know. Sorry to go on so damn long, but it is what it is. Really do appreciate the courtesy of you replying to me with your final message instead of just going silent as some others have done–that always sucks when you don’t know what it is you’ve done.

I would like to say that I wrote back. But I didn’t. I enlisted help because I didn’t know what to do. Someone else gave me this in response BlueEyes. I know. Bad Velvet. But it’s what I wanted to say anyway but was too flustered to come up with on my own.

• I feel flattered that you are still thinking about me, that you want to make things right, and I agree with some of what you say. We had a rocky start with missed calls, email tag and disconnections, but the email and instant messages were great. I enjoyed meeting you, enjoyed our lunch date, which was a huge step after all the disconnections, but not great enough to make up for what I perceived as an attack on me. I know you were venting and you have apologized, but I just don’t feel the connection. Thanks for such a great online relationship.

He wrote back and thanked me for letting him get it off his chest. If actually penned the response, it would have included something like “off the dating scene for 10 years? You only said you were married for 3 years. What the fuck?” But I didn’t. Jamy told me that engaging him in any way is wrong because it invites more conversation.

Official time of death on BlueEyes: Feb 16, 2006; 3:06 p.m.

Other news.

Wednesday night after I left work, I had my 10th It’s Just Lunch date in Rockville. I’ve lost my spirit with those buffoons, but, I’m almost done. It’s like a race to me. Even though I am going to lose, I still want to run to the finish line. (I stole that analogy from Always Write who says that watching my blog is like a day at the races. Loves it!) So I have now 4 dates to go and my membership expires in May. Four more dates. It can’t be that hard.

Date #10 looks like Ray Romano. He is a really really nice. He was 42, and he said some funny stuff. When they called him to tell him about me, he said, “Are you SURE she knows how old I am?” He thought he was too old for me. HA! Since I’m superdater, I’ve depleted the available inventory. I have to be flexible about things like age, weight and STD status. Ok, kidding. But still, 42 isn’t bad. I’m 32 after all. Ten years. No biggie.

During our “drink” date, he busts out with the following

Ray Romano: So, how’s your volleyball league?
Velvet: Um. What?
Ray Romano: They told me you are in a volleyball league.
Velvet: Excuse the drink that just came out of my nostrils please. Where the hell did they get that?
Ray Romano: That’s what they told me. They also said you play tennis.
Velvet: Hilarious. I often wondered how they describe me to the matches they set me up with.
Ray Romano: Well, I wrote it all down. I can refer to my notes when I go home, but I swear that’s what they said.
Velvet: Notes? I guess they had to make some stuff up, because they gave me a three page list of hobbies and none really applied to me.

Then I’m thinking, if that stupid list they provide had things like, go to the gym, glue myself to the Food Network, read blogs, write a blog, watch porn, well then, perhaps I could have just checked something off. But noooooo they had to come up with all sorts of fancy hobbies that I know nothing about. I hate them more and more. Anyone who walks by their office at 17th & K, please poke your head in and say “Thanks for wasting Velvet’s money.”

But I liked the guy – not for me obviously because I’m very busy with NJ, but, I should set someone up with him. He’s Jewish. Come on! He’ll make someone’s mother very proud.

I was driving home last night after a day at work where I desperately tried to keep my eyes open. I was thinking about how much I wanted to crawl into bed in my sweats, tell the South Beach diet to fuck off since I complied perfectly and didn’t lose any weight the 2nd week, and shovel some non-South Beach food in my mouth while watching trash t.v. Then I saw my little computer, nestled in its place on my desk. I had been in a hilarious email convo with some cool chicks, and I was wondering if there were more exchanges while I was driving from work back to civilization from the hinterlands. So I sat down at the ‘puter.

The first and only thing I can focus on is an email in my inbox from NewJersey. There was more to it than this, but you know I can’t copy and paste the emails anymore. The gist of it was, “It’s Valentine’s Day Velvet and we should be doing something.” Emails went back and forth. A phone call came. Plans were made. I would pick up dinner and he would come from work to my house. And that my friends was our plan. I would like to tell you that he followed through and that was that and sign off, happy that my details remained private for another post.

BUT I CAN’T! Because there’s more that’s worth discussing!!!

When he got to my place, I opened the door and found him with a bottle of wine and flowers that he jokingly called Pansies, but they were yellow roses. I adore this man! We ate. We watched t.v. We slept. We fulfilled the (bleeped out) promises of aforementioned IM conversations. We woke up. We went our separate ways to work.

I stopped at the grocery store to stock up on beverages for the office. I called my boss to see if there were any special requests. When I arrived at the office, he helped me unload. Then, all I did, and I swear, is grab something off the printer for myself and saw he printed something so I brought that to him as well. And he said, “You’re being especially nice today, someone must have had a good Valentine’s Day.”

Someone did. At least two someone’s that I know of.

First, a PSA. A blog friend needs a roommate. Details here.

Now, loose ends.

CL#3TextTormenter won’t stop. In the score of Velvet vs. TextTormenter, it’s Zero to Five. He’s made 2 unreturned phone calls to me and sent 3 texts, also unreturned by moi. Saturday night I decided to put this poor bastard out of his misery. He texted: “What are you up to tonight?” Before I knew of NewJersey’s delayed plane I said, “Waiting on a friend.” (It’s my favorite Stones song.) He said, “Cool.” I didn’t write back. I know, I messed up. He’s not gone. But he’s definitely doing some circular floating near the bottom of the drain.
______________________________________________
CL#2BlueEyes and I had a date scheduled for Friday. I canceled it because I was seriously tired from Dallas. And on Friday I was busy emailing NewJersey anyway so my dirty little mind was elsewhere. CL#2BlueEyes sends back a RANT about, well, let me just post it. The disclaimer on this is that he’s canceled dates as well. We’re like, 2 for 2 on date canceling with each other. Ok, the email:

• No problem. I mean, what’s it been, only like a few months of flirtation? And besides, maybe you weren’t that impressed at lunch. And tomorrow it is supposed to snow so we can count out the weekend, which will put us into next week when I have work and plans and you have plans and work and Valentine’s Day hits and then maybe we can talk some more on the phone and on email and don’t forget IM and discuss our dating lives and porn and get hot and bothered and not actually ever do anything about it. But don’t worry ’cause I can be free again in March or April or even May if that’s cool with you.

Uh….huh. So I hopped on IM and said, “WTF?” and he said he was just having a bad day. He said he needed to check out of town for a while or something similarly off the wall. We left it at that.

Sunday night he sent me this email:

• Hey just a line to apologize for my truly unusual (and I know you really have no frame of reference for this with me yet, so I’m doubly sorry) behavior on Friday. I was honestly partially disappointed at not getting to see you because I have enjoyed it so far but there was some other major shit going down that I just don’t want to get into. Nothing mysterious but it was really frustrating. Here’s hoping I haven’t become one of your great bad date stories already…

I know I know. If he only knew….So, I wrote back the following on Monday afternoon:

• Hi BlueEyes, I saw this email last night and I thought about responding, but I wasn’t sure what to say. So I decided to sleep on it.Unfortunately, I woke up this morning really no better off. I have no answer, no reasoning, no excuses other than to say that I’m not feeling this. It’s probably a combination of a few things, but the biggest being the email you sent. I understand you meant no harm by it, but it just shows me that you are more intense a personality than I can handle. Sorry. Velvet.

And I got this back.

• Thanks for writing me back to explain where you are. I’m just not the kind of guy who is going to lobby you or anything but at the same time I know you’re simply not reading the situation correctly to judge me by one email, even a fairly nutty one sent right after we just met in person. Still, that of course is your prerogative.

Velvet’s calling it: Time of Death: 1:56 p.m. on 2/13/06. _____________________________________________
NewJersey is BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! (I feel like I’m standing at the window jumping up and down when I say that.) He called Sunday evening to announce his arrival, and said he could be convinced, tired as he was, to come over. But, then he asked me to do something this week and I said yes and there you go. When the idea came back up a second time of seeing each other tonight, I said “I really could have convinced you to come over here?” He said yes I could. I left it that it was his choice. He was silent on his end of the phone, then he started laughing under his breath. I said, “What are you thinking?” He said, “Bad things. We’re better off doing something this week.” We wrapped it up and he said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I feel like we’re moving along. Finally. It…was…so…slow…and…painful…to…get…here. But the train is pulling off from the station and I’m on it. I hope NewJersey is as well.

I’ve got a little problem too. Eventually the blog world and the NewJersey world are going to collide. I don’t know what to do about it. It’s time to start getting my ducks in a row though, and that may mean sparing some details here, in the name of privacy. I’m not foolish enough to forsake a good relationship for a blog, but I’m not sure where the happy medium is. I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.

The aforementioned email volley with New Jersey has been ON since Thursday. I’m going to paraphrase it all because, well, I really like this one and details aren’t fucking funny when you like someone. I have to operate from the standpoint of: “What if one day this guy becomes important enough that I have to reveal the existence of this blog…and he reads it.” With the other schmucks, I couldn’t give a shit. But, with CL#4NewJersey…sigh. And while we’re on this topic, can we shorten his name? Can I just call him NewJersey or NJ when abbreviations are in order? Ok. Thanks. Kisses to all!

Ok. Edit mode. Significantly shortened. Don’t try to read any emotion into any of this.

NJ’s first email: Having fun skiing. Ready to get back. Very tired. Can’t believe I left a CD at your house. Ok, you got me, it was my trick to see you again. Subtle, huh?
Velvet: Glad to hear you’re having fun. It’s cold here. Weather talk is boring when I really just want to hear how your ass is doing. More than happy to return said CD, but you’ll have to work for it.
NJ: Back late Saturday. What do you want with my ass? Oral sex for CD trade?
Velvet: An early a.m. dirty email. Love it. Sounds like a fair trade. Come to my house directly from airport please. I’ll be sans undies.
NJ: I’ll be there.
Velvet: Forgot to mention a recent trip to the waxer…
NJ: Well, of course the only way for me to know if the waxer did a good job is to (bleeeeeep.) {Sorry. This had to be edited out.}
Velvet: You’re killing me. Don’t even go to bag claim. Come directly here.
NJ: Brazilian?
Velvet: Yes
NJ: Hmm. I might have to lick you all over.
Velvet: It’s very difficult to work under these conditions, panties in a twist and all. Snow on it’s way, hope you make it home. Suspecting all this x-rated talk is one of your friends now, because it’s so out of character for you.
NJ: Don’t be too sure about that.
Velvet: Why are you emailing me all day when it’s your last day of vacation?
NJ: Sick of it. Smashed my head yesterday.
Velvet: Hmm. Head injury..dirty talk. Is this related?
NJ: I’ll be ok with a strict regimen of kissing, cuddling and other stuff…
Velvet: More than happy to rehab you. Come see me immediately. I’ll prolong treatment as long as necessary.

A day passes.

NJ: Snowed in. Made it as far as Houston. I’ll call you when I’m home tomorrow.

I’m bubbling over with excitement. I went to the gym to get my mind out of the gutter, and I saw the dude I used to date. He didn’t see me. And, no butterflies. No nervous energy. I walked right by him and proceeded to begin my workout.

It took a year. It took another man. It was brutal, and the longest recovery of any relationship I’ve ever had. But, I wouldn’t trade the still unknown of what I have going on with NewJersey for another chance with someone wishy washy.
Fucking finally.

Can’t. Stop. Laughing.

All right everyone, please add it to your list of reads: www.namethestain.blogspot.com

Posting has begun.

Velvet has given birth to a monster.

I’m back from Dallas. It was a quick trip. I was really only in the city of Dallas for exactly 24 hours. I left Wednesday at the crack of dawn, sans crack which would have been helpful in keeping me awake. I returned this evening. I actually sat next to a good looking guy on the plane, but I was too tired to have my game.

The meeting was a success, not because of anything that occured in the actual meeting, but because I drunkenly convinced my potentially drunk boss to create a blog. Not only did he take ownership of the http://www.namethestain.blogspot.com/, (where you can see evidence of our foolish drunkenness) but he also bought the domain name. I’m sure that will be one of those “I’ll regret it in the morning” decisions, but I hope he posts. The stories he tells are freaking hilarious. Imagine my snotty sarcastic sense of humor on red bull, crack with an extra dose of witty and that would be him.

So here we are. My parents called to ensure I was alive and didn’t murder anyone on my trip. CL#2BlueEyes must have been dialing at the same time and the crazy Greeks got through first so CL#2 went STRAIGHT TO VOICEMAIL. And his message was like, “Well, this is a good sign.” I’m not sure what that means – I guess he was either kidding or he was speculating that I was on the plane. I’m beat. I’ll deal with that tomorrow. The way I feel now (physically and emotionally) I don’t want to do anything tomorrow night. Date effectively canceled.

CL#3TextTormenter ain’t going away folks. There was another voicemail from him last night. Whatevs. At this point I could probably just call him and we could morph into friends. It’s obvious we’re not a match. Shit. I have something more important to say.

The piece de la resistance of this quickie post is that I got an email from CL#4NewJersey from his skiing vacation. So exciting. I’m all giddy and shit. Who am I? I don’t get giddy.

Well, there you have it. There should never be speculation on how you feel about someone. When it comes to matters of chemistry, you don’t even have to think about it. It’s strong enough to tell you directly.

Leave it to me to be dateless on a Friday, but busy with men on a Tuesday.

After a couple more misses with CL#2BlueEyes, we finally met today for lunch. The misses were that he was supposed to call me on Sunday after he got back from his weekend trip. And he didn’t. He emailed Monday morning and said something like “Sorry about last night, I was beat and….” whatever. Does it matter? I wrote back and said simply:

Strike One.

He thought it was funny. We engaged in some banter and he promised to call me Monday night. But the phone didn’t ring until 11:09 people. This is not the Velvet of 5 months ago where working from home and sleeping until 9:00, okay, 10:00 a.m. is the norm. Six a.m. workouts dude. I’m sleeping at 11 p.m. Well, I wasn’t sleeping per se, but I was too tired and irritated to answer the phone.

I sent an IM Tuesday morning that said I was asleep etc. He made fun of me for a minute, then we made lunch plans since I was in D.C. for a bunch of meetings that got shuffled around. Well, at least I didn’t have to commute to the hinterlands of Gaithersburg.

So we met at 12:15 in Dupont. It was a good lunch. He’s a good guy. (He paid.) But. Damn it. My head is elsewhere. Fucking New Jersey. I’m sitting there thinking, “How dare NJ be skiing and take away my ability to concentrate and / or like BlueEyes.” Anyway, the important piece of lunch conversation.

Him: Ok, so you’re in Dallas tomorrow and Thursday, back on Friday, what are we doing this weekend?
Velvet: I’m back Friday. Not sure how I’ll feel. You’re not even waiting to get back to your email to write to me and ask me out? Well, this certainly eliminates the ‘Will he call’ conundrum.
Him: Well, we may as well set it up right now, right?

So we agreed on Friday. My final answer Regis, is that I’m on the fence. I don’t have a feeling like I did with CL#4NewJersey. But, I don’t have that “Get this psycho off my ass” feeling that I have had with countless other men.

We said goodbye, and I got in my speedracer and headed downtown to my meeting. And this, ladies and gents, should be the end of this post.

Did you catch the words “should be?”

I met with a business contact I have known since the summer. Shortly after we plopped down into a conference room, he said another contact of his was going to join us. In walks the “other contact.”

Why Hello Other Contact. What’s that I hear? DING DING DING DING DING.

The guy was older than me by say, 10-15 years. He looks mid to late 40’s. And he shakes my hand and both of us have stupid grin on our face. He is fidgeting around as he’s taking his seat, and he has his head down, and he’s still smiling. It’s like, someone told him the dirtiest joke before he walked in the room.

So the meeting proceeds for about an hour. And there is unrelenting, incessant, extreme and reckless flirting going on in both directions. Usually I don’t see good flirting as it’s occuring. But, I actually thought during the meeting: Jamy would be laughing her ass off, saying this is so way beyond flirting.

We’re tossing ideas around and Velvet is ON. I mean, ON. The charm was there, my negotiator skills were better than they’ve ever been. They expressed one concern about one of our processes and I said, “Well, I report directly to a Vice President of an entire region, I’m confident I can bypass some of the red tape for you. Our affirmation of a project’s value can be enough for corporate approval. Other backup material can take a backseat if our office puts their word on it.” Who the hell am I? I should just become a guy, because with as smooth as I was today, I could get in any woman’s pants. My boss would have been proud. He’s taught me well that everything in life is negotiation.

So the other guy who I’ve met before is making small talk between some of the deals we are reviewing. He says “Hey, you both live in Dupont Circle, and you’re right near each other.” I continue with the conversation, but then it goes awry because the little squirrel in my head says, “Gay gay gay gay gay.” So, now, I need a third party confirmation on that.

As we said goodbye, hot guy who needs a nickname said, “Should I fed ex any of this stuff to you?” Velvet thinks, “Hmm…how about just yourself.”

Damn. This shit never happens to me. I meet the ugliest people in my line of work. I might have to start walking my dogs by his house.

I want to do very very very bad things to this man.