Category: Velvet in Dupont (Page 7 of 11)

More on worlds colliding in a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist asks, “What caused that breakup?”

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

The therapist asks, “Define separated.”

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist says, “What did he look like?”

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist says, “Go on.”

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

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

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

Therapist asks, “Do you regret it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maryland, Baltimore, United States, 0 returning visits

Yeah. Gotcha.

Bar sex? Huh.

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

Washington, Tacoma, United States, 30 returning visits

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

Christ.

Update 2 ~

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

Ontario, Toronto, Canada, 9 returning visits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready?

“Are you in a band?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“SLUT.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I get laid off, I’m leaving D.C.

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

Dear Washington D.C.:

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

In no particular order:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

First things first. The fuckers at It’s Just Lunch called back at a hair before 5 on Friday. They said I was “placed on hold,” and usually there is a letter in the file indicating that the client received a copy of said letter outlining the ‘hold terms.’ However, surprise, that letter is nonexistent, and they realize a mistake was made. I again explained that the last crew of employees was a disaster, and she agreed, saying, “You have no idea what we are dealing with over here. People are really pissed off.” Nope, I’m pretty sure I understand.

Anyway, this time I have faith, not of course in their matchmaking skills, but their general competence to set me up on a day I say I’m available. This girl who called back was a “Director” as opposed to the “Coordinator” who answered the phone the other day. Usually each office has two Directors and two Coordinators. The job of the Director is to do everything possible up to and including oral and anal, to get you to part with your money. The Coordinator’s job is to ruin your life with dates scheduled for the days you say you have open heart surgery, send you to restaurants that don’t exist, and send you to meet people who don’t show up.

I’ve given them my schedule and they have “two matches” for me. No I didn’t write anything down because even in the two guys they described, they both sound the same. Both are the same height, both got their MBA from GMU. Seriously. Are they just reading the same file over and over? And let’s face it, according to them, I’m in a volleyball league, so I would say the integrity of their information is worthless. Blech. Well, it’s almost over. And it’s practice so I don’t screw up with someone real.

*****

I dragged a few girls to a party. Tell your friends!” The Queen of Quantity loves a whole new crowd, and since we rarely leave the dog park anymore, off we went, grabbing Eternal Freshman on the way. Drunk? Yes. But beer only for me. And okay, a sip of that jungle juice, holy moly, what was in that shit??

At one point in the evening, Kathryn’s man was pointing out a few people in the crowd. Pointing at one, he said, “That’s the guy who we mentioned has the White House gig.” And Kathryn said, “Velvet rides a motorcycle. Something tells me a man with a White House job isn’t exactly her type of crowd.”

Touche. Truer words were never spoken.

As I saw the Queen of Quantity cozy up to someone whose aura was far beyond that of what I’d call a metrosexual, I sent her a text saying as much. Only it was written in a “meant for her eyes only.” What does she do? Reads the text with him reading from over her shoulder. I scream, “NO!” She then tosses me her phone as he’s jumping to reach it, and I run for the end zone, deleting the text along the way. Touchdown. The crowd goes wild. Please. Like any man can compete with me in heels. People please. If we’re out and I send you a text, don’t share with the person you just met! I use that texting function to point out things that can’t be said out loud!

On my way out, I caught the tail end of a bit of Cookie, but according to popular vote, that is the end you would want to catch, you know, provided you had a choice and only one was available.

And I reminded myself again why it is never a good idea to see the hours of 3 a.m. and beyond, especially in my neighborhood. Walking the true loves of my life, a guy pulled up alongside me on 18th Street and said, “Do you need help walking those dogs?” I said, “Nope.” And he says, “Are you sure?” I say, “Yeah, look at them, they practically walk themselves!” He says, “Cause I’ll help you.” And I say, “Have a good night!” Finally he drives off.

Not even 15 steps later, a guy passes me on a bike and says, “Can I talk to you?” I said, “What? Are you lost?” He goes, “No, come here, I want to talk to you.” I said, “Honey, I don’t come to men. They come to me.” (Cough. Not very often.) And I kept walking. I pass a couple girls, stumbling home from Adam’s Morgan, and I hear one of them say, “Well don’t just stare at her ass, why don’t you go talk to her?” Lord. Woman, if I could shove my size 7 cork high heel shoe in your fat mouth, believe me I would.

Guess who comes peddaling around the corner on to S Street as my dogs are milling around someone’s front yard? Yeah. Bike boy. Words written for him in this convo are exactly as he said them.

Velvet: What?
Bike Boy: I come to talk to you.
Velvet: What do you want?
Bike Boy: What do all guys want?
(Yes yes, we really have a winner here.)
Velvet: Are you kidding me?
Bike Boy: I not from here. I don’t know. But I want to know you.
Velvet: Really? Want to come back to my house and know me? You can meet my boyfriend too while you’re there.
Bike Boy: I see you every day.
Velvet: What?
Bike Boy: I know you live here. On this street. I see you every day. Walking your dogs.
(I admit, the balance of power just tipped in his direction and I didn’t bring my mace with me.)
Velvet: Yeah. Great. Well, I have to go now.
Bike Boy: Ok. I go with you.
(I feel like I’m in that scene in the best movie ever, Loverboy, where Rob Camiletti tries to have sex with Randy – Patrick Dempsey’s mom – who is Kate Jackson. She says no, and he follows her on his scooter screaming, “But I Love you!”)
Velvet: No. I have to go home. And you are not coming with me.
(Bike Boy continues to ride along slowly next to me.)
Velvet: Goodbye!
(We pass two lesbians and I look at them, pleading with my eyes for them to scare him somehow, but they are too busy thinking about getting home, obviously. Then Bike Boy almost runs over Thora.)
Velvet: Ok. You have to go. Goodbye.

Finally he rides off. Jesus. What the hell? As the night progresses and I get drunker, I want LESS to do with anything stumbling out of a bar than at any point in time earlier in the night.

So, Sunday. After a particularly violent waxing session (seriously, WTF?) I spent my day as usual, laying in the sun – well, what there was of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple quick things first.

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

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

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

*****

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

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

*****

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mass explosion of bras and panties. Everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another night in the life of a typical DC woman…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exit 18th Street Lounge, stage left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Totally off topic today.

Dear Alan Greenspan:

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

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

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

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

Love,
Velvet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Hilarious Conversations:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now. The truth. Brace yourself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yesterday:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I absolutely think the world of you.

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

Right on time. I’ve been expecting you.

I was talking to my eye twitch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear BH,

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

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

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

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

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

Kisses and throwing caution to the wind,
Velvet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dad: “SHUDDUP!”

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

Dad: (silence)

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

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

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

Changing Gears…time for another letter.

Deep breath. Okay. I’m okay.

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

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

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

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

Velvet