Category: Velvet in Dupont (Page 6 of 11)

I really thought I was going to go back to non-passworded posts this week. But, the Velvet Business Plan on ditching the password includes NO POSTING about Sherlock or my personal life. And clearly, I’m not ready to do that because I’m currently chewing my lip on something new now. A real problem as opposed to the usual variety: an ugly, slutty, superficial ex who was at the Ritz Carlton in NYC while her “upper middle class” family dried out their Coach purses alongside countless others searching for loved ones suffering through Hurricane Katrina, who keeps making her way back into our lives. But I digressed with that run on sentence.

I consider myself a pretty good communicator. Sometimes the mouth speaks before the brain approves, but I have rarely, if ever, come across a person who doesn’t get my sarcasm and wit. At workplaces across the country, I’ve kept people entertained with my antics. My brother and I are always “on” during family gatherings. He and I were recently talking about our shared sense of humor and wit, and wondering where we got it. Our parents are snarky, but not in the quick, sharp, sarcastic manner of my brother and I, that’s for sure. We are unmatched in our sass. Get us together and the entire family is rolling on the floor, forgetting the prior argument that was probably over Lamb Chops and Spanakopita.

Normally I work my problems out in the car, but tonight when I got to the gym, my Best Gay Friend was on the elliptical. So, he asked me what was new, and well, he heard an earful and I came home buzzing with a blog post. He understood instantly what my issue is. Best Gay Friend and I have a “schtick.” I also have that with my brother, and with co-workers past and present. My boss and I have the “schtick.” A lot of my gay friends and I have it. We have it in a group with each other as well. I can’t describe it, but it’s that snarky, sarcastic, biting repertoire that just…flows. Shit, you guys even have it in the comments with each other. Look at what La Whisky and Aussie Em did back and forth in the last post!

The problem. I can’t seem to get this “schtick” with Sherlock. When I toss something out off the cuff, he will often ask me to explain it. If you have to explain it then the whole thing is ruined and it’s just a waste. Let me do a few examples.

1) A conversation about a woman Sherlock “used to date.”
Sherlock: So do you think she’s nice?
Me: Yeah, but I would say she’s very simple.
Sherlock: Yeah, I can see that.
Me: I don’t think that she’s the kind of girl you stay up with until 5 a.m. having this incredibly deep conversation with.
Sherlock: No, definitely not.
Me: Well, it makes sense why you came looking for me.
Sherlock: What do you mean?
Me: Just what I said. I get it. Why you came looking for me.
Sherlock: I don’t get it. I was looking for you?
At this point, I had to refrain from slapping him. It’s figurative, not literal. Well, it’s a bit literal, but still. I dumbed it down, but I was pissed off that I had to do so. I said, “She’s simple. You dated simple women. You came looking for someone who wasn’t so simple. I didn’t mean me per se, just that you kept looking.” (Don’t think that irony is lost on me either of having to explain the idea of being simple.) He acted like he got it, but you know when you see that faraway look in someone’s eyes like they just have no clue what you are saying and are pretending that they do because they sense you are getting irritated and want to put their balls in a vice grip out of sheer frustration and mental exhaustion? Yeah. That.

2) At dinner the other night, Sherlock wasn’t feeling well. After a while of us not talking, he said, “I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling all that well and I really don’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now than here with you.” I said, “Well, that’s not true. If you had the chance to be at the track with your life savings bet on the winning horse, I think you may choose that over this dinner.” He was like, “The track?” Since I realized the path on which we were about to descend, I just cut it off at the pass by saying, “Do you not get sarcasm? Wit? Offhanded remarks?” Otherwise we would have been stuck on the “track” for 20 minutes. He blamed it on being tired, but of course this is not the first time we’ve been through this.

3) Watching a Woody Allen movie, laughing my ass off and having to explain why I’m laughing my ass off. That one, I just can’t even wrap my brain around. Woody Allen is SOOOO neurotic, and it comes across so well in everything he does, that to me it’s like watching my brother and I in a movie or something. Every 10 minutes, “What? Why are you laughing?” Oh boy.

I HATE to compare. HATE HATE HATE. But since we just covered him yesterday…once I was out with the this guy and he had a headache. He walked into a Rite Aid (Em, that’s a Pharmacy like CVS!) to get a bottle of aspirin. He was trying to take the cotton out from the bottle, and it just kept coming and coming and wouldn’t stop. I said, “Wow, this is like a Gallagher trick.” And he just bust out laughing. Nice…nothing that needs explaining, right? He didn’t ask who Gallagher was, he didn’t need to know what “tricks” Gallagher did that would remind him of the non-stop cotton coming out of the tiny bottle. Easy, right?

When I lived with AtlantaBoy, and we were driving across the country, our car broke down somewhere in Colorado. I ran into Wal-Mart to pick something up while AtlantaBoy waited in the car. He was accosted by a police officer who didn’t believe him that the car was a loaner from the dealer who was fixing our car. (I believe the cop said, “I know Milton and if you are lyin’ I’ll find out. I’m gonna call him right now!”) After the cop stopped harassing us, we drove over to the dealer to return said loaner and while we were standing in the lobby, the cop called there, asking for Milton, as it was expertly announced over the loud speaker. I was standing right next to a phone when the call blinked on hold right in my face. I looked at AtlantaBoy, and he said, “Don’t you dare.” Just then, Milton walks in, trades keys with us, thanks us for giving him $3000, and AtlantaBoy and I bust out of there laughing our asses off. He didn’t look at me when that call went on hold and say, “What? What’s that look for? What’s the matter?” Oy.

I miss those exchanges. I miss that secret language with the significant other. I’m afraid this is a very major piece of something I NEED that might be missing. Best Gay friend said, “We definitely have this schtick, but that is of course because we are secretly married.” Without the sex, of course.

Well? Am I just not going to find the “whole package” and I should stop bitching? It’s okay. You can tell me I’m a bitch. I actually already know that…

I was just minding my business in line at CVS, picking up an Rx. As usual, they were taking way too long. I reached over to the magazine rack and grabbed “Washingtonian.” I was flipping through and caught an article profiling some women in D.C. Something caught my eye as soon as I opened the magazine.

A woman, with a somewhat foolish version of my first name, sitting on a couch, next to a dog.

First thought: Why it is that a grown adult woman will take my name and dumb it down to something sounding like it belongs on a grade schooler?

Second thought: Hey. C moved in with a girl who allegedly shares my first name, and uses this childish version as her name. Funny that there are two of them running around.

Third thought: Someone told me this woman has a dog of the same breed sitting here in this very picture.

Final thought: She’s sitting on a couch. I know that couch. It’s the couch he and I had sex on, many many times. And here it is. In Washingtonian Magazine. I looked at that picture for a very long time. Why her? Why her and not me?

Too bad I was very much in love with him, otherwise this may bother me much less than it does right now.

All right. I’m getting emails from you guys asking if I’m okay. Thanks. Yep, I’m okay. A month ago I had posted that life was knocking me around in many areas and I needed to take a blogging break. I guess that more of the same is happening right now. Though, a month ago, they were going to possibly shut my division down and I was to be out of a job. I don’t know how, but we all held on by a thread, and they have realigned some responsibilities. Now I have the equivalent of three jobs. I know I shouldn’t complain, but god damn am I busy. And keep in mind, being “busy” in my industry is compounded by the fact that I’m driving from subdivision to subdivision to get some of this work done. All that travel time in the car is basically useless. Once I get this to a more manageable workload, I should be able to breathe again. Until then, please forgive me if I’m quiet.

So, after the last post, I think that some of you seemed to be, um, how shall I say? Extra judgmental? I know that this situation isn’t exactly ideal in your eyes, but it is in mine. I know that what has been going on has been high on the drama richter scale, but there is something between Sherlock and I that just keeps bringing us back together. And this arrangement we’ve (I’ve) created works for us. At least right now.

Sunday night, I was helping a friend with her own man-drama issues that truly trump my stupid problems by at least 10 times. She said that my visit to her house, and bit of assistance in sorting some things out was very helpful to her. But, it was helpful to me too. I realized that, truly, my issues are minor compared to what they could be. I love a man. And he loves me. Why is this so hard? Anyway, Sherlock texted while I was there and said that he was in New York City for work and that he really just wanted to say hi since we hadn’t spoken a word since I left his house on Saturday.

I texted him back, and said I was at a friend’s house, but asked if we could talk in about an hour. He said okay, that he wasn’t expecting to talk, he just felt like he should tell me where he was and why he hadn’t tried to call. When I left my friend’s house, I called him. What I really wanted to talk to him about was twofold – first, the negativity of the comments with respect to my last post really bummed me out and second, the perennial “are we doing the right thing” question.

I’m not sure if we answered the above questions, but we were on the phone for 4 hours. There were a couple major points of things covered, and here is where I bust into territory that will probably get me ripped apart. Sherlock asked me point blank if I was “on something” when I went to his house on Friday and we had the big talk. I asked him why he asked that and he said, “You just seemed different. Meaner. Much darker than I’ve ever seen you.” I admitted that yes, earlier in the evening, a friend had put an old vice of mine in front of me and I dove in. He asked if I’d been doing this all along. I told him it had been at least a year, and that is the truth.

After a long silence and a deep breath, he said he couldn’t possibly have “an arrangement” with me if there was a chance that I would be partaking in extracurriculars. I started to say that this was a one time thing, but then I stopped myself because really, I don’t have to defend myself to him. I can do what I want. After several exchanges where he placed that as his “deal breaker” on the “arrangement,” I told him I fucking hated him and that he couldn’t tell me what to do. (I know, I’m childish.) His logic was that he still sees me as the woman he is going to marry and have kids with, and he doesn’t want me doing this to my body. We agreed to disagree on this one, with the idea that if we do formally get “back together,” that at that point, I will honor his request to stay away from all narcotics.

Monday. Sherlock came back to town and called me from the airport. He said he wanted to see me, and he took a cab to my house. He came in, we literally had sex for 20 minutes, then he got up to leave. Perfect. I do so love this arrangement. But we were at the door saying bye and he said, “Have you been taking your pill?” I’ve been known to forget. I said, “Yup.” Then he said, “Yeah. Like I even care. Play all the mind games you want to make yourself feel better, we both know what is going on here.” And on that, he went home.

Wednesday I had Jury Duty. I didn’t get picked and they let me go home. I hit the gym and Sherlock and I decided to have dinner and watch a movie. He picked me and the doggies up and we went to his place. He picked up dinner, then we carved a pumpkin. When I say “we,” I mean, he carved while I bossed him around and ate pumpkin seeds that I doused with salt. While he carved, we sat on the kitchen floor with the dogs between us just talking. He was talking about when he was little how they would carve pumpkins, and that Halloween is his favorite holiday. (Me too! The Velvet Family has ruined the rest of the holidays!) He asked me where I’ve traveled. And somewhere in the mundane conversation, I just got totally overwhelmed and said, “You know what?” He said “What?” I said, “I am so in love with you.” I haven’t said it since before this latest debaucle. He stopped, and looked up and said, “I am so in love with you too. You make me want to be better at everything I do.”

While I was at Jury Duty, I read about 100 pages in this book Red recommended a few months ago – Around the World in 80 Dates. I’ve been slowly reading, but yesterday was my chance to plow through. In a nutshell, this British lady ends a 5 year relationship. Feeling that her soulmate doesn’t exist in London, she decides that travel will heal her wounds. She embarks on a journey to find a soulmate on dates set up around the world by friends and acquaintances called Date Wranglers. As tricky situations arise, she will often consult these “Date Wranglers” for advice.

When I was walking home from the metro, heading to the grocery store before going home, I read something that made me stop dead in my tracks on Corcoran Street:

“It would be good to ask the Date Wranglers their opinion about all this, but comforting as the thought was, I knew this was something Garry and I had to work out for ourselves. There was a point when new lovers stopped being public property and made their own world in private (and this was especially true of our cast of thousands relationship.)”

It’s like she reached out through the book and slapped me across my face.

My therapist said it is time to stop the blog because it is destroying my life. Sherlock has asked me to stop because he also doesn’t think it is healthy. Understand please that neither my therapist nor Sherlock is aware of what the other person thinks. But these two people are perhaps the most important in my life aside from family. I really thought this blog could just go and go, especially with the support of a man who doesn’t mind. But he minds now. And I have to live with that every time I hit publish.

Friday afternoon, I was driving out in search of lunch. I got a wild hair up my ass, and a bout of strength, and I called Sherlock. I got voicemail. I left a message that said, “Hey. I’m pretty unsure what we discussed last night, but I know it wasn’t good. Anyway, I have your loan paperwork, and you have stuff of mine, so I assume we should just get all this taken care of.”

He didn’t text back until 6, and said that was fine and he would be home all night. I went out with the gay boys and ripped it up like it was old times. One of the crew was receiving an award for something and he asked us to come in place of family. I’m sure he is really regretting asking us, as we sat there pinching each other’s nipples in the audience. My best gay friend was really yanking my nipple, so I grabbed his nuts and everyone bust out laughing. We literally could not stop, and our poor friend told us to go in the hall. I’m sure he regrets asking us to come support him. He really should have known better. At one point we were trying to recall someone’s name and I said, “Oh yeah, that chick was the cocaine vacuum,” and for some reason everyone bust out laughing again. Another hour of this nonsense and I was fully liquored up and in a mood to go deal with the stuff exchange. When the gay boys put me in a cab and headed off to a gay bar, everyone was wishing me luck. As the cab drove off, I heard one of them say, “Let’s take bets on whether she fucks him tonight.” They often tell me I have the resolve of a gay man, so, I guess that’s a compliment? Who knows.

I get to my place, get his papers, and go over to his house. We go inside and end up having this really emotional / non-emotional conversation. I say that it was both because every time I started to get upset about something I just snapped myself right back out of it. He came and sat beside me on the floor when I was in the chair at his desk. Then I was just like, “Fuck you. Fuck you for showing up at Citron last night. Who do you think you are? I’ve been through this already. Remember TheCop? He did this shit to me. He fucking climbed on the roof of my parents house so he could make sure I was home in bed. He chased me through the woods behind a restaurant. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have to fucking go through it again? And why? Not because I’m cheating, not for any other reason than that you are exerting your control.”

He said he didn’t realize how bad it was with TheCop. I popped his computer on and said, “Yes you did.” And, how laaaaaame am I? I open up my blog, find the post that I KNOW he read about TheCop, and made him read it again. (Lame lame. Vomit. Making this blog do the talking. I know you are thinking I suck. But, wait. I suck more. Just wait.) He finished and pushed the computer away. I said, “All those people got it. How could you not get it? I’ll tell you how. Because you are so fucking self absorbed that you couldn’t see through what you were doing.” He said that he panicked when he wasn’t hearing from me, and he had to find me and see me. He honestly thought I knew he was there because he and Virgile Kent exchanged the head nod. I said, “You know I didn’t know. If I saw you I would have punched you.”

At one point, where we were barely talking, he was standing against the wall next to me, and I felt like he was moving in toward my face. My whole expression changed, and I moved back a couple feet. I had the old sensation coming in for the landing – I got overheated, and started to panic. Just back up, just back up. That’s all I kept telling myself. I looked up at him and said, “No.”

So the talking finally slows down. We said everything I suppose. I curled up in the chair Sammy and Thora usually sit in. He put a blanket over me and asked if I want to take off my shoes. I said no. He lay on the couch opposite me and I sat up and said, “I want to go home.” He said, “Ok. I’ll take you.” And I said, “Okay. But I want to have sex.” He said, “Now?” I said, “Yeah. Now.”

Christ. You should have seen his face. I seriously thought he was going to kill me. We just had this really intense conversation for probably an hour and a half where I was a cold bitch and now I’m demanding sex. I was wearing a wrap dress and heels, I stood up, took my shawl off, dropped the panties and stepped out of them and he looked as if he was about to protest. I said, “Don’t say no. Let’s go.” He stood up and veered me off to the bedroom.

The rest of this post is going to get pretty dirty, so if you’re going to be a judgie McJudgie pooh then just dive off to something more wholesome now by clicking this link.

So he takes off his clothes, then takes off my dress. Easy. One tie untied and you’re done. Shoes stayed on, like in all the best porn. He tried to kiss me and I said, “Don’t you dare. I’m not your girlfriend anymore.” He flips me over on to my stomach and slides in from behind. At first he’s really rough, which I’m totally fine with. I mean TOTALLY fine with. Then he flips me over on to my back, and once we were face to face, it went all wrong. I could see he was just not happy.

All this conversation goes on while we’re fucking by the way.

Me: Do you not want to do this?
Him: Not like this.
Me: It’s done. Stop. Rip the emotion out of it and just fuck.
Him: I can’t with you.
Me: Oh. I think you can. Take your aggression and put it out like a grudge fuck.
Him (not happy about this:) Fine. I’m going to get water. When I come back I’m going to fuck the shit out of you, because you want it.

He gets his water, and comes back in. He continues in the normal manner I’ve become accustomed to with him. Enough position changes so as to not get bored, but not so many that you feel like you’re being sport-fucked, complete with the announcer calling the plays (“Now he’s behind her, and he’s got her up on her knees, okay, he’s flipped her to the side and has one leg up on his shoulder, some may call this the scissors position. Those heels look like they are really digging into his shoulder, don’t they Ron?”)

He’s getting ready to come, and I made him pull out. I know. Not nice after we went and got all tested and such. I directed him to do it on me (less annoying cleanup delay – one swipe as opposed to waiting several hours for it all to drip back out and land in your $20 underwear because these are the ones you DIDN’T get at the Victoria’s Secret sale.)

Two seconds later he’s up and ready again. I said, “You want to again?” He said he did. I said, “Let’s go. Get it out of you.” He was on top, and this is where I could sense we were descending into the land of confusion. All of a sudden I become aware the whole experience has changed. Too slow. Too sweet. Too…unlike him. I said, “What the fuck are you doing? Come on! I’m not your girlfriend anymore!!! Fuck me like I’m not your girlfriend anymore.” So he resumes previous furious pace that I love so much, then he just gets totally upset, curses me out, and gets off me and out of the bed. As he’s leaning down to the floor to grab his jeans I ask him, “Is that it?” He nodded. He puts his jeans on and walks over to the closet to get a shirt, and puts that on too. I’m totally stunned at this point. He has NEVER walked away from me. In my head I’m like, “Shit, bitch. Get the fuck up and get dressed. NOW!”

I hop up within seconds and put on my clothes. We get the stuff together and he drives me home. Everytime he tried to talk I cut him off. I just didn’t feel like dealing.

Him: I’m feeling so many things right now but I know you don’t want to hear it.
Me: Tell me. What are you feeling?
Him: I feel used.
Me: Yeah? Me too.
Him: There are so many things I want to say to you, but I feel like you don’t want to hear them because you don’t believe me.
Me: You’re right. I don’t believe you.

He was so upset. I mean, really. He was not himself. Not crying, but god damned. He looked so worn down.

Finally, I said: The best case scenario, and what I can offer you, is a continuation of what we just did, only without the relationship.
Him: How would this would work. What are the ground rules?
Me: Simple. I don’t want to hear from you on a mundane, conversation-making level. That means, no calls, no texts, no emails.
Him: What if I decide I can’t uphold this agreement?
I let out a loud fake laugh. I said: PLEASE! You just did this with a handful of girls. I’m the fuckbuddy now!!
Him: Don’t be so sure. I love you. I may not be able to only have you in my life in that capacity.

I opened the car door, got the stuff out of the back and said, “I have faith that you can maintain a totally non-sexual relationship with relatively little feelings. And if you can’t, then you can’t. We’ll move on and find other people and hopefully get what we want from that.” (Emotionally cold is the Velvet family way. I’ve been bred like this. Ever see a family who doesn’t cry at funerals? Yeah. That was probably us.) I slammed the door and went into my building. The bottle of wine I had at the awards ceremony made me a cold bitch. I was fine with that. Content, I texted the Upstairs Neighbor to spread word to the left coast that I did NOT make it out of the apartment un-fucked. I went to sleep content that things were finally as they were supposed to be.

But there’s nothing like a cold, fall, sobering Saturday morning to wake me up with a pit in my stomach. I felt awful. I really did. I know that this arrangement isn’t fair, and don’t think the irony is lost on me in that I really got from this what I originally wanted – someone to have sex with but no relationship complication.

Now I’m going to warn you. This is where it gets pretty twisted. I wasn’t going to write all this, but then I figured, what the fuck. Who cares.

Saturday morning, 10:30 a.m.: I rolled over and called him. He picked up. This conversation was really an hour, but I’m just condensing, obviously.

Me: Are you okay?
Him: Yeah. I’m more worried about you. I was wondering if you are okay.
Me: Me? Why?
Him: Well, do you remember what you were saying last night when we were having sex?
Me: Yeah. I remember. It’s the only way this can work.
Him: I know. I’m just pretty sad about it. I wanted to give you what you wanted last night because I know I fucked up royally.
Me: Repeatedly you fucked up. Repeatedly. But I’ll lay off now. You’re not my boyfriend anymore, I don’t need to put you through the ringer about this.
Him: But I don’t understand, how can you just want the sex?
(Here it comes folks. Probably one of the deepest most fucked up thoughts in my head.)
Me: Well, a couple years ago, I figured out how to detach sex from love and commitment. Not that they don’t belong together, they do in the right context, but I can fuck someone, and get up and get dressed and walk out while they are in the bathroom washing up. Somehow this has become something I’m actually proud of. With you and I, we’ve had so much trauma that everything is fucked up. Everything. From one end to the other, this relationship is a mess. But the only thing that isn’t totally fucked between us is the sex.
Him: I just don’t see how this is going to work.
Me: Well. That’s your call. Personally the way I recommend is that you view this like you are making a call and getting a hooker. Seriously. Pretend you are paying, and that will help you realize that I’m not going to stay around after, we’re not going to cuddle, or anything like that. Obviously there’s no money exchange.
Him: Ok. So if that’s how this is going to work, then get up and get over here and fuck me again.
Me: Let me walk the dogs.

An hour later I pulled up to his house. I walked in, we didn’t say a word and he literally ripped all my clothes off and threw me on the bed. I know this post is really long, so I’m really only going to cover the important stuff. I know. You want the details. I’ll do the best I can.

After we finished what is now referred to as “Round 1,” I pulled on my undies as he was heading off to the kitchen. He said, “Take those off. I’m not done with you.” We did it for a total of probably 3 hours. We were in his bed for 2 hours, starting, stopping, starting again. His mood was improved, probably by the confirmation that I did actually show up again. He was on. I mean, ON. We went through the same routine of the prior night, only with more intensity. There was pretty light conversation throughout, and at times we were hysterically laughing. He said, “This is the best breakup ever” and I fucking lost it. I was laughing so hard. Then at another point we had the following very twisted exchange:

Him: Now might be a good time to get you to try anal.
Me: It’s gonna cost you. That’s not part of the original package deal.
Him: How much?
Me: Five hundred dollars.
Him: That’s not so bad. It’s worth it. I was thinking jewelry though. Gold for anal?
I stopped for a second and he said, “Oh no. I see that look in your eye. Why do I think that is going to end up written down somewhere?
Me: Hee hee. That is EXACTLY what I was thinking. But, um, this arrangement of ours is getting really nuts.

Now. I’m MORE than happy to just forge past this, because the I really just wanted to share the “Gold for anal” thing. But again, I know that the first comment will be, “Wait, so did you?” Sigh. Yes.

All right. I, like many other women out there who probably won’t admit this, have had a couple “unsuccessful attempts” at anal. It just fucking hurts. I mean, seriously. But I lived with my boyfriend for all those years and he wanted to try it and I agreed, mostly because, well, sadly, he just wasn’t huge, so I figured that it was as good a time to try as any. We did it a couple times over the years, but it never exactly grew on me. Gay men of the commenters (there might be just one,) I have two conclusions after today’s event. First, holy fucking shit that motherfucking hurts. Second, holy fucking shit once you get past the pain it is AMAZING!

Then I left. I said, “This rules. Now I can go out tonight and not have you bothering me to come home. I’ll call you again when I want sex.” That’s all I suppose. This post is already way too long, so I’ll do a scorecard.

Emotional Breakup? Yes.
Sex Breakup? No.
Sex from 11 p.m. Friday night to 3 p.m. Saturday afternoon: 5 times regular; 2 times anal.
Bloodshot eye casualty; result of wayward cumshot: One. My left eye. Still hurts.
Orgasms: Me: 5; Him: 4.
Broken Hearts: .5, his.
Potential for recovery of this relationship: Jury still out. I told him to date but just not sleep with anyone and I would do the same. He said he didn’t want to date. He just wants to be with me. Okay. We’ll see.

Drunk Post. May not make sense. But I swear this happened. Ask KK and Heather.

KassyK and I met at Dupont metro, south side, and walked to Citron for the Lover’s Happy Hour. We went downstairs an immediately walked to the bar to get ourselves a drink before facing the lovers. The downstairs? Fucking crowded. Kassy and I quickly finish our drinks, and I lost her, so I go to the bar to get another. I turn around and some dude bumps into me. Some of drink #2 spills. Stupid Citron. I hate this place. Anyway, I feel someone tug at my arm, I turn around and the bartender hands me another gin and tonic. She says something about the guy, and the drink, and I tell her it’s no big deal and that not a lot spilled, but she gives it to me anyway. I’m walking double fisted with the gin and tonics. Then my phone buzzes. Fucking great. I have to put one of the G&T’s down. Mentally taking note to watch no one slips the date rape drug in there.

It’s a text. Guess who?

Text from Sherlock: I’m out. Enjoy the drink and the rest of your evening.
Um. What? So I write back: Excuse me?
Sherlock texts: The gin and tonic was from me. Enjoy. Thought you saw. Regardless, I’m halfway home.
Me: Um. Why were you here?
Sherlock: I guess to buy you a drink. I did. I’m gone. Get over it.
Me: How did you know I was here?
Sherlock: Are you kidding? it was too easy. You answer some of my questions and I’ll answer all of yours.
Me: I think you should start talking. You came here for a reason…and you obviously knew I was here.

So then I went upstairs to the sidewalk and called him. I don’t know what I said but it wasn’t nice. I remember it wasn’t nice. I remember saying that something about what bullshit this is, and how he’s contrived this whole relationship. Then everyone downstairs kept calling so I hung up and went back downstairs. The place fills up, I mean, FILLS UP and the panic attack arrives on time. I start to get hot and can’t breathe, and I bail. I went upstairs, and outside. I call him, mostly because he ruined my night but also because I really am still shaking at the idea that somehow, he found out where I was going to be.

He tells me that he was sitting at the bar and saw me walk in. He watched Kassy and I order a drink, talk to Betty Joan, and make our way over to the middle of the bar. He was there while I finished my first drink. He watched me in the mirror behind the bar when I came up to order my 2nd drink. He told the bartender to get me a drink. Then he left.

I asked the bartender what happened after he was gone. She said, “I don’t know, this guy was sitting there, really pissed off, snapped at me, and then said it wasn’t my fault and that he was in a bad mood.”

What. The. Fuck.

On my walk home I called him. I told him that there’s no way we could ever work this out, and the best I can offer him is for us to take a break, a long break, and try to reconnect in a few months.

He agreed. He asked if there were ground rules. I said, there weren’t but if he fucked someone else, I was out of the game. He agreed to that too, and somehow I didn’t have to. Huh. Who knew?

Sherlock emailed me yesterday and said “Are you ready to have an adult conversation this week?” Hmm. Upstairs Neighbor encouraged me to respond with, “That would mean that you are an adult.” HA! I love it. But I ain’t doing it. I don’t want to engage. Sherlock also called last night. I watched it ring, watched his name flash, then sent him to voicemail. He left a message asking if I have cooled off yet and want to talk.

Um. No. Not yet.

I saw the therapist today. I told her there was another setback, and she was like, groan groan. So I explain the whole story. She said that she can definitely see how I am feeling like he doesn’t respect me to go telling the exes stuff about our freaking sex life. So that’s good, she agrees. But then she goes back to this: “If it weren’t for this blog, you wouldn’t know any of this because these girls never would have factored in. And plenty of men lie about plenty of things. So, I’m not sure that this is the right move to just end it. But it seems as though the last time we had this discussion, you were seeking my permission in some way to go back to him, and this time, I’m not hearing that from you.”

She’s right about that. I wanted her approval. She seems to know me very well. This lady is goooooood. She thinks, and has said several times before, that this blog is just driving a lot of the destruction. I’m not sure I agree with that. This is usually isn’t a forward-thinking vehicle. I’m not laying it out and asking for commenters to give me a course of action. I’m more so reporting in on things that have already happened. I don’t know. Maybe she’s right.

What I’m left with is what to do about this. I really wish it would go away. I really wish someone else would just handle it for me. I really wish Sammy and Thora could go over there and pick up their own toys, bowls and food. But, I got nothing. The best I can come up with is that I must masturbate before I go over there. Then there’s no danger in ending up in bed.

In other news, there’s a portal to the outside in my office. There is a wasps nest out there, so every morning a wasp or two gets in and I have to kill them. I kill the morning wasps, then the afternoon shift arrives, and I have to kill them too. Now, I don’t know what’s going on but there are literally 100’s of lady bugs in my office. And instead of calling property management, I’m sitting here playing with them. One just got stuck under my laptop and I freed her and sent her on her way. I gave another some of my salad. I’m wondering what they could be eating. I think I’m losing my mind. Maybe I should be on meds. And that’s all I got.

It might be the weather, but I’m officially ready to kill every single nobody who I’ve never heard of, coming out of their hole and asking for the password. I mean, what the fuck? If I say it’s no longer public, why can’t they get that THEY are the public I’m talking about, and you kids are the close friends, and leave it at that? I’ve stopped answering emails. I’m deleting anything that says anything about needing a password. Fucking selfish bastards. And good lord, I just heard from Life of Red that Mr. “Even though I dated all your friends and I’m really not a blogger but I’ll keep asking you out” asked her for my password, even after we had this exchange. Some of you will recognize his name by the way:

Seth J: This is embarrassing but apparently I need a password to read your posts. I’m not even supposed to read blogs anymore but damn it, I need to know. So how does it work. Do I get one from you? Thanks.
Me: Nope. Sorry. Blog is locked down to close friends only until further notice.
Seth J: Ah, that’s sweet, that you consider me a close friend. Well, what happened then? I mean, the cliff notes version?
Me: Um. Again. Not sure what you aren’t getting, but the blog is no longer public, nor is the content.
Seth J: Wow. I don’t think I’m the one you should be snappy with. Damn. Forget it.

I hoped he was gone for good, but he’s now taken to bugging people for the password. See, it’s these morons I want out of my life. He said something to Red about me that she told me at the Happy Hour, and it didn’t sound nice. I didn’t get all the details of it. I heard about your “fetish for older women” Seth J, and I ain’t playing. Wow. I’m in a shit mood today. There is all sorts of destruction in my path. I just told everyone to fuck off in the public post, and I think that is going to be the last public post for a damn long time. The idea of this just being 20 of us makes me really happy. I feel like I have a venting place again. It feels…real.

On the Sherlock front, there’s very little news. He’s honoring my request to leave me the fuck alone, as evidenced by our last text message exchange on Sunday night:

Him: Any chance of contact from you tonight? I’m gunshy about reaching out to you when you are shut down like this, but my intentions for you are pure, can’t you see that?
Him, again: Well, ok then. I’ll assume you are still upset and confused but doing ok otherwise. I hope so. Just know that I am still here for you and I love you even though I’m hurting.
Me: Clearly you are not understanding TWO STEPS OUT OF THIS RELATIONSHIP and I WISH I NEVER MET YOU of my past texts.
Him: I’m not pretending we can fix everything tonight. What I understand is our chemistry and our potential. Two steps back is ok for now. But I’m very glad I met you.
Me: Again…I wish I never met you and your harem of whores. That doesn’t sound to me like there is anything to work out.
Him: You will always be dear to me. You taught me more than I can ever thank you for. I’m sorry you feel that I let you down. I wish you only happiness.

So. Well. All I can say is that I can be very very hurtful. At the time, and even still now, two days later, I mean(t) every word of what I said above. What I’ve been hoping for, is that that “feeling” doesn’t come back – the feeling that drags my sorry ass running back to him. It’s not back as of right now. And, I actually feel like doing something to prevent us from ever getting together again.

Sherlock’s two deal breakers are me sleeping with someone else, and me doing any sort of drug again. All I would have to do is one of the above, and tell him, and assure myself emancipation from this relationship. I know what you are thinking, I could just lie to him and say I did one of the above things and that will be the end. But I can’t lie like that. I’m not hardwired to be a pathological liar. It would need to be the truth. Because then the relationship would have ended on a lie.

Or, I could just never call him again. I hate this.

All:

I’ve gotten your emails, but I’m going to stop answering. It was too much and I have this thing called a job. Basically, I am taking my private life back private. The emails saying that you live in “faraway place” and work for “whoever” and don’t know any of the people in question really do not matter. If I don’t know you, you could be a friend of someone I just don’t need reading anymore. If I don’t have some sort of history with you, or know that you won’t violate my trust, I can’t give out the password. Think about it from my perspective: 40 of you comment a day. But you know how many of you read? 700. That means I have no idea who 660 of you are. And frankly, I don’t care about the stats at all. I’m not trying to get famous. I’m trying to live my life.

You may be longtime readers, but this is the first time I’ve ever heard of your existence. Consider it an unfortunate reprecussion of being a lurker all these months.

Right now it’s just a few close friends, much like it was in the early days of Velvet. More like a chat room than anything like the train wreck it has become.

Well, if you are reading then you have the password. I’m expecting significantly fewer people to be reading in general now than in days past. Frankly, there is something just so damn comforting about that to me. I might take the password protection off at some point, but, for now it’s just better this way. I can officially go back to spilling it all, instead of censoring. There should be about 20 of you here, so now it’s a more comfortable group. And you are among friends, so feel free to let it fly.

I’ll back up to last Thursday. Sherlock and I have been looking at condos for the past few weeks because his lease is up in January. Since open houses occur on Sundays and I’m no longer able to bake in the sun due to autumn’s arrival, we were doing this as a joint effort. Somewhere in looking for these places, he started asking the questions, “Does this building take 2 dogs” and “Can we purchase a second parking spot because we both have cars and motorcycles.” I’m not saying I didn’t participate in these conversations, but truth be told, I have very low living expenses. Anything I do in terms of moving is going to crank up my monthly expenditures. So I’m not in a hurry. I have a place to live, and it’s a damn good place in my opinion because it’s got Sammy and Thora.

Okay, so Thursday. He just pops out with, “Are you nervous to move in together?” I said “No. Why?” He said that he was. I said “We don’t have to, you can do this on your own, I really don’t care.” There was more back and forth, but nothing significant really. Just chitchat. I ended up booting him out of my house because he was in one of those needy moods, and I can’t fucking stand that. I really can’t. I’m not a needy girl and I don’t want a needy man in my life. I just got annoyed and told him to go home. He wanted to know why he couldn’t stay over, and I said, “Because you snore, and it keeps me up all night.” I am a hurtful bitch when I’m pissed.

Friday was the day I posted the story about the lunatic ex whatever-she-is of his, TravelWhoreGirl. Friday night I went out with you blogging kids, and somewhere during the night Sherlock got pissed, which I found out via phone. Home Improvement Ninja and I were walking to his car and he was going to drop me off on his way back to the Cheights, and Sherlock called. He told me to call him when I was home. Then I got home, and he called me again before I had a chance to call him. I hate that feeling of being railroaded. Give me the fucking chance to get in the house, change, then I’ll call back. So then he started telling me I was inconsiderate for not telling him I was going to stay out all night, and that no matter how our relationship started out, he at least deserves that respect. I’ve got to admit, and Ninja has seen some of the emails where I write a bunch of nasty shit, I’m not very respectful. I’ve somehow given myself license to be a master superbitch because of all this drama he came with. Then it turned into the classic Velvet fight and I shut down. When I get really mad, I just can’t talk.

So he’s even more pissed at this point and I am just mad that he really thought I went out trying to not come home. It doesn’t happen like that. I always go out in the spirit of having “one drink” and that just never happens. My arrival time home is directly correlated to the people I’m with, how tired I am and how I happen to be feeling about staying out and drinking more with logistics of getting home. We were all having so much fun on Friday that I didn’t want to go home. (Well, other than when Virgile Kent told me a certain someone, Fuckbuddy #2, was prying him for information on me. WTF, seriously?) Ninja and I ended up walking down M Street, getting underage kids into bars by plying the bouncers with the Halloween cookies.

When I’m home in bed, Sherlock and I are texting some more. I can’t remember what he said, but it was some version of asking me why I’m being so cold. I responded with, “When you told me you were scared all of a sudden about living together, I took two giant steps backward out of this relationship.” I meant it I suppose. I know I can say really hurtful things, but I was pissed off. He has been the one promoting the move in together / marriage / kids thing. I’m going along, but these ideas came from him. Something I didn’t mention at the time, but happened early on, was that we were having sex one night and he said something to the effect of, “If you ever have bad news for me, tell me when we’re having sex. I couldn’t possibly get mad with my dick inside you.” And I said, “Really? Even if my bad news was like that I was pregnant or something?” To which he reponds, “Why would that be bad news? That would be great news,” thereby rolling the ball into play on the having kids conversations. Ninja loves these stories. They make him laugh his ass off.

Back to this weekend. Saturday comes. He apologizes via text, and I do as well. I go to the gym and return home to a lengthy email from TravelWhoreGirl in response to Friday’s post. A couple parts stand out. First, she says that Sherlock spent the entire day of our first date reading my archives, so “of course there was a click.” Jesus. I hate to say this about a deranged asylum escapee, but she could be right. The other part that gets to me is that she knows some pretty intimate detail about me and the things Sherlock and I have done in bed, and it’s not from the things I’ve written. It’s from things he told her. Her quote: “I have a folder of emails containing pages of things he’s said about you.” (He also by the way, told both the ex-fuck buddies that I’m “on meds.” I can assure you, crazy as I am, I am not on meds.) I forward the email to him then send a text telling him that he should read his email. He texts back and says she’s wrong about some things. I write back and say, “All three of you are lunatics. I wish that I never met any of you.”

Both these girls, despite the fact that they each recently roasted him on their respective blogs, still attempted to contact him just last week. Are you kidding me? Am I in the middle of some ridiculous bullshit contrived drama? He said he didn’t tell me they called because he “didn’t want to upset me.” I said, “One of these girls publicly attacked your GIRLFRIEND ON HER BLOG and you don’t bother to mention that she called? And what the fuck? She’s calling as if all of that never happened? Please!”

There is a recurring issue with Sherlock and I. Every time there is a “problem,” he goes running to his ex-girlfriends and ex-fuckbuddies for advice. I’m so unclear as to how he could really think that these women have his best interests at heart. But just last week, we had an argument over the fact that BOTH FUCK BUDDIES contacted him and he neglected to tell me. A couple days after, we were at his house and his phone rang. He said it was his ex. Then he remarked without any prompting from me that she must be calling to find out if he and I had reconciled. What. The. Fuck. Has he learned fucking nothing from the TravelWhoreGirl saga? Has he not learned that you don’t go running to your exes to ask for advice?

Couple all this with the fact that I’ve now got my boyfriend and two of his past fuck buddies reading my blog. It sucks. There’s no two ways about it. It just sucks. And I’m counting on you all to please please not give the password out to anyone. I’ll leave it the same every time. I probably won’t password protect every post, but definitely the ones that pertain to this situation. Or if I do anything bad. What? Oh come on! Like being faithful has gotten me anywhere with this situation.

I’m afraid, despite the fact that I love Sherlock, that this damage is irreparable. I just don’t trust him. And I don’t think I ever will. Now we’re not speaking, because I’m just not talking anymore. And the part that worries me most? There’s no anger. None. I have zip in the way of anger, I just feel very very tired. And when I feel tired, it’s because the fight in me is gone. I’m afraid there is not going to be a way for us to salvage this relationship. I’ll try to keep my mind open, but it ain’t looking so good.

I need your advice kids.

Let’s say the following situation happened, um, hypothetically speaking of course.

You meet a guy and you start dating. Somewhere early in the dating, it comes out that he had dated a woman who reads your blog, daily. That woman has commented some fairly innocuous comments before, nothing special. Then she sends you an email stating that the guy you are dating is a great guy, she is going to stop commenting, and she won’t tell him anything you write about. Sounds good, right?

Then, let’s say that this woman changed her blog name and blog address. And when you and the guy started having some issues that you were trying to work out, she began commenting again as the new identity, but with no link to her new blog. The comments continued one after the next, each one nastier than the one before it, to the point where other readers commented on it and you also responded back. She threatened (through your boyfriend) to reveal where you work and all the information she knows about you. She was finally deleted and blocked. But, she says, “I’m in IT, so I can get around that.” So she’s reading anyway, through a proxy or what have you. You have no idea why it is so important for her to read your blog, but, if she’s going to go to all that trouble, then whatever.

So you’re writing your blog away, then she starts noting who comments on your blog, and begins to seek them out. Your poor unsuspecting commenters, one after the next, contact you saying, “Hey, I got this comment on my blog from this girl who hates you,” or “I got an email from this girl,” and the end is always the same. The girl finds a way to say to the commenter, “I know you are friends with {writer of blog / girlfriend of guy…}”

Would you find this odd? I mean, if the woman has something to say to you, why wouldn’t she just contact you? Why would she go to each of your friends, one after the next, emailing them, trying to chat them up, inviting them to be IM buddies? What would you think, and what would you do, if anything?

Last week, fellow Dupontee Betty Joan did a post about perfume. I’ve always been fascinated by scent, and well, anyone who wants to smell like Velvet can just buy Angel by Thierry Mugler, mix that with a little sex, and voila! Eau de Velvet. Okay, that sorta grosses me out a little.

I’m almost at the end of the delicious Angel perfume, which brings me to a quandry I shall explain in a minute. Since I was 18, I have chosen a scent and worn it daily until the bottle is empty – which is usually about a year. That is a great way for me to go back and smell a perfume and be instantly blown back to the point in time when I wore that fragrance. As I commented on Betty Joan’s post – Eternity is the end of high school and early college. If I open Eternity at the fragrance counter, I’m reminded of making out in my boyfriend’s Pontiac GTO and getting caught by the cops. (Three times that summer.) Oops. Sophmore year of college? Fendi. Hooking up with my R.A. and declaring a major. Gio, Giorgio Armani was my trademark scent for junior and senior year of college. I loved that perfume until a friend bought it, I got pissed off because I like a scent to be a signature scent. Then I threw it out and found “something new.”

The “something new” continues to be my secret weapon, a fragrance I will never reveal as a promise to myself, something so delicious I never want to smell anyone else wearing it. I wore it while I was 23 and 24, another wonderful time in my life of taking a cruise through Mexico and having fun boyfriend after fun boyfriend. When that bottle ran out, I was preparing for the big move in with AtlantaBoy. My roommate in Connecticut (who I was now leaving behind) was wearing “Romance” by Ralph Lauren. Based on theory above, I didn’t want to wear it while we were living together. But once I moved to Atlanta, fair game bitch. I basically wore Romance for that entire relationship and then some. I have to say, it’s an unbelievable perfume. It smells just as great the next morning as it did when freshly sprayed. But I can’t go back. It reminds me of him, and while that’s not necessarily a bad thing, I wouldn’t want to reimpose it in my life and have the memories blur together. It feels like cheating. Or trying to wash away the past.

So, the quandry. What fragrance to choose. I could continue with Angel, as it is the scent Sherlock / new man / Mr.PantsonFire is used to smelling on me. But, I hesitate. Angel reminds me of a very turbulent past 18 months. It reminds me of all night binges, dating countless men, buying my condo and the hellacious renovation I masterminded, and starting this blog. All fun memories, but the first two hopefully things in the past. I don’t want new man to have a scent of me on his memory that other men I’ve dated also identify me with. I want him to have one of his own. And he and I have also had a rough time over the past three months since we met. So it is my goal between now and the end of the Angel bottle, to find something new. Like sands in an hourglass, there are only a few weeks of Angel left.

I have two very distinct ideas, but both will require several trips to the fragrance counter to try try and try. The one complaint I have with Angel is that I smell like a cheap whore the next morning. (Wait…maybe that’s not the perfume…) I want something like Romance, that smells just as great “stale” as it does “fresh.” Little help please, if you can.

I was giving this some thought the other day, and I recalled reading an article last year about a perfume that was returning to the market. In its heyday, it was so popular, when it was discontinued, there were near riots. Of course I would never wear something so ubiquitous. I do like the obscure. But…the name. The name of the perfume is so apropos to how I feel right now, that I might be willing to check it out.

Before I dish, make sure you see the post about the Dupont House Tour if you are interested.

Well, it was a weekend of drunken and sexual debauchery. And frankly, I would like to order another. Monday shouldn’t be here. It should be Friday. Because, if it was Friday again, the following would happen all over again.

Friday night. In anticipation of the weekend, I wanted to get my run out of the way. I hit the gym and did some treadmill mileage. Then I went home and rehydrated myself with a few gins while I dressed for the City Sparkle / Virgile Kent birthday event. We went to…well, I don’t even know…a bunch of those fancy clubs on 18th Street with no visible signs out front telling you what they are. You can read the goods on their blogs. Yes, my dress was obscene. Look, I don’t get out to clubs a lot okay? I rarely go anywhere that jeans are not acceptable attire. So there.

Anyway, the man I’ve been calling “new guy” came to pick me up from the club. I convinced him to come inside because some of the partying kiddies wanted to meet him. I did the introductions, then we made our way to the bar and away from the crowd so I could shove my hand in his pants and he could do the same to me. Except I wasn’t wearing pants. Just a tiny string was connecting the front to the back. Well. Not for long.

We left and went back to my place, with full intentions of getting dogs, a rubber band for my hair (I’m obsessive about tying my mop up when I go to sleep) and going to his place. We didn’t make it. Something they call cunnilingus occurred in my building’s elevator. The Board President would be shock…oh, wait. That’s me. Lucky we haven’t installed that camera yet. But next week? No oral sex in the elevator as the camera will be fully operational.

So we got inside my place and he got inside my place and we didn’t leave for a long time. I think we I woke the neighbors. Saturday we woke up, parted ways to do the morning shower routines at our own houses, then reconnected an hour later to spend the day together. And the night. And the next day. And the next night.

There’s really no reason to keep this charade up. When I speak of “new guy,” you all know I’m speaking of Sherlock, right? He’s never gone away. We’ve had a few downs to go with our many many ups, but he’s here and despite the wishes and intentions of some miserable people in this saga, he’s not going anywhere. I’m going to protect this relationship fiercely. It doesn’t mean I won’t write about it, and it doesn’t mean you all can’t comment on it, of course you can. But if anyone physically or otherwise tries to get in the way again, be prepared for what will happen. Is that a threat? Yes. Consider it a direct threat. Stay out of our lives, and I’ll refrain from making yours a living fucking hell.

The name “Sherlock” connotes to me a time and place of this relationship that no longer exists. The name reminds me of a rough start, some inconsistent stories (that occurred while we were not together) and some generally crappy times. The name “new guy” really just covers a man I’ve had incredible sex with in some very public locations. I really need a name that works for the long term. Upstairs Neighbor, who has a knack for coming up with some hilarious names, suggested Mr.PantsOnFire, and has taken to calling him that in our email exchanges. I think that’s the name. It works in a double entendre kind of way, and it helps trim down the many many names I’ve been using for the same man.

Finally, the truth. Damn it feels good. I hated lying to you kids, but I had to protect my relationship.

Well. You know the drill. It’s “mostly dating, but sometimes about life in Dupont.” So, I’m posting about the Dupont Circle House Tour this coming Sunday, October 15th, in case anyone was interested in going.

The self-guided walking tour will be held Sunday, October 15, 2006 from noon to 5 pm and features 12 distinctive homes in the Dupont Circle area. Many trend-setting construction projects have marked the neighborhood, and the House Tour highlights a variety of residential living spaces, emphasizing innovation, variety, and personal style.

Advance tickets for the event are $25 and may be purchased via PayPal on the DCCA Web site, www.dupont-circle.com. Tickets on the day of the tour are $30 and will be available at the Washington Club and at the Dupont Circle Farmers Market. Advance tickets will also be available mid-September at the following local retailers:

Firehook Bakery & Coffeehouse
1909 Q Street, NW

Home Rule
1807 14th St NW

Java House
1645 Q Street, NW

Jolt’ N Bolt Coffee and Tea House
1918 18th Street, NW

Olssons Books & Records
1307 19th Street, NW

True Value Hardware
1623 17th Street, NW

To purchase tickets online, please click on the “Buy Now” button at: http://www.dupont-circle.com/housetour/tickets.html

House locations and further details will be printed on the tickets.

The Dupont Circle Citizens Association (DCCA), established in 1922, strives to keep the neighborhood clean, green, historic, safe, diverse and a fun and friendly place to live.

More information can be found at http://www.dupont-circle.com

Couple things. First, it’s THE CITY SPARKLE / VIRGLE KENT BIRTHDAY WEEK! Friday there are major celebrations planned. I’m making room in my stomach now for alcohol and vomit. Cause I think there will be both.

So, remember the whole stopping posting stuff of a few weeks back? Rough waters in all facets of life continue. Work is like, well, a knife throwing contest. Everyone is trying to save their jobs in this horrifying housing bubble. I showed up in one of our divisions last week and holy fucking hell, it was so cold in there it was like it was snowing in that damn place. ONE person talked to me. ONE. My boss called and I walked out into the parking lot to tell him something I heard, and he said, “How is it there?” I said, “Except for the one person asking about Speedracer, um, no one is speaking to me.” He laughed and said, “Fuck ’em.” Huh. Then I went to another division to have my hard drive rebuilt, and when I took the IT person out to lunch, everyone was texting her asking who “that lady was.” You know, for an instant, I said, “Dude. What lady?” She said, “YOU!” I’m many things, but I am NO LADY.

Please oh please let this awful market be over with so we can hire people who like my department again. Please!

Anyway, toss a few more things in that pile of shit above, and I swear to god, I need someone to roll me a joint and get me so stoned that I don’t know what fucking day it is. Anyone? Please??? I’ll be your best friend!

So, I did something the other night I have not done…well, ever. I had to call in the big guns to help me sort something out.

Velvet: Hi, Dad, can I talk to Mom?
Dad: Uh, yeah. Hold on.
Click! (So typical in a house overrun with electronics -they are now confused by cordless phones but damn if they don’t have the DVD player running errands for them.)
Velvet: Hello?
Mom: Wait, she’s here she’s here.
Velvet: Damn. I was like ‘these motherfuckers hung up on me.’ (Yes, I said motherfuckers. Do you think the foul mouth I have here doesn’t carry over into the rest of my life? I don’t censor nothing for no one. And my mom laughed anyway.)
Mom: What’s up?
Velvet: I’m going to ask you something I’ve never asked you before, so brace yourself…

And there you go. Big Guns. It’s funny that I have this blog, and rarely do my parents hop on here. Even my brother stays away, which is pretty good for the most part. So that’s why a post or two is missing. I really don’t tell my parents things unless I need their honest, expert, judgmental but rarely wrong opinion. Usually they just worry, and there’s no need for that unnecessarily.

Sometimes it sucks to have to call home because you need something that you can’t get elsewhere. There’s something about the Mommy-stamp of approval, or the Mommy-rejection letter that helps me sort it out. I’m still brooding. But I will say this, we’re lucky that there’s a ban on owning a gun in D.C. Because this would be the week I would have bought one. And I would have emptied the chamber. Possibly twice. Into the same person.

I read the FUNNIEST article in one of my favorite fashion mags, Harper’s Bazaar, last week. I took a ghetto pic of the page, because I don’t have a way to scan this in color. So, check it out. Sorry for the blaring light reflection on the girl with the riding crop. Trust me, you’re not missing much behind that reflection.

Okay. Seriously. Look at the girl second from the right. I LOVE that face mask. Could I get a date with a mask over my face? I don’t know. But I’m willing to try. I could not stop laughing when I saw that. I would so love to show up on a date in a mask covering my face and not have the venue of our date be an S&M or Fetish club. (“No really, I’ll be the one in the mask!”) Too too funny. Actually, I’d probably need the riding crop for the fetish club. I’m sure someone there would want to be spanked. Anyway, the article was about a guy who looked at these clothes and wondered why women were so covered up all of a sudden.

I’ve read a couple fall issues of Bazaar and a couple fall issues of my other favorite, Lucky Magazine. Um. What the hell is going on? Why do I have to be subjected to these clothes? What happened to lady like high heels and wrap dresses? And, with the whole Greenhouse effect, winters just do not get as cold as they did when we were little ones. I remember several blizzards a year pummeling Connecticut as a child. Now? Sometimes we go all winter without a snowflake. With offices overheated to the point of scorching in January, we really don’t need to be this covered up.

Usually I spend way too much money on clothes and shoes. Breathing a huge sigh of relief, as that will not be happening this year. I will be wearing my stilettos through this stupid ballerina flats and ugly wedge season.

Due to a prior commitment, new man had to be out of town this weekend. (I am hoping to come up with a name for him soon by the way.) He managed to change his flight so he could get home early to see me. Yay!

After juggling various things we needed to get accomplished, we went to look at a few open houses. Real estate, in case you’ve been in a coma, is tanking pretty hard. And in case you believe the sunshine and lollipops news you hear that it’s only “a temporary price correction” well, then I’ve got a few bridges to sell you. Take it from an insider. The folks at Greenspan and Company have assfucked our ENTIRE ECONOMY, sans lube. Let’s do a little simple math. Real estate prices rising at 20% a year in some places for the last 5 years, give or take. Incomes rising at 4% a year, say, on average. Personal savings rates are at a NEGATIVE percentage rate, meaning, most of us have more debt than cash. Um, where and how exactly did they think prices would keep going up and up and up? Lucky I bought on the high end. Great. Except, that, oh yeah, I could rent my place and probably break even with mortgage and condo fees. Okay. Disaster averted. For me anyway. Sorry for everyone else who will be filing the big B. (psst. Bankruptcy.)

So, new boy and I, deciding that now might be a time to start looking so as to seize a great deal when we see one (not together, just generally speaking here,) we decided to do some Sunday house hunting for fun. When I say “we,” I really mean, I. But he got along with the idea once we started to see some pretty awesome places.

PN Hoffman, a D.C. urban developer, does probably the best job in town of building a residence. Two years ago, it was “no brokers, no investors, bring 10% cash to contract.” Now, they be having a wee bit of trouble. I think even Sammy and Thora could qualify for a loan. Since I’m in the industry, and a big admirer of their work, we went to see the Alta at Thomas Circle. (If you really want to look around on that website and don’t want to register, just put in password ‘pnh’ and it will let you in.) There are a few units left in this building for sale. New boy and I went to see five of them. While people were oohing and aahing over the higher floor condos, new boy and I were in unit 411 having sex.

Again, for the people who skimmed that paragraph and didn’t read the last sentence: While people were oohing and aahing over the higher floor condos, new boy and I were in unit 411 having sex.

Now that everyone is up to speed, how did we do this you ask? It’s a legitimate question. I’ll explain. Check this floorplan:

Okay. I was standing in what would be the bedroom, there on the left. See where the bed is? I was leaning against the wall. The new boy was behind me. Well, wait. First we started with a blowjob, then we moved on to regular doggie style sex…Oh! You want to know logistically how we pulled this off? Easy. The hallway floors are still covered in plastic, making it simple to hear anyone coming. We were at the end of a long hall, and except for the remote chance someone from a nearby unit would decide to get off their couch and come check out the unit next door / across the hall that’s been for sale for freaking ever, well, there you go. I had to call my best gay friend and tell him. He said, “Oh my God, I think you met your match.” Huh. Someone JUST said that to me.

My undies continued to be a sloppy wet until we made it home, safe in the confines of a place where we could only be heard, but not seen, and we hit a couple homeruns. Woo hoo. I needed that. It’s been a while. Well, okay. A week.

Happy Monday Lovers!

Help! The deadline is close. Please help Brent reach his goal for the AIDS walk!! Click this. I’m just going to keep nagging you about it. Ok. Think of it like this. I’ve gotten plenty of emails and “offers” to do things for me as a thank you of sorts for the entertainment I provide. I’ve never been able to justify asking for anything back from you kids. But, just this once, pretty please, click the link and give to the AIDS walk. Pretty please with cherries on top and I’ll be your best friend.

*****

So I saw my therapist this week. If you recall, but you may not so I’ll repeat myself, I started seeing her about 2 1/2 years ago when my anxiety issues started um, ruining my life. I refused to get on an airplane post-September 11th and it caused a lot of problems. I had resolved to just drive everywhere, but then, yanno, when my brother decided to get married, it was too far to drive. Then my friend wanted to go to Italy and I realized I would miss Europe entirely unless I could get 6 weeks off to ride the Mayflower over there. And then work wanted me to go somewhere – bastards! You have blown my cocoon apart. It was time to put this fear on the back burner. Anyway, during my time with the therapist, I learned that fear of flying is really fear of losing control – something I hate. I had to confront so many other stupid little things I do to maintain control and(subconsciously) avoid panic attacks.

All right, enough of that. So I spent my entire 50 minute hour talking about him. The new boy. When she asked me what it was that I liked about him, I couldn’t really put it into words. Is that stupid? I mean, for those of you who are in a relationship where you are completely immersed in your feelings for this person, can you actually give a list of the things you like about him/her? Are people really capable of that?

For me, attraction and that feeling of belonging with someone isn’t based on a set of characteristics or a laundry list of things you want. (This is a fabulous argument for why online dating is fatally flawed.) It’s harder to put my finger on than checking off a list. It’s how the person makes me feel. But, sometimes what is more important than how they make you feel is how they DON’T make me feel. As an example, I described my years with AtlantaBoy to the therapist as this:

“We were like two kids living together without adult supervision. We were like two puzzle pieces that just fit together into a working relationship and household. Even though there was no ‘adult supervision,’ we made it work.” She asked me to describe this more. It’s hard to without coming up with a solid example. I told her that one morning my car tire was flat. AtlantaBoy left for work before I was awake, but he had seen the flat, and came back in and left me a very descriptive note that somewhere I believe I still have. It detailed that I needed to get a “plug” and to not let them talk me into a whole new tire, and had directions to the nearest tire place. The note was really long, but it was a step by step of what I had to do. He just knew that I would have no clue how to do any of the assessing of the flat, as well as finding the place to get it done. He even told me about how much it would cost, so I wouldn’t get hosed. And he never made me feel stupid for his having to write that note to his automotivally and mechanically inept girlfriend.

That’s the kind of stuff great relationships are made of – where two people just know how to treat and how not to treat each other. AtlantaBoy knew he needed to spoonfeed that to me just like I knew when it came time to pay our monthly bills, I had to tell him what to write checks for. He just knew that I had it worked out to a 50/50 split and didn’t question it. Of course that relationship efficiency dissipated over time, but that’s another story.

All of that dynamic between us was basically unspoken. And what I have going on currently is more of the same. Well, don’t get me wrong, it’s an entirely different relationship. I feel much more like an “adult” now than I did when I lived with AtlantaBoy, the dynamic is there though. Take for instance the fact that I have no knowledge how to work your new, fancy, thousand-button remote controls of today. He knows that. When something happens that requires remote control assistance, I’ll just hand it to him. He’s tried to show me what the important buttons are, but you know what? I don’t care. I’m more than happy to let him do it, even screaming from the couch when he’s in another room that I need him to change the channel. He doesn’t bitch about this, he just knows that I have no clue which button lowers the volume, which button cooks breakfast and which button fires up electricity under Bin Ladin’s bunker.

So as I’m getting ready to leave, my therapist says, “I think you may have met your match.” It means a lot to hear that from a woman who just might know me better than I know myself.

Before I open my eyes in the morning, I am thinking about you.

When I’m getting dressed for work and receive your first text of the day, I smile.

When I am driving to work and we talk on the phone or text some more, I get excited.

When I get to work and plug away, behind the computer, I think about you and I become incredibly happy.

When I’m driving home in traffic, cursing the car in front of me for driving too slow, it just doesn’t bother me. Once I get home, once the dogs are walked, once I’ve made it to the gym, once I’ve showered and changed, I will see you. I am going to be in your arms. Safe and loved.

We might go out to eat. We might go to the mall. We might watch Entourage or Lucky Louie. We might wrestle because, how dare you eat ice cream in front of me when you know I’m doing my best to lose the “last 10 pounds” that you claim you can’t see and don’t care about. We might go to open houses and imagine ourselves living there. We might just stare at each other. What we do doesn’t matter. What matters, is that I am with you. Touching you. Next to you. In front of you. With your arms around me. And there is no where else in the world I want to be.

Still campaigning for Brent’s HIV Walk. If everyone who reads this blog today gave ONE DOLLAR, he would reach the goal and then some. Please help!

On to other stuff.

The week of September 11th, 2006 was by far my shittiest week ever. It was pure misery packaged neatly into equal time blocks called Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. I’ve renamed those days “Shitday, Assday, Cuntday, Bitchday and Fuckday.” I could not wait for Friday to end so I could have a weekend to recoup and make a plan for my life. Oddly enough, Saturday night I was laying in bed taking inventory of the week, and the half of my weekend that had already passed, I thought, “Surprisingly, after the last 5 days of hell, today has been the most perfect day. In fact, this has been my favorite day of this entire year. Shit, it might not just be the best of 2006, but the entire decade.” Yeah, it was that good. So I can call it this early, even with three+ years to go in the decade.

Most of this is stupid, but here’s the rundown:

• I woke up next to a boy. Even though he pissed me off by making too much noise for 7:30 on a Saturday morning, I was still quite happy.
• I ate spaghetti with tomato sauce in an Italian Restaurant with damn fine bread, Creamy Italian dressing (which you NEVER find in restaurants anymore) and red checkered tablecloths – a sign of an old world place. Spaghetti and tomato sauce is my comfort food. Even though they brought me a meatball and I’m a veg, I survived quite well.
• I got the best professional massage I’ve ever had in my life, for an entire hour.
• I ate some Baklava.
• I ran the most perfect carb loaded run, breezing through a few miles without even realizing it. Usually it’s a struggle. I’m no Baby Banana, evidenced by this.
• I drank two Yuengling, my favorite beer, and the exact right amount before they start to lose their taste in my drunkenness.
• I played Ms. Pac Man with a boy.
• I had sex on said boy’s Harley. Yes. On the Harley.
• Sex moved inside the house and ended up being by far, hands down, no more calls we have a winner, I can name that song in 2 notes, No Whammies, I’ll take Jim J. Bullock for the block, I’d like to bet it all in the Daily Double Alex, that’s my final answer sex I’ve ever had in my life, complete with four of the most amazing orgasms – one strong enough that it propelled him out of me. (By the way boys, if you didn’t feel it, she faked it.)
• Went home and went to bed with my doggies, listening to Christina Aguilera’s new album, which is the best fucking album that I’ve heard in a long time. This thing just doesn’t have a bad song.

I know, I finished off with Christina Aguilera. How…odd, after that buildup. But it was nearing midnight, and stuff that happened after midnight doesn’t count. And interestingly enough, it poured rain most of the day Saturday. The sun didn’t come out except for a couple minutes. I didn’t get to lay out and it was still my favorite day.

When was this? Saturday September 16. Yeah, last weekend. I know. You don’t care about any of it, you just want to know who the boy was. I’d tell you, but I’m not sure I know who he is either. I’m still trying to figure it out.

While my life continues on Spin Cycle, I wanted to ask for your assistance with two items for some friends.

*****

First, a very good friend is participating in the 2006 DC AIDS Walk on behalf of Whitman Walker Clinic, where he has volunteered for 10 years. The Clinic is a non-profit community based health organization serving Washington D.C. and the metro area. It is estimated that 1 in 20 adults living in Washington D.C. are infected with HIV. D.C. also has the highest rate of new AIDS cases per 100,000 population in the U.S. – a rate that is 10 times the national average. In D.C., the greatest increases in HIV/AIDS cases is occuring among African-Americans, women, IV drug users and through heterosexual contact. More than 11,000 people in the Washington Metro area live with AIDS. Tens of thousands more are estimated to be infected with HIV, and one third of those are not aware of their status. Nationwide, someone under 25 is infected with HIV every 30 minutes.

I got my HIV test this morning as a matter of fact. Have you done yours this year?

Please support Brent in his walk on October 7th, and the old statement “every little bit helps” is true.

Click here to give to this important cause.

*****

Second, on a lighter note, but also a cause after my own heart – Annie at Smart at Love needs LADIES ONLY to fill out a quick survey on porn. Fun stuff girls. The survey can be found by going to her site at the link above, and on the right under surveys, it is the first one. Only a few questions, less than 5 minutes of your time. I tried to post the direct link but it said to not copy and when I tried, it didn’t work.

In the last three weeks, my life has done several major tailspins. Usually, writing about what is going on provides a sense of relief. I’ve been holding back on all of this because, well, it’s just become incredibly difficult to live my life online in this manner. Too many paths cross in a city this small, and sometimes I’d really rather everyone and their mother not know my business.

When something major happens to me, I feel an obligation to spill it here. Let me clarify that – it’s not an obligation to you all, it’s an obligation to myself. To sit here, and pen my thoughts, and give them the time they deserve so I can properly decide how best to react – that’s my obligation. Lately I haven’t felt like doing this, and I refuse to fill a blog with bullshit posting of things that don’t follow the focus of what Velvet in Dupont was created for: “Mostly dating but sometimes life in Dupont Circle.” If it doesn’t make it through the Velvet Quality Control team (uh, that’s just me really) I don’t hit publish.

Bear with me. I’m not shutting down. When life rains down change (expected, unexpected, wanted, unwanted) in all major areas of your life (career, romance, homelife, personal goals) it’s a lot to manage. I’m just biding my time until I figure all this out, and until I can get myself to a place where I can and want to put it into words.

When I graduated college 11 years ago, my parents had these grand plans for me that included working on Wall Street. Lacking any other real plan, I entertained their idea. I interviewed with some of the big names, but it never felt like me. Wearing a suit every day at a time when women were “just starting to be able to wear pants,” tying my hair up, covering my tattoo, being generally understated, wearing pantyhose with socks and sneakers. Ugh. Believe me, if I ended up there, I would have made friends with the chicks from Longuyland, smoking cigarettes and getting fake nails on our lunch breaks.

Standing in the lobby of one of the Twin Towers at 22 years old, I recall taking what I remember to be two separate elevators to the 80 something floor for my interview. Why two elevators? Well, in case you’ve not been in buildings ridiculously high, they just can’t make elevator shafts that tall. It’s engineering stuff, not anything I understand. And you don’t always get the first elevator. You may wait for three or four cars before one becomes available. So you could get to the lobby of your building at 8:45 and feasibly not be at your desk until 9:00. That, my friends, is why I wouldn’t have perished in the September 11 attacks. Because I’m fucking late everywhere.

I went on to have a lazy job working for Nine West, buying shoes and stocking inventory at their Corporate Offices in Connecticut. Then the wind blew me off to Atlanta, where I worked in a buying office for what was Rich’s, but is now Macy’s. Then I bailed out of retail entirely, managing a restaurant until AtlantaBoy and I decided to leave Atlanta and drive cross country in April, 2001. The Christmas before we left, my mom spent many hours trying to talk me out of it, telling me how dangerous it would be, and to be careful for all the “crazies” we would meet on the road. Bottom line assessment? Yes, there are some freaks out there, but for the most part, everyone we met was nice, if not a bit simple. Especially in smaller towns.

We came back to Atlanta to get our things out of storage on Sept 2, 2001. We planned to spend a couple weeks there staying with AtlantaBoy’s family, tying up loose ends, closing bank accounts, fixing vehicle transmissions until we were ready to leave for D.C. Four airplanes and 19 terrorists altered our plan slightly, but not forever.

Driving cross country didn’t seem so dangerous anymore, when compared with the thousands who went to work that morning, like every other mundane morning of their lives, only to find an airplane crashing into their office.

My brother’s office building is on the south side of midtown. That part of downtown NY is relatively unobstructed by buildings, giving him a clear view of the Twin Towers. He said he saw the first plane hit, and instantly knew we were under attack. What continues to amaze me, is that many of the people in the 2nd tower who started their descent to the ground believed others, namely security guards, who told them everything was okay and to return to their offices. Everything was NOT okay. We discussed this phenomenon in one of my grad school classes – how in times of mass hysteria information gets skewed and people don’t make the right decisions on faulty information. It basically amounts to people not following their intuition. When it comes to my safety, no one can assure me of it – not a WTC security guard, not a coworker, especially not a D.C. Cop.

When I finally got my brother on the phone, I said I wanted to come up there and help. He said two things I distinctly remember. The first were comments about capitalism and how amazing it is for our economy. Agreed wholeheartedly. The second was that those in small towns were safest.

Events like September 11th bring out both the best and the worst in people. While some hoteliers were charging three times their nightly rate to those who were stranded in places far from home, others were cleaning up rubble and helping search for people they never knew, and never would.

For anyone who hasn’t read the 9/11 Commission report, you should. It’s fascinating. Reports were documented in August, 2001, basically outlining the probability for a major air attack on U.S. Soil. Can you point the finger at any one person for ignoring this? Eh, probably not. D.C. is a city of Liberal Bush-Bashers. I’ve said before I’m a Centrist, possible Libertarian. I think all politicians are assholes and liars. But Bush doesn’t act alone. His decisions are ultimately voted on by those other shitheads in Congress getting their dicks sucked by interns, so we can’t pin all the blame on him.

I drove to work this morning thinking about all of our presidents, wondering which one had the most difficult and trying term, based on events going on in the world, not on anything personal like illness. Who is it? I don’t know, but I certainly would argue that GW is in the running. We’re seeing times right now unlike any other, weapons of many kinds, plotting behind our backs that we can’t foresee and don’t always have the intelligence to uncover. Shit, one of my friends who shall remain nameless, made it through Pentagon security with a homemade bong in her car. They searched her car, and she still made it through. Post September 11. Fun shit I tell you.

I might have a Greek Flag tattooed on my back, but I’m an American through and through. The national anthem gives me goose bumps. My grandparents wanted so badly to leave Greece to get here, and they did, some not legally. They did that so that life for my parents, and ultimately for me would be better. There’s not a day that goes by that I take being here in this country for granted. Sure, we’re not perfect, what country is? And if you can answer that question, then you should move there. And spare me the hiding behind your First Amendment Rights to justify your criticism of our government.

In addition to the fact that driving cross country proved to me that danger can find you anywhere, I also learned something else. This country, state to state, offers more diversity in one continuous stretch of land than any other country I know of. Now, I haven’t been to Alaska or Hawaii, but I plan to go to each in the next few years. But, for the lower 48, all climates, all cultures, all political and religious beliefs converge here in the states. If you haven’t been to the Rockies, you should go. If you haven’t been to Glacier National Park, it’s worth the trip to get there. If you haven’t put your feet in the Pacific Ocean, cold as it is, you should. If you haven’t spent a weekend in a cottage on Cape Cod, you are missing out on a New England ritual. If you haven’t seen the line of people trying to cross the border from Mexico, you may not realize how many people really want to be you. If you haven’t been to New York City and had a slice of pizza, well, then you’re just not living.

Disclaimer: TOTALLY UNSAFE FOR FAMILY. DO YOURSELVES AND ME A FAVOR AND GET OFF NOW…

It’s funny that I write this blog and routinely get comments and emails from people saying that they can’t believe the shit that happens to me. My life is relatively calm now compared to the life I used to have which was was completely insane. Hotbox and I have been in her kitchen for 3 hours and counting, making homemade dog biscuits for her little home business. I’ve got her linked in my sidebar as Bella’s Bones.

I lived in Connecticut when I graduated college in 1995 until 1998. Then, I moved to Atlanta to be with my then boyfriend who you all know as AtlantaBoy. We were dating long distance and I decided to leave the hell that was Connecticut, to join him to start our life together. I stayed until April, 2001. Looking back, I find it comical that I could commit to both moving so far from home and to living with a man when today I can’t even commit to wearing the same pair of socks from sun up till sundown. After that point, I spent the summer in Phoenix and then moved to Baltimore for grad school in 2001.

Hotbox, one of my best friends from Connecticut, also left our home state and moved to Atlanta. I was unfortunately already gone from Atlanta by two years though. She moved here in the Fall of 2003. But it gives me a reason to come back and visit her and a couple other friends who haven’t left the area. The big secret about Atlanta is that a lot of people move here, but rarely do they stay. Sorta like D.C.

A sampling of the weeks conversations, flashbacks to rougher times, circa 1996 – 2000.

****

Expert Driving

Hotbox: “Remember when you made me drive by your high school boyfriends house and I smashed into that car on his street?”
Velvet: “Yeah, no one told you to back up down a one way street doing 40, that shit was your fault.”

****

Expert Waitressing

Velvet: “Remember when we were waitresses at the bar and you fell and dropped my table’s food? I was talking to some guy and I saw you fall but I didn’t come help you. Then you got up like nothing happened, brushed yourself off, swept their stuff into the dust pan and walked into the kitchen screaming ‘I need another order of nachos, fish sticks, and three burgers on the fly!’ And the table turned out to be the biggest assholes and they stiffed me on the bill? I remember all the illegal guys in the kitchen searching and searching for fish sticks in the freezer for like hours.”*

*There’s actually more to this story but it involves some really bad shit that could land me in jail so I’m going to shut up now.

****

Waitress Blackmail

Hotbox: What ever happened to that guy Gavin?
Velvet: I don’t know, but I remember he was dating that high school waitress* who had a curfew and he used to beg me to close for him. I never got out of that fucking place early.
Hotbox: He used to do that to everyone.
Velvet: One time he said, ‘Hey, I left a bag of coke on the back of the toilet in the women’s bathroom, you can have it if you close for me.’ I did close for him that night so he could go play with what’s-her-name, but, who just leaves a bag of coke laying around like that?

*This high school waitress was so dumb, she walked up to the owner of the restaurant, holding a menu with his fucking picture on the front and said, “Can I get you a table?” She didn’t know it was him.

****

Projectile Vomit & Million Dollar Ideas

Velvet: “Do you remember AtlantaBoy’s friend Kevin? Talked like he was chewing his cheek?
Hotbox: No. Which one was that?
Velvet: He came to New York to help AtlantaBoy and I move my stuff down. He used to date a stripper at the now-defunct Gold Club and she dumped him for some Prince from another country who handed her tens of thousands of dollars to go home with him. He slept on our couch for weeks, he was so upset. We lived across the street from the Gold Club back then.
Hotbox: Is he the one that gave us the drugs and you almost died at that club on the Lower East Side?
Velvet: You got it. That’s him.
Hotbox: Does anyone know what it was that he gave you?
Velvet: I have no clue. He said it was X, but no way. I just remember projectile vomiting for a couple days. AtlantaBoy thought it was heroin. But I did invent several ingenious things on that high, including the “Commemorative Sonny Bono Christmas Ornament” and the “Giant Baseball for the Yankees in Times Square.”

****

Priorities

Hotbox: When was the last time you were here?
Velvet: When you moved down here and I came to see AtlantaBoy and we broke up.
Hotbox’s boyfriend: Was I here?
Velvet: Yes, HotBox was mad at you because you wouldn’t help her unpack. You just kept smoking pot all day.
Hotbox: That was so annoying. Fucking idiot.
Velvet: Sort of hypocritical since I’ve witnessed you snorting coke off my dashboard when we were stuck in traffic in the Bronx.
Hotbox: Yeah, but that’s different. BF becomes useless when he smokes pot. I needed him to be productive and help me unpack. You and I were going to Webster Hall that night.
Velvet: It’s shocking we actually have two separate nasal passages you know.

****

Driving through the neighborhood the other day of my first apartment with AtlantaBoy:

Velvet: Oh. My. God. This place is amazing now.
Hotbox: What was it like when you lived here?
Velvet: You wouldn’t believe it. That Home Depot, that now has a Best Buy and a bunch of other great stores surrounding it, used to be the only store here. And behind there are projects. So the people from the projects used to come through the Home Depot parking lot and come into our complex, basically also projects, and steal shit. One day the management put a note up that someone’s bicycle had been stolen off their patio. The next week a note about a car being broken into. The notes went like that for a while, each time AtlantaBoy and I joking about the color of the notes – bright blue, green, pink – to get your attention. Then he walked in one day with a purple piece of paper in his hand and said, ‘We’re fucking moving.’ I asked why and he read me the note. Someone had been kidnapped and carjacked out of our complex the night before.

****

Gun Control to Major Tom

Velvet: Remember that guy Tom?
Hotbox: Yeah, IrishOne still talks to him.
Velvet: Is he still trying to be a cop?
Hotbox: I think he’s a Sheriff now.
Velvet: He used to get drunk all the time and sleep on my couch. He left his gun under my bed once.
Hotbox: Well, now he can actually legally carry a gun.

****

When a Guy will Endure Anything to Get in a Woman’s Pants

Hotbox: Who was AtlantaBoy’s friend who I dressed up and put makeup on?
Velvet: Terry. You know I have all that on video.
Hotbox: What happened to him?
Velvet: He’s still around. He told AtlantaBoy that he came to D.C. and we fucked.
Hotbox: Is that true?
Velvet: Nope. He and AtlantaBoy got into a fight and he was trying to piss him off. I think AtlantaBoy believes him though.
Hotbox: There’s something wrong with all of them you know.
Velvet: Too many drugs. Everyone’s brain is fucking burned out.

****

The Real Live Grinch

Hotbox: Why are you going to make me out to be worse than you on your blog? You were really bad when we lived in Connecticut.
Velvet: Whatever, you stole a Christmas tree!
Hotbox: Oh yeah.

****

The Princess of Grace

Hotbox: You were with me when I fell at the Thirsty Turtle, right?
Velvet: Yeah. You said you were going to the bathroom, so I turned my head to look out the window and reached blindly for my beer which was sitting on our table. But you had tripped getting up from the table and your pant leg caught the leg of the table and brought the whole thing down on top of you, including my purse, our beers and that chick sitting on the barstool in the aisle.
Hotbox: You just sat there laughing.
Velvet: That was some fall. The whole place was staring at us.
Hotbox: And look at us now. Making homemade dog biscuits in the suburbs.

The Thora update is, well, there’s not really an update. Yesterday morning I woke up, went for a run, and called AtlantaBoy as planned. He has yet to call back. From YESTERDAY MORNING. Typical. Fucking typical. Reason #754 why we are no longer together: his irresponsibility.

Last night as I was falling asleep Thora let out a deep breath. I looked over at her and she was laying on her stomach with her head on top of her paws, staring out the window. I rolled over on to my side and said, “He’s not coming baby.” She didn’t turn to look at me, just kept staring out the window. I swear that my dogs understand me when I speak to them. Then I thought about how awful it would be if he and I had gotten married and had kids that we had to share in this manner. He would never show up to get them. Everything happens for a reason I suppose.

While I’m barely an eater when I’m in D.C., I’ve been steadily eating my way through Atlanta, hitting all the old favorites. Side note: for anyone who also had a love affair with Fratelli di Napoli, it’s no longer that good, so don’t bother. Knowing that I’ve become an eating machine, I was quite pleased to discover that the gym I still pay for has a location across from my friend’s house. I went over there Sunday to plan my workouts, grabbing a schedule for their group classes just for the hell of it.

Normally I don’t participate in “group classes” because, well, they just annoy the fuck out of me. I make my one exception for delicious Mike, at my gym in D.C., who can run a weightlifting class like boot camp, incapacitating me to the point where I actually consider calling a cab to take me three blocks home. But when I saw the group schedule, something caught my eye.

Gin Miller was teaching a class. Who is Gin Miller you ask? Aside from being world famous in the fitness industry, her major claim to fame is that she invented step aerobics. There was no way once I saw that, that I wasn’t dragging my fat overeating ass to the gym.

During the class, someone actually yelled “yee haw” instead of the normal “woo hoo” you hear in other cities, reminding me I was in the south again. After class, Hotbox and I (yes, that’s her name for this blog, and yes, it came from exactly where you think it did) went up to say hi to her. Hotbox asked me if I was creaming my pants. Not quite, bitch. Anyway, Gin had said during class that she was selling her house. So we asked her if she was leaving the area. She said no, that she was just moving north a little and had to sell the house because she was getting divorced.

We got out to the parking lot and Hotbox said, “See? You can be totally gorgeous, have a great body, be sweet as pie, have a great job and your husband will still divorce you.” Amen.

Oh. Shucks. Did I just say “Amen?” Heavens to Betsy, I reckon I’ve been in the south too long! Better get out of here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

I’m in Atlanta.

As I left town early Saturday morning to make the trip south, it was really quiet in my neighborhood. Probably a combination of the early hour and the holiday weekend, there were only a few people milling about. My last glimpse of Dupont Circle was a man walking up the street, flipping through the Yellow Pages. I really wonder about some other people’s worlds, you know?

I sat in hellacious traffic from Arlington to oh, Richmond. I now know why it is appropriately called “NoVa.” No va in Spanish? “Doesn’t go.” Yeah. That was me for three hours yesterday morning. I attempted to make up for lost time, doing about 90 alongside some boys in a Mercedes from Connecticut. Eventually through a traffic altercation, where they slowed down to 50, I pulled up next to them and asked them if they were okay. We ended up having a conversation at about 70 m.p.h. on the highway just north of Charlotte. Seems they lived on the same street as me in Connecticut. Since the street is about three blocks long, I’d say that yes, it is a small world.

I stopped in Charlotte for dinner. I tied the dogs up outside a restaurant and went in to order food and use the restroom. When I came back outside, someone had given Thora and Sammy their own cups of cold water. Um…wow. I forgot what it was like to be in the south again.

Then I got in the car and hauled ass to my friends house. I got there just before 10 p.m., and I was reminded instantly of why she is one of my best friends. She began to explain her theory of how she could be a waitress who telecommutes. Sigh. That chick is just too funny.

Now, the meat of this post is really about Thora. And my ex. Two and a half years ago my ex left town and left Thora with someone who was supposed to watch her. But his version of “watching her” meant opening the doggie door and letting her do whatever she wanted. After a week when he didn’t return home, she took off. He and I had a fight because he never went to look for her, I put an ad in the paper, someone called me and I drove all night with Penny to get her. That was the fateful trip where the cop pulled us over and asked if he knew why we were pulled over. Penny says no, and he says, “Because you almost hit me.” Well, shit. We were exhausted!

Okay, so it’s been 2 and a half years, and he seems to have cleaned up his act. I decided to tell him that I was coming to town. He’s asked me if he can have Thora for the time I’m here. I’m so scared to just let him have her because he’ll try to take her back. But I don’t want to deny him the chance to get to see her and play with her. So, I’m totally at a loss. The person he was a few years ago is hopefully long gone, replaced by someone more responsible and less angry. But it’s only a guess. So now I’m stuck in the position of trusting someone who swears he can’t care for the dog and won’t separate her from Sammy again. We’re supposed to meet tomorrow and all I can hope is that this doesn’t backfire. I don’t think I will be lucky enough to find her a second time if she gets lost. Damn me and my conscience. I could have come to town and not said a word. Shit.

Okay. A couple quick things, then some news.

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

The Upstairs Neighbor

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

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

And Linda Cropp came out for a little speakage:

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

Last Thing:

Sammy? Thora?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cliffs Notes Version:

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

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

1) I will not tolerate a liar.

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

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

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

Reading The Whole Book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you out of my life.”

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

Sherlock: I’m sorry.

Velvet: Fuck you.

******

Final Stuff For You to Know:

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

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

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

Just a random post about my yesterday.

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

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

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

*****

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

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

Stupid tables turning.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, only my boss. Unbelievable.

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

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

Here’s a phone call I made today.

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

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

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

He met Sammy and Thora.

He came into my house.

I broke my rules.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kids? I adore this man.

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

All right. So what happened?

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

Um. What? Your who?

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

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

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

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

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

He said “Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

Oh, one more thing. Fuck you Sherlock.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exactly.

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

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

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

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

Hmm. What’s this? Do I smell Spandex?

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

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

Probably their best. Hit #1, it did.

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

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Sherlock:

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

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

No longer a breeding ground for psychotics,
Velvet

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

It’s Raining Men right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did I just hear? Holy fucking shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Backing up…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Full update found on my SourNSweet guest post.

Also a First Date DC guest post today as well.

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