I had another typical old-school Velvet style weekend. The “old-school” weekends are a serious reminder of how fun life can be. I got reacquainted with an old friend who was not available to me for the better part of a year because someone borrowed said friend and held her hostage! Okay, he didn’t so much hold her hostage as I just didn’t ask for her back. My precious autographed copy of And the Winner is…Brianna Banks is back in the house! Much like the old Velvet, that link is not safe for work.

Brianna Banks is hands down the best sucker of cocks in the business. Spit. Stroke. Suck. Spit. Stroke. Suck. Pay attention to the balls. Back to spit, stroke, suck. Deep throat. Her cock sucking repertoire is so unbelievably phenomenal that you really can’t look away. Sniff. She taught me everything I know and there is no reason she can’t teach you too. Err. If you’re a girl.

Aversion to, or poor execution of oral sex on either partner is just a shame. Watch a movie, write it down, practice, practice, practice. It’s important, and those who don’t do it probably don’t because they aren’t good at it. And they probably aren’t good at it because they don’t value their partner’s enjoyment in the sex act. And they probably don’t value their partner’s enjoyment in the sex act because they are selfish immature “I don’t suck cock/munch carpet” protestors. You know you’ve done well when you hear, “Wow, you’re really good at that.” We girls like compliments.

Anyway, so a few years ago, Brianna was stripping in Baltimore. I hate leaving the city, but I hauled my ass out to witness this event. My friend and I ended up being the only two girls there – surprise. We waited in line to get a picture and so I could just coo over her and inspect her boob job up close. Coming from someone with zero bi tendencies, she is every bit as hot in person as she is on camera.

Brianna is stripping and camera flashes are going off everywhere, so my friend and I decide we could probably sneak a few pictures. I snap some, get away with it, and snap some more. Next thing you know, there is some meathead bouncer on top of me and a bunch of guys who were formerly hanging out with us, now on top of the bouncer. I’m at the bottom of a man-pile and not in a good way.

My friend later said that when I walked out of that melee holding the camera still, she was thoroughly impressed. I had the choice to delete the pictures or be kicked out. They eventually demanded both. What the fuck ever. I pretended to delete a few, and we left. I love that when we’re walking out the door the bouncer says, “You can come back another night.” I’m like, “Dude. Look around you. You are in BALTIMORE. And I would come back because why?” We left. After a few minutes with photo rescue software, I recovered the precious pics, much to the delight of all the boys at work.

So back to present day. Friday night I only got three hours sleep because of that stupid movie and something important I had to attend to. I cruised through 18th Street in Dupont around 3:30 a.m. Much like I would never go to Baltimore again, I’m so sick of the bridge and tunnel people (nod to Steve Rubell for that term, may he rest in peace,) who think the D.C. is “soooo cool.”

The only reason the city is cool is because the people who live in the city make it cool. Write that down, burbies.

Speedracer and I mowed down some overly dressed ‘burbans in their sunglasses, blazers and cocktail dresses. I shook my head in disgust at all the drunks getting into cabs, stumbling for cars, littering the streets with whatever loot they smuggled out of the place. Christ, can’t you go back to your group house in Herndon and litter the streets there? Or do the soccer moms report you?

Saturday, I had early plans with some friends. I would have liked to revise the start time based on my delayed bedtime, but I wasn’t allowed. I was rewarded with the most hilarious sight though. One FreckledK, with a zero tolerance for taking bullshit (cough, in most cases,) manhandled a thief. She pulled the perp, a yellow labrador, about 3 feet tall and 65 lbs., by its collar and yanked a ball out of his mouth. I would forfeit sleep any day to witness that again. I’m no longer the only asshole at the dog park! Yay!

The moral of the weekend has something to do with balls in the mouth, but I just can’t come full circle with it yet. Let me watch the Simpsons and maybe it will come to me.

I’ve never been one of the music snobs, scouring the net for the “next big thing,” talking about it on message boards and driving ridiculous distances to see some band no one has heard of. Most often the next big thing to me is boring. Give me some Metallica, Offspring, and The Cult and I’m good. When something new that everyone is talking about hits mainstream, I never jump on the bandwagon. (Harry Potter anyone?) But, I do want to know, why this person? Why did they make it big? So then I investigate.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my newest case study: Amy Winehouse – The ugliest chick ever created by the music industry. Why is she famous? I know some of you like her (well, you did throw her CD at a metrobus driver) but still. Why is she famous? Didn’t this disaster prove that this chick fucking sucks? Gee, maybe if I sing like a drunken sailor on morphine who just got run over by a truck, twice, people will think I’m dark, edgy and cool.

She didn’t used to be so ugly. By genes alone, she isn’t cute, but still. There was a time where she wasn’t the poster child for anorexics who hide bird nests in their hair. I wonder if she looked in the mirror and said, “Gee, how can I make myself uglier? Here we go. I’ll put some various household items in my bouffant to hold it up higher, then seal it off with a birds nest. When the birds come looking for a new home, I’ll let them hover around me. People will think I’m all dark, edgy and cool.”

I suppose this whole image thing had to penetrate into the rest of her life too. A typical photo shoot for Amy Winehouse:

Photog: Amy, sing like you have a cock in your mouth.
Amy: I do have a cock in my mouth!
Photog: Then, pretend the cock is bigger. Yeah…that’s right. Now, pretend his balls are in there too. No, no, hairy balls! There! THAT’S THE EXPRESSION I WANT!”

CLICK!

She looks dirty to me. Not good dirty. Dirty as in, “I haven’t washed my hair in two weeks, I’m wearing the same underwear from last Monday and I’m pretty overdue for some waxing” dirty. Now this chick says she just wants to quit her career and get married and have babies? Christ. First, she is really a role model, huh? Work a couple years, then get knocked up. Even Britney Spears worked longer before she let the spawn of the devil enter her coochie. Second, ugly people should not have children. (See: Nancy Grace.) But, okay, if your reproduction means that we get no more “music” from you, then, I’ll take this one for the team.

“When I get pregnant, I’m going to carry the baby here in my head!”

You all are probably familiar with the I heart NY shirts. There was even a song that went along with this slogan. A very, very bad song on all the New York television stations in the 70’s. IIIIIIIIIII love New Yorrrrrrrrrrrrk. Oh hell. Now I have several commercials from the 70’s going through my head like that stupid Flemington Furs in NJ where they follow the lady down the street and the Pocono’s commercial…”winter spring summer or fall!” Okay, off topic.

So here it is. The logo we all know.

I assumed that New York was the first to make this slogan. New York is always the first to do anything. Anyway, seems I was right.

Recently, I started seeing the same shirts for D.C. I find it hard to love D.C. so it is comical to me that someone would actually put this on a t-shirt. It’s like putting “I love a swampy shithole filled with lying politicians and a sub-par public transportation system” on a t-shirt, but whatever. There’s a guy with a Ben’s Chili Bowl tattoo in my neighborhood, I suppose everyone has their vice. Anyway, suddenly I am seeing people all over town wearing these shirts. Not just any people though.

You would expect to see this on a tourist, right? A tourist walking next to another tourist wearing the FBI (Female Body Inspector) shirt. Hardy har har. But there are very few tourists in my ‘hood or any of the ‘hoods in which I hang.

Here’s the offending apparel by the way:

So who is wearing them? Homeless people. HOMELESS PEOPLE!

Okay, what is going on? Seriously. Are they being handed out at the area shelters? Does anyone see how this might be a cruel twist of philanthropy – having a homeless person wear a shirt announcing their “love” of a city they are ill equipped to leave; declaring love for a city that has disappointed them in so many ways; proclaiming their supposed attachment to a city that has chewed them up and spit them out, into the gutters of the soon to be unplowed snowy streets. Thanks Fenty! You’re a real workhorse! Sorry, off topic again.

Whoever handed these shirts out is either an idiot or has a sense of humor more fucked than mine. Can you imagine that meeting where this gem of an idea was hatched?

Douchebag Number 1: Gee, let’s make a bunch of ‘I love D.C.’ shirts and give them to the most captive audience we know have – the homeless.

Douchebag Number 2: Oh, Douchebag 1, you are so smart. There certainly are a lot of homeless people here. They will be happy to have a clean, new shirt. The swamp city simultaneously gets some free advertising during peak tourist time. Ingenious!

Douchebag Number 3: Yes! Using people who wander the streets all day instead of paying for advertising. Walking billboards! It’s like subliminal advertising, soon everyone will be wearing the shirts!

Douchebag’s Boss: You’re getting a payraise Douchebag 1! For the millions you saved us in advertising I’m going to give you 1/10 of 1 pay grade raise.

Douchebag 1: That’s four dollars a year! Thank you! I might be able to move closer to the city now. My commute from West Vagina is hard!

I personally want to make a shirt that says “I heart D.C. Cops.” Then I want to wipe my ass with it. Oh. Sorry. Off topic again.

Most cities, err, most normal cities try to minimize the undesirables by pretending they don’t exist. Here? Oh, hell no. We’re just pompous enough to not only use our undesirables, but to put them in the brightest yellow shirts anyone can find. I think that is a much better tourist draw anyway. Now we just need a new slogan.

“The District of Columbia, we’re so wonderful even the bums won’t leave!”

*I am still trying to get the lady who was accosted at the dog park to come out of her house and give me the names of D.C.’s worst cops. I have not forgotten.*

So, I had a typical “old-school” Velvet kind of week and weekend. But in the spirit of not venturing down the personal lane ever again, I’ll leave it at this handy recap:

Punches thrown: 2

Vacations Planned: 3

Vacations Booked: 1

Number of dogs in my condo: 6

People who told me I was their soulmate: 1

Times 911 was called: 1

Times 911 asked me to repeat my story: 2

Times 911 called back and asked me to repeat story again: 1

Number of colors the witnesses reported the perp’s shirt as being: 4

Number of times my stuff has been demanded back from the hostage taker: 3

Number of times hostage taker has refused, using the same excuse used in all other situations where stuff is being held hostage: 3

Times I thought about putting hostage taker’s balls in a vice grip: 114

Time in the sun: 6 hours

Time at the bar: 5 hours

Possible gunshots fired: 2

Times jaw dropped to floor: 2. Once when I learned I was the subject of a rumor so delicious that even I don’t care to deny it and once I bumped into someone who I thought I might never see again.

Hours spent embroiled in newest brewing scandal: 6

Obnoxious strangers who disrespected me and then felt my wrath: 2. One picked up her dog and completely left the dog beach, the other took his strollers and multiple children and hopefully went back to the suburbs. There is a third if you count the bitch from the week before who I called a “dumb cunt” when she accosted me in front of 20 people to accuse me of abusing my dogs. I didn’t know that tying them outside the post office while I went in to mail a package qualified for abuse. Thankfully she invaded both my space and didn’t mind her business to tell me.

Times my life came 359 degrees, shocking me so much I landed in a cab, flying across town to complete the final degree: 1. And it was worth every minute.

I admit it. I’m not reading blogs anymore. I haven’t been reading for six months to be quite honest. I’m reading Dostoevsky with some more Hemingway on deck. But. There’s a but. Isn’t there always a but?

The man who taught Economics classes that changed my life has a blog. And I’m reading that. And you should too. He’s also writing a book that I can’t wait to buy.

http://givingupcontrol.wordpress.com/

A Photo Tour through the South.

Babe’s Chicken Dinner House, Garland, Texas. I got the catfish, and the sides were “all you can eat.” I’m not good on the all you can eat type of fare, since my stomach fills up after three kernels of corn, but I did good! So did Patsy and Patsy’s husband. I wore my eatin’ pants! While we waited for our third helping of creamed corn, the best green beans ever (they may have been cooked in soda syrup,) and mashed potatoes, these chicks did a little dance.

“And Ya Do the Hokey Pokey, and That’s What It’s All About!” The next day, I left Texas. My departure had nothing to do with Babe’s or the Hokey Pokey though.

There’s the Mississippi. This time, I was headed east though. Back when I was heading west, this blog was still dead. I think it came back to life in Dallas as a matter of fact…thanks Patsy!

No. Mississippi is definitely NOT like coming home. My home has yuppies and lots of straight blonde hair. And pearls. Don’t forget the pearls.

Again, why the false Advertising? Alabama is about as beautiful as herpes. The only saving grace for this picture are the bikers milling about.

There are still a few things in the south that you won’t see anywhere else. Take for instance, this 2 door pickup truck.

How many non-Greencard holding Mexican border jumpers can you fit in the backseat? Apparently, four.

Aah the south. Where you can get all the sweet tea you want and where NYJER seed is somehow written up by the store clerk as “NIGER” seed. Yes, I know the war isn’t over for you rebels, but do you have to wear your racism on your sleeve? It isn’t hard to see where they were going with this, even though they spelled THAT word wrong too. How apropos. They could argue that the seed comes from the country Niger, but it says plain as day: Packaged in the U.S.A. Yeppers.

Here’s what I did, in one sitting. It took 16 hours and I only had one taco and one red bull in the whole time time on the road.

There are two dogs who hate me right now, by the way.

You know, everyone jokes around when they are on vacation and the crazy friend joins them in the debauchery. But seriously, if I had known that this weekend, only half way over, was going to be like this, I would have rested up…or something.

The magnitude of our first night out at Roosters was somehow lost in my drunken post. From sober eyes, the insanity of two men punching it out in pretty vicious bar fight that starts in the middle of the bar and somehow ends up on top of the table you are sharing with some friends and a very horny lesbian is still unfathomable. Add to that the round of beers you just ordered being casualities of the drama with bottles flying everywhere and beer landing on all of us. I was only somewhat joking with K about this being a weekend to put the bail bondsman on notice. But the jokes have stopped and I’m effectively eating my words with a side of Aleve.

Last night we planned a thorough round of Scottsdale barhopping. But that quickly came to a halt after our first stop at a Biker Bar. Forward my mail everyone, I found my home there and never ever wanted to leave. FK made me hit one other place then we grabbed a Rickshaw taxi instead of hoofing it back.

Back at Biker Bar Extraordinaire we sit at the bar and I put some money into the Megatouch machine. I’m an addict. It’s a throwback to my days of waiting tables in Connecticut and sitting with the girls into the wee hours of the morning matching tiles for Tai Play. At some point, K leans over and whispers to me.

K: You may want to join this conversation I’m having with this guy next to me.
Velvet: Why?
K: He’s a pornographer. He shoots porn for a living.

I turned to the couple on the other side of me, rapt with my agility at tile matching, and said, “Knock yourselves out with the remaining money, apparently there is a conversation I need to be a part of over here.”

We grilled that guy about everything. He told us how he shoots amateur, how a girl in her mid-twenties is considered “old,” how Jenna Jameson allegedly “ruined” Scottsdale with her underhanded tricks. I refuse to believe anything bad about Jenna though his accusations beg the question – she’s a pornstar, did you expect her to have high morals? Come on dude, she sucks cock and takes it in the ass for a living. He explained how they rent a hotel room and bring some artwork to hang on the wall to make it look more legit, how once they rent a hotel room the hotel is “tainted” and they can’t go back, though I’m not sure if it is for an artistic reason or if the hotel gets wind of it and bans them when they see his Irish ass coming to the front desk. Then we get to the question of money. K was sadly in the loo for the early part of this conversation.

Velvet: So the chicks make like $2000 for 2 or 3 days work, right?
Pornographer: No way. They get paid hourly. And it’s not that much.
Velvet: How much are we talking?
Pornographer: Depends on the girl. Pick out a girl in here and I’ll tell you what I would pay her.

I’m hard pressed to find many females in this bar. Finally I locate one who seems decently attractive but he says he wouldn’t hire her. “Man face” was cited as the reason, and she was disqualified.

Velvet: Okay, that girl over there.
Pornographer: How big are her tits?
Velvet: Tough to see them, I’d say a B or C cup.
Pornographer: I’d give her about $140.
Velvet: An hour? Jesus. Okay, well, I’ll just ask. What would I make?
Pornographer: You? Are those a C cup?
Velvet: Yes.
Pornographer: How big are your areolas?

Yes. He really asked me that.

Velvet: Uh…normal sized I guess.
Pornographer: Are they light or dark?
Velvet: Light.
Pornographer, with eyes lighting up for some reason: I’d give you more than that other chick then.
Velvet: Who knew the money was in the areolas?

As the conversation wears on and shots are poured, something else distracted my eye and garnered my full attention. I heard little yelps from FK of “save me,” and “help,” but there really wasn’t a lot I could wanted to do. I was distraaaaaaaacted. Apparently the pornographer had been asking her to go back and see his studio and the world famous adult bookstore where he worked. When she rebuffed his advances, he said, “Damn it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you what I did for a living!”

As friendly switches into creepy, K and I were happy to be kicked out as the bar closed.

Then, as if the above madness wasn’t enough, we somehow ended up with more derelicts in tow with conversations of jealous girlfriends, obvious homosexuality, and my staking a claim on the best bar ever…evidenced by the fact that I climbed, in cork heels, on to this sign.

A night at Roosters. Mesa, Arizona.

***

When the fight broke out, I didn’t think the two cowboys would finish by throwing punches on TOP of our table. Fucking Frecked K. Brings all the trouble to town. The cowboys were both real pissed off, each retreating to his own corner – one looking for the lens to his glasses and the other being placated by his man-faced girlfriend with the mega fake tits. I would have sided with him had it not been for the fact that he wore his Wranglers way too high.

***

V: Hey, that guy in the straw hat looks like Willie Nelson.
FK: That’s the guy who asked me to dance when you went to the bathroom.

***

Going to pee. Pubes on the toilet seat. Who still has pubes after the 1980’s?

***

FK did get hit on by a girl. Just in case anyone was keeping score… I think she said something to FK like, “I fall in love easy…”

It’s funny how quickly things can change in life. This is the photographic representation of my life two months ago from today.

After 60 days thoroughly expunging, here I am now:

Much like the view of New York City is better from the outlying boroughs, the clarity I have without all these things going on around me is crystal. Sometimes you get so caught up in the day to day, that you lose sight of the big picture.

I ran several errands in Phoenix this week and quickly noticed I was being gawked at. I decided to see if any of the 8th grade dropouts with 4 chins and beer bellies Cyrano de Bergeracked a Craigslist Missed Connection for me. Sure, DC has its share of crazies on Craigslist, but the Phoenix peeps seem to use their Missed connections for an entirely different purpose.

Me thinks Jordan Baker will like these.

1: You were a dancer we met in 2000 got pregnet and I left – m4w-34

“This has been haunting me for six years. I met you at a strip bar went home w/ you that night and after spending a week w/ you I left and went back to my wife. Not long after you got in touch w/ me and said you were pregnant I hung up and never heard from you again. Please in the name of god let me find you I have been looking for six years and will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you. My name is Thomas brooks Allen and I miss you! Please if by the one in a million chance you get this email me back and I will be on my way…All of my heart, Thomas.”

What is pregnet? Now Thomas, in addition to needing some serious spelling lessons, you believed a stripper? You really think you are the father of this child, even if it does exist? And now you are planning on leaving your wife (again) for a stripper. Wow dude. You need help.

2: Wake/Viewing – Uncle Gypsy – m4w – 31

“I meet you at the wake on Monday, you are from Cali. I thought you were so pretty and I felt this mutual attraction”

Okay, I swear I’m not making these ads up. I wonder what the opener was, “Hey, if I stand next to the casket at a 3/4 angle, does it make my ass look fat?”

3: sierra are you there? Phoenix1971 – m4w – 36

“missed you online today. don’t want to bother you at work …but maybe i’ll stop in for a few minutes to see what you do.”

Stalker! DO NOT show up at her job!

4: Monday evening – m4w

“I waited to hear from you all weekend to see if you wanted to come over last night between 6:45 and 9 or 9:30. Did you have a change in mind or decide to go in a different direction? I even cleaned the house and changed the linen.”

Okay, so she doesn’t want to spend the weekend with you, then gives you a pretty long window of when she may show up on Monday night? And you changed the linens! Aww! I guess you were planning to have sex. She wasn’t though. Or at least not with you.

5: Still missing you – m4w – 39

“God I want to cry! I miss you so much I can’t get you out of my head! Why? Why can’t I let you go! What is wrong with me! I think about you night and day! I want you back so bad yet I know the abuse you hurled on upon me was killing me but yet I still dream about you. I wake up in the morning expecting to be next to you but no such luck. I am your slave. You are still my one my only my always and forever. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

Huh. Poor dude.

Today I did something I never do. I went to Wal-Mart. Three times actually. First time I forgot my wallet. Second time I forgot to buy half the shit I needed.

Third time I got it all as well as this mighty gem of a picture.

Today’s roll-back special? The Do-It-Yourself divorce kit, clearance price: $3.00.

I don’t know why their tails are down. They were staring at the remnants of a ghost town. It’s not like it’s scary or anything. There was no one there but us, which worked out well for me when I had to use a makeshift potty. Curses to big gulps and parts of the country with restrooms every 100 miles.

And we saw the Rio Grande. But we didn’t cross. I’m sure you can guess where we are. We’re trying to work out a plan where we don’t have to go back to D.C. Ever.

Wait…not slightly. TOTALLY Intoxicated.

Okay. Here we are. Next night of debauchery. Cowboys in Dallas Texas. No, not boys. Cowboys as in the BAR. Let’s do an inventory:

Pacifico’s: 3

Pina Colada’s: 2

Bud Light: 3

Shots of Whiskey: 1

Yep. I suck. But, it is long overdue. Tomorrow I will be in Las Cruces. So I’m not sure if drunken blogging will occur. But, I’ll try.

I called the Ninja to check on the status of his home improvement project. After we finished discussing his progress, he asked me how my life was going. Then I told him. Then he said, “You know, this stuff is gold, and it never makes the blog anymore. I’m glad I’m friends with you so I get to hear it though.”

He’s right. He’s 100% right. Couple that with the dozen other reasons why, and, people, it’s time. I think we all knew it was coming.

There’s plenty to say, but I have nothing I really want to say, except one thing.

I’m done.

I had dinner tonight with Giggles, The King of the Dog Park and Sixes and Sevens. Giggles was sent away for work, so it was a catch up dinner of sorts.

Sixes and Sevens, holding up her beverage and looking at me: Mazel Tov!

We were toasting to my aforementioned good news. No, not engaged. No, not preggers. Despite my hatred of Greenspan and the damage he did to our economy while making MY PRECIOUS INDUSTRY the fall guy, I know a good deal when I see one. And people? A house on the Eastern Shore that your company built and needs to get rid of for a drastically reduced price is a GOOD DEAL. I am a homeowner. Again! Two homes in my name, my mini real estate empire has begun!

I would have filled Giggles in on all the details, but I didn’t bother. I told him the one thing that I knew would make his face light up: My front door faces a liquor store.

The King of the Dog Park: So, Giggles, did Velvet tell you what she did?
Giggles: No.
Sixes and Sevens: You haven’t been reading her blog!
Velvet: I haven’t posted it yet. I needed to whale on Greenspan.
Giggles: So? What happened?
The King of the Dog Park: A public blowjob!
Sixes and Sevens: In the Sports Authority dressing room!
Velvet: Potomac Yard baby. Dressing room one. Don’t go in there.
Giggles: Wait, why?
The King of the Dog Park: Bitch didn’t swallow! Poor Sherlock!
Velvet: What the fuck! I didn’t have a beverage to wash it down with, nor did I want to go out and pay for the clothes I just tried on with goop all over my face! So I ripped off a price tag and cleaned up with that. I stuck it under the bench, so really, don’t go in there barefoot.
The King of the Dog Park: That story gets me so hot.
Sixes and Sevens: Why? Because you have a thing for Shirley?
The King of the Dog Park: No. It’s the public sex that turns me on.
Velvet: Well, for him too. He was so fast I didn’t get lockjaw this time. All future blowjobs will occur in public.
The King of the Dog Park: This is masturbation material for a week now.

Update. Just found this!

Dear Alan Greenspan:

Sigh. This is my second letter to you. Much like Santa Claus when I asked for magic mushrooms and Mayor Fenty when I requested the streets be plowed after snowstorms, you did not answer my first letter. I’m not hopeful you will answer this one either.

I know you are very busy with your retirement, alternating between sipping your Mai Tai and making blanket idiotic statements that get picked up by the media, but really, stop. You are no longer the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, so what you say doesn’t matter. Well, I would like to think it doesn’t matter. Unfortunately, stupid people hang on your every word, believing it to be it to be gospel. If you predict a housing market crash, it will surely happen because people “believe” it will happen, and they react as such, creating the very market conditions you warned of, and then you have mayhem.

Frankly, the fact that you even speak at all is so totally unfathomable to me. You created this mess we’re all living out right now. You consistently reduced the Federal Funds rate which, through a whole series of economic events, affected the Bond Market in turn lowering mortgage rates. I know, you were just trying to make sure our economy didn’t tank after September 11th. Understandable. Respectable. But, going from 3% to 1% by June 25, 2003, and leaving it there for a full year? At how many dozens of Fed Meetings did you fuck with the rate? Too many.

See, again, we have this guiding principle about the U.S. Economy: It is self-correcting. It doesn’t need a whole lot of help. Here is where I would draw for you, a supply and demand diagram with the Price and Quantity coordinates. We’d compare guns to butter, or I would dumb it down for you to houses and prices, and explain that when you make money cheaper to borrow, you suddenly put more people in the market to buy a house because they think they can finally afford the American Dream. Too much money chasing too few goods and services makes prices increase. Inflation. Remember? You entice people in the market who don’t want to be there yet, robbing future demand. You also lure speculators (a.k.a. investors, scumballs) into the market. People saw the housing industry like they did bootlegging, day trading and junk bonds – a place to make quick and easy cash. Except everyone viewed housing to contain very little risk because they were speculating on something with an underlying asset – the actual home in which someone can live. This is “artificial demand.” People aren’t there because they need the house, they are in the market because you have made the house easier (read: cheaper) to get and instead of living there, they are purchasing it with other plans in mind.

If you are following along on our x-y axis, you will see that you have more demand, and then supply goes down. Then, prices go up to meet that demand. As we all know, home prices went up. And up. And up. You lowered the Federal Funds rate to an unprecendented 1% and kept it there for over a year. Why? My only explanation is because you are a fucking idiot. The other explanation is senility but I prefer the “fucking idiot” scenario.

Now, let’s look at what happened out here in the real world, away from the corner offices, leather chairs and ivory backscratchers of your world.

Holly and Harry Homeowner went to buy a house. They stretched and saved, and ended up still not being able to finance a home because prices had slipped just beyond their reach. But they believed everyone who said they should go buy a house and they would make a killing when they sold it. So along comes the lender with “creative financing” and sold them some “no money down / no doc” loan they call an ARM, where the rate adjusts. Irony lives and dies in the fact that they call it an arm, because once the rate changes it costs you an arm and the proverbial leg to get out of the mess you’ve created. So the prices start going down on homes, people start foreclosing on loans, and you have things like this happening.

Again, I would like to remind you: self-correcting economy. Your intent in keeping the economy afloat was a wise foresight on your part. But, you should have stopped with the rate reductions at some point earlier than 2003. You should have also increased the rates at a much faster pace than you did. Since you are so good at shooting your mouth off, you should have also warned all those homebuyers: If they can’t afford a fixed rate mortgage, then they can’t afford that particular house. Of course, you didn’t though. You’re saying it now, but back then, you were happy that the homebuilding industry was keeping the economy afloat and that you looked like a hero. You can’t give stupid people a bunch of money and not advise them of some basic financial rules because everyone else has to suffer the fallout when those people mismanage their money. I say it at work all the time: You can’t walk into a room and say “This is fucked up, fix it,” but not guide people in exactly HOW to fix it. If they knew, it wouldn’t be fucked up in the first place, right?
Read this if you want to vomit along with me. (“High housing prices are more of a problem than loans” – whose fault is that now? Asshole.)

No love for you,
Velvet

P.S. Putting names and faces to all this foreclosure does nothing for me. I’ve been reading these articles for weeks now. I don’t feel sorry for these people. They are idiots. Just because someone hands you really cheap money, doesn’t mean you should take it. Again, if you can’t afford a fixed rate mortgage, YOU CAN’T AFFORD THAT HOUSE. It was the buyer’s responsibility to determine that their job as the Assistant Manager at CVS wasn’t going to have a 30% pay increase occur at the same time the “adjustable” portion of their mortgage kicked in. Before one makes a multi-hundred thousand dollar purchase, they need to get some financial advice from someone other than their loan officer who has a vested interested in closing their loan and making a commission. Someone who will tell them, to their face, that they cannot afford this particular home.

It’s me. Before you get any ideas, it’s me I’m referring to in the title. I’m the one who is toxic.

When Sherlock went into his stalk-mode-of-Velvet last summer, I have to admit, it wasn’t the first time that it happened to me. It’s not because I’m being a drama queen, it’s not because I’m making it up or exaggerating. It’s because I know that there is something in my manner of relating to a man that brings out that stalkie behavior. I tend to shut down pretty rapidly, and there is something so psychologically innate in people that when they want to talk, they must talk, and when the person they want to talk to doesn’t want to talk back, they get irate. It drives some personality types to stalk.

This isn’t about me and Sherlock though, who Sixes and Sevens is now calling “Shirley.” We’re magically in love and everything is great. Better than great. This is about the fact that there is something comical for me, in watching just how far someone will unravel because of something I did, or didn’t do. It’s an accomplishment for me. Yes yes, I’m a bitch like that. It’s my “notch” weakness. Some people like to collect notches in the way of sex partners, I like to see how crazy I can make people. I admit it. I’m a pot stirrer with men.

Now, that history aside, I can proudly announce that yours truly, Velvet in Dupont, busy woman who was just informed via email (what? you couldn’t call me boys?) that she has more responsibilities which will take her away from precious blogging even further, has added ANOTHER NOTCH TO HER BELT. Yes, I have to say. I love it. What exactly am I talking about?

There is another blog dedicated to someone’s hatred of me. YAY! (Seriously, YAY.) I just cracked up when I realized that my emailing with an old acquaintance yielded his ire to produce this sole post on my very own URL:

Be careful in whom you confide. A Pisces will not keep confidences for long. They are self-centered psychos and do not care who gets hurt when they are on a vendetta. All the informational weapons they possess will be employed.

Of course it’s no match for the Velvet Parody blog or the blog Sherlock wrote about me (yes baby, I know all about it) but, it’s so delightful when someone else adds their hate to the mix.

So, here we have it. When someone is moved to stalking, or hatred, or a hate-blog, it means that you’ve bothered them. You’ve gotten under their skin. And I have gotten under the skin of the North American continent’s largest cyberpath. Smooch!

Have a good weekend. My free time is dwindling. I’ll try to be back soon. I have big news brewing.

P.S. VOTE FOR NINJA!!

I’ve been in Dallas for Patsy’s Bachelorette Extravaganza. You all know how I love me some cowboys and country music, so I was more than happy to jaunt my ass down for my dose of country. I followed shortly after one Sixes and Sevens, who blew out of town earlier to get a jump start on the party. Needless to say, I breathed a huge sigh of relief when she made it through security. A. Huge. Sigh.

I noticed immediately upon entering the state, that a major mystery of the world has now been solved. In case you live on the east or west coast, and you were curious where the scrunchies had gone, I can tell you. They are in Texas. You can find them on wrists, in hair, on the ground. There are more scrunchies in Dallas than there are rats in D.C.

We decided to hit up a bar named Austin Avenue in Plano for some drinking and people watching. Wow. That’s all I’ve got. Wow. I’m stunned, not for the Kiss cover band, and not for the high hair, but perhaps for the amputees and fake boobs I saw. Sixes and Sevens and Patsy also managed to score a round from some old men sitting in the corner.

Everything is bigger in Texas you know. This is a “medium” sized beer.

Before we moved out of the area where the band was playing, heading to shoot some pool, we were able to watch some serious foreplay in action.

“Mmm, that was a yummy burrito you ate for lunch today!”

We also made it to the world famous Forth Worth Stockyards. This is where one Billy Bob’s is located.

We bought some really cheap drinks and watched the bullriding.

We got sprayed with dirt. I was smart enough to be covering my beer, and also wearing a cowboy hat. Yes, a cowboy hat. More on that in a second. Randy Travis was playing so the place was packed.

The highlight of the evening was undoubtedly standing right in front of this:

Patsy and I snapped tons of pictures for them and have emailed them off to this girl who we don’t know and will never see again. She told Patsy she wished she could thank us for being at the right place at the right time and sending her pictures. It was the least we could do, considering we started shrieking like morons and drew all the attention away from Randy singing “Forever and ever Amen” to ourselves. Fucking typical.

Sixes and Sevens was at the bar closing our tab and I walked up there to grab one more drink. When I got up there the bartender said to me, “What about you, are you from here?” I said, “Nope.” He said, “That’s too bad, if the both of you lived around here I’d do it with both of you.” Then he walked down to the other end of the bar.

I asked Sixes and Sevens, “Did he just say what I think he said?” She said she thought so. I didn’t think cowboys were so forward. Though, I guess we were looking pretty hot among the geriatric Randy Travis fan club, more amputees (WTF is with Texas and amputees?) and scrunchies. Here we are, Sixes and Sevens and Velvet, taking on Billy Bob’s.

We’re hot. Who wouldn’t want to have a threesome with us?

When I looked at the condition of Sherlock’s mattress in the daylight, I had to tilt my head to one side. Then the other side. Something wasn’t right.

Velvet: You need a new mattress.
Sherlock: I’ve had this one about 10 years now.
Velvet: It’s caving in the middle. It looks like a hot dog bun. Though now of course, knowing what I know, and that I know the players of what I know, I understand completely why it is caving in the middle.

I get a lot of mileage out of that joke. A lot. So after several weeks of planning and discussion, the shopping spree was in full effect. We spent Saturday rolling around mattresses. (I know some of you are tempted to insert your own x-rated joke here, but sit tight. I’ll get us there.) Anyway, each mattress was home to a new conversation. It started out pretty mild.

Sherlock: Think you would get a good night of sleep on this one?
Velvet: I like a softer mattress.
Roll to next mattress.
Sherlock: How about this one, can you see us with the dogs between our feet on this?
Velvet: They woke us up at 5 a.m., didn’t they? Fuckers.
Roll to next mattress.
Sherlock: Do you like how the memory foam molds to your shape?
Velvet: No. This sucks. Once you pick a position, you are invested for the night! Though this would be incredibly helpful for homicide investigations. They wouldn’t need to do the sloppy taping job around the body.
Roll to next mattress.
Sherlock: Now, would this one be good for fucking?
Velvet: Oh my God!! Your dick is hard!!

Apparently rolling around mattresses in “Have a good night’s sleep on us…Mattress DISCOUNTERS” got Sherlock a bit excited. Foreplay has never been so easy.

We finally decided on the top of the line, $4000 mattress. I know, that’s an absurd amount of money to spend but there was some logic behind that madness. We discussed that this would be the mattress that we conceived our children in. On. Whatever. Okay, so that’s less logic and more emotion, which violates my number one rule of cutting a good deal. Never never never negotiate when you have your heart set on something for emotional reasons.

After the payment and delivery time was set, we parted ways because I had a shopping excursion planned with a friend. Continuing in the spirit of spending the GNP equivalent of a third world country, Sherlock went off in search of a platform bed at Theodores. We planned to reconnect and hit some more stores in a couple hours. When I was out, I bought a dress. There was a costume-type purpose to this dress. I’ve been tasked to go out and find the sluttiest outfit I could get my hands on. People, you have hired the right woman for this job. When I see “Fashion K City” in a strip mall, I know I’ve hit paydirt. The first choice, a zip up catsuit didn’t come in my size: Extra boobs. I found something equally atrocious, and I mean atrocious. Wow. My friend and I were laughing so hard we offended the employees who probably cherish their associate discount. I rushed home to meet Sherlock to resume the furniture shopping.

I walked in and we quickly decided to blow off the rest of shopping to go have dinner. Then I asked if he wanted to see the dress.

Sherlock: I’m going to pee, put it on.
Velvet: Just look at it and tell me if you like it.
Sherlock (shouting from mid stream:) Put it on.

I climbed into the dress. He walked out of the bathroom and walked around me for the 360 view. Without saying a word, he pushed me into the bedroom and onto the ‘graveyard of whores’ mattress that will be out of our lives Tuesday. He bent me over, picked the dress up, and we fucked. This dress is so far beyond awful but I left it on. My boob popped out of the halter but we kept on like good little soldiers. No, your eyes do not deceive you, I really said “halter.” I haven’t seen or worn a halter-anything since Miami Beach in the early 90’s.

He had his orgasm, I had mine seconds after his and he fell onto the bed next to me. I realized we had not said a word since he told me to put the dress on and went to pee. I rolled over on my side because my original question was still unanswered – lingering out there like the elephant in the room.

Velvet: So, I guess you like the dress?

Two things.

First, that fucking Ninja tagged me for a god damned MEME. Why do they call them that? Anyway, it’s “Five Weird Things About Me.” Fine. This is going to be quick because I’m busy!

1) When Sammy and Thora lose a whisker and I find it in the house, I save it. Shut up. I’m a freak. Might I remind you this is the “Five weird things about me” list not the “why I should be poster child for normal” list.

2) I have a Harley but I’m afraid to go faster than 55 m.p.h. I’m planning on selling it.

3) Yesterday was just one of many days where I had a lengthy and detailed discussion with my boss, one of the highest ranking VP’s in our company, about vibrators, waxing and orgasms. Anyone who thinks that my company finding out I have a blog would be detrimental for my career should reread that previous sentence a few times. If we sit around and discuss that stuff, no one is going to care that I write a blog. And most of them know anyway.

4) I’ve been manhandled and thrown out of a strip bar for taking pictures of Brianna Banks, best porn star ever.

5) I won’t let anyone sleep in my bed unless they have showered. In college, if I hooked up and a guy tried to stay in my bed with me, and he was all sweaty and drunk, I would sleep in the chair until he sobered enough for me to kick him out. Then I would strip the bed, put clean sheets on, shower, and go to sleep.

Don’t tag me again or I’ll beat you senseless, even if I have to come to the Cheights and risk my personal safety to do it.

Second, I’ve been nominated for some contest for Best Blog. I guess I’m supposed to campaign, but like Millhouse says on the Simpsons, “My mom says I’m the best!”

I tried to embed the poll here, but it didn’t work. So just click here and vote for me. Or someone else. Last check, Circumlocutor was beating all our asses.

As work has gotten increasingly busy, I’ve had less time during the day to think about my favorite topic: me. I was driving home Friday after having spent another day out of my office working elsewhere, and I was thinking, “FUCK! I have so much shit to do and I never have time to get it done.” And there it was. That feeling that hits me once every five years where I then change my life in a weekend. The last time this happened, I quit my job, put all my furniture up for sale in the Atlanta Journal Constitution and my ex and I got in the car and drove across the country. Then it happened again on that trip, in line at a Safeway in Frisco Colorado when the cashier couldn’t figure out how to give me cash back. I realized I was selling myself short by not going back to grad school. There were plenty of stupid people in this world. I was capable of contributing more to the world than I had. A couple weeks later, I was accepted to an MBA program. I’m determined. When I decide it is time for change, I’m usually instituting that change within 15 minutes. And it is usually extreme.

So I went home Friday and crashed, knowing that if this was anything like times past, it was going to be a long weekend. I slept Friday from 7 p.m. until Saturday at 10:30 a.m. I woke up, checked the phone, saw Sherlock had tried to check in with me, then he called as I was about to call him back.

Sherlock: The dogs haven’t been out since you got home from work last night?
Velvet: No. And I’m still in bed.
Sherlock: Okay. I’m coming over and I’ll take them out.
Velvet: Thanks. I can’t leave the house today.

I basically assessed that I have a few issues here. The first is that I don’t have enough free time to do the things I need to do. The second is that the things I need to do, like laundry, trump the secondary projects like spring cleaning. First thing was to dedicate the weekend to making the major secondary project of cleaning out my house into a primary project. Second thing, to come later, was to reassess where my personal time goes and why I can’t get these things done.

Sherlock did as promised, and took the dogs to the park for an hour and a half. When he, Sammy and Thora walked back in, all three of them were like, “What the fuck!”

I had everything out of every closet and it was all over the house. I am not a packrat. But those damn boxes my parents brought tipped my delicate balance of useful stuff vs. non-useful stuff totally off kilter.

Sherlock: Holy shit. Can I help you?
Velvet: Yes. Take a picture of the sewing machine for me so I can list it for sale.

I resumed managing mass exodus of things from my closets. Buh-bye Kappa Kappa Gamma shirts. Buh-bye Almost Famous movie poster. Buh-bye fabric I will never use to sew cute things because I’m selling the sewing machine in about five minutes.

Sherlock: I’m done. What’s next.
Velvet: Find a picture of my Harley somewhere and list that for sale too.
Sherlock: Are you fucking kidding me? Please say you are kidding.
Velvet: No. I’m not. Get rid of it.
Sherlock: Well, I’m glad you are throwing all this stuff away, but the Harley?
Velvet: Sell it. Sell everything. Sammy and Thora better hold on for dear life or they are in danger of getting sold too.
Sammy: Fuck you bitch.
Thora: We need our own apartment Sammy.

Magazines and books – gone. Clothes and shoes – ready to donate. Pile of totally useless crap no one wants – sitting on the sidewalk in front of my building with a sign marked FREE on it.

Sherlock: Are you sure you don’t want to do what the Fencer suggested and have a “Buy Velvet’s stuff auction?”
Velvet: No. None of this stuff is any good. Pitch it.
Sherlock: You are kicking ass. Is this bag of trash ready to get tossed?
Velvet: Yes.
Sherlock: What’s next?
Velvet: I have to go through my tapes, (yessss cassette tapes,) and see what I have in there that I can just download online and then toss the tapes.

I sat down on the floor at 4 p.m. with three dozen tapes and the tape player, made lists of what I wanted to download, then pitched the tapes out. The walk down memory lane really slowed the process. I didn’t finish until after midnight. I can’t believe how many mix tapes I had. “Velvet’s Awesome Eighties Mix,” “Freshman Year in the Keys,” “We’re Seniors! YAY!” A sample. Name that tune!

We could fuck until the dawn, making love till cherry’s gone. (mmm hmmm…)
Just hit the east side of the LBC. (one of the greatest sampled songs ever.)
I used to love to make you cry, it made me feel like a man inside. (love this song!)
In 65, I was 17, and running up 101. (good for the treadmill)
Last time that we had this conversation, I decided we should be friends. (I know..)
Tonight’s the night we’ll make history. (Aww!)
If you wanna see me try a beeper number baby when you need me. (Sniff sniff.)
You’re the fastest runner but you’re not allowed to win. (8th grade. Solid.)
Cause you give me a good vibe doncha know baby. (makes me wanna dance.)
If it’s good I’ll call her everyday, got your number off the bathroom wall. (LOVE this band.)
Don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now, and I can put you back now too. (who doesn’t know the words to this?)
G’s up hoes down while ya motherfuckers bounce to this. (Baliff? Take him away.)
He brought the woman out of me, so many times, easily. (whore!)

I finally went to bed after midnight. I think Sherlock learned that when I get in these moods to clean, I am unstoppable. Anything not nailed down goes down the trash chute. I am the only one in my family who does not suffer from packus rattis-itis. Growing up around stacks of crap made me want to always have clean tabletops and a minimum of crap. And when the crap starts to explode from the one or two closets where it is currently living, then it all must go.

The “Organize my Life” campaign is in full force. Since my free time is at a minimum these days, I started plotting. The one thought I kept coming back to was “What the fuck am I doing? I spend so much time online between work and the blog crap.” Now I have an action plan. It’s started with the decluttering of my life in the way of physical possessions, now it moved to decluttering my free time from distractions. Sayonora Comcast! I’m tired of paying you $100 a month for spotty service at best. In addition to the entertainment distractions you provide, I spend too much time on the phone with you every month, and that’s a time suck. See ya later Netflix, you are eating all my free time because I feel compelled in the Velvet-family-fashion to get my “money’s worth” and watch the movies and return asap. I cannot participate in a plan that says, “Keep them as long as you want!” I know their business model relies on me keeping them forever. It makes me want to dispose those movies immediately after the 100 minutes it takes them to play.

I’m officially working on a major investment project that will require a lot of research on my end as well as a personal project that also requires my attention. In addition to that, I have to pay attention to Sherlock so he won’t dump me, and I’m growing really private in our relationship. I want to write less about the personal things between us and frankly, I don’t really want to write about anything else here either. It is time to close that window into my life. So, I’m effectively reducing my blogging endeavors.*

* The Fine Print:
I have always been 100% honest. Trust me, this blogging slowdown has nothing to do with the current rage of outing bloggers by name and employer or “people” commenting as me with my real name – even though that behavior is unbelievably despicable. It has everything to do with me reclaiming my personal time and reallocating it to things that matter: my dogs, my boyfriend and my two projects. In that order. HA!

I have just misted my underwear. Excuse me while I go change. Read this if you want, back soon.

There now, all better. I’m so happy. And I know Scarlet is happy too. So that makes two of us. I don’t get involved in politics or political discussions at all because what pisses me off about most politicans is that they have their own agendas. That greatly conflicts with my feeling that politicians should serve the people blah blah blah. So let’s see, if Hillary becomes Giuliani’s opponent, score. Who will vote for her? If we’re ready for a woman president, it certainly isn’t Hillary. Besides, I refuse to perpetuate the Bush/Clinton/Bush/Clinton ping pong match for the White House. Get someone else in there already. Since 1988 we’ve had the same two families in there. What kind of democracy is that?

Now before the bleeding hearts jump all over me because it’s just “so cool to be liberal” in D.C., I’d like to state that while I am not a Republican, Giuliani is everything I could want in a president. He’s economically conservative and socially liberal. Though, he doesn’t advertise that fact, which is fine by me. What this country needs is a New Yorker, who can fucking get things done instead of another country bumpkin who wants to fight a useless war or get his dick sucked by some intern. And you can spare me the Giuliani criticism, I will never listen to you. Giuliani will forever be in my good graces for what he accomplished with New York City BEFORE September 11th. Times Square, for example, was a seedy pit of sadness overrun with hookers and thieves when I was a wee Velvet. You couldn’t even go there. I remember going to the Bowery with my parents and holy shit was it scary. I think Koch was too busy drinking and going to Knicks games to bother to clean up the city. A few years of Dinkins, then Giuliani gets in there, and he cleaned it. Instead of handing out vouchers and money to the poor, he had them work for it. In exchange for that money, they had to help in some public project of cleaning a park for example. Brilliant. The man is fucking brilliant.

Okay, I’m done with that for now. On to V-Day.

I’m not a big Valentines day person. I worked at a restaurant for many years and I remember all those pain in the asses coming in, wanting everything “just right” and paying double our normal prices because everything was a “special.” Vomit and gag. Personally, I’d rather not make reservations 100 years in advance just to overpay for some holiday dinner that means shit in la grande scheme. Sadly, it also seems to be the holiday that matters more to the people who have no significant other and therefore become depressed. Last year I was trying to go to bed early until that fucking New Jersey came over with flowers and dinner. This Valentines Day, Sherlock gingerly warned me that he might be out of town for work.

Velvet: So?
Sherlock: Well, it’s Valentines Day, don’t you want to do something?
Velvet: You forget who you’re dealing with. I’m the girl who almost punched out the delivery guy on Christmas Eve when he showed up with your ‘I’m sorry’ flowers because he refused to follow my specific instructions to return the flowers and call you and say they were rejected. I’m not that romantic girl.
Sherlock: Oh. Okay.

So then fate intervenes in the way of an ice storm Tuesday night and there was no way he could go anywhere. Fine. We both worked out of our respective houses during the day. And by “work” I mean, I read the hilarious posts of this new blog that was just brought to my attention Tuesday night. Apparently one of you is commenting as me, with my real name. And yes, I know who it is.

Anyway, Sherlock and I connected for lunch. When he came over to pick me up, he snuck something into my house. It was a heart shaped box of candy with a red Velvet cover. On the cover of the box, he did some Martha Stewart handiwork with glue and glitter, and if it didn’t have our real names on it and a picture of us, I would have taken a picture of it and posted it here. It was like that heart we all drew on our notebooks in 7th grade – Velvet & Sherlock 2getha 4ever! Damn I love him.

Then he got me a card, and wrote some very sweet things in it. It almost made me cry but not really. Later on I read the card again and I realized, I have never seen his handwriting. Other than a shopping list or a reminder note here and there, I have not once seen his handwriting. Does anyone remember what it was like to get a letter? In the age of email, texting and Instant Messaging, there’s no more hand written love letters.

He went back home after lunch, and I fucked around online. Then, while most couples were spending their life savings on dinner, I was cranking out 3.5 miles at the gym bitches! Sherlock came back over later on and we watched a movie and went to bed. And, I’m home again because no one can get out of my neighborhood. I’m sorry Washington D.C., but where exactly do my tax dollars go? Because you certainly didn’t use them for any plowing of snow in Dupont Circle. Nice work.

Ongoing: If you can help Barkley find a home, click here for more info.

It’s another busy ass week for me. Jesus. I was in a meeting out of the office today and have another one in another office tomorrow. No internet! How will I survive? I’m painfully behind in my online endeavors. After I spent two hours at the gym tonight working off all the food I ate this past weekend, I came home, and my first stop was Bloomingdales.com. Oops. Details below. Anyway, I collected the following tidbits last week and here we go…Velvet Variety Hour, installment three.

1. The Dry Cleaner
Thanks to Thora and her affection for vomiting on my down comforter, I, once again, stripped my bed and carried everything to the dry cleaners. When I walked in I could hear the man who owns the dry cleaner say something from the other side of the pile of comforter in my arms and covering my face:

Dry Cleaner: Dog vomit again?
Velvet: “Yes sir.”
I then dropped the comforters and bowed my head in shame.

2. Dupont Circle Should be on Alaska Time
Sixes and Sevens, sounding groggy, on the phone Monday: So, are you on your way to work?
Velvet: It’s 2:15!
Sixes and Sevens: It is?
Velvet: Yeahhhhh
Sixes and Sevens: Ohhhhh. I should go to work.

3. Overheard at a Caps Game:
Girl: Honey can you hold my beer?
Honey: Yeah, are you bringing it with you?
Girl: I can’t hold the baby and the beer and walk down the steps!

10 minutes pass.
Friend of Girl to Honey: Hey, she’s outside feeding the baby and she wants her beer, can you pass it to me?

4. Stupid Velvet
Velvet: I tried to print something off my blog and I somehow sent the entire month of January, which wasn’t bad because I wanted the pictures of what my parents left behind when they were here. I planned on throwing the stuff I didn’t want away. But then I went to the printer and waited for a really long time before realizing something was wrong. I went back to my computer and, yeah, I sent it to another printer in the company.
Sixes and Sevens: OH MY GOD! RUNNNNN!
Velvet: No, you don’t get it. It’s in another state!
Sixes and Sevens: OH. MY. GOD.
Velvet: Yeah. I guess I should call there. Fuck.

The ending to that story is that I have more readers now. Mmm hmm that’s right.

5. Statements I Really and Truly Hope I Never Hear Again:

“Did you see the parody blog?”
“Do you know who is writing the new parody blog?”
“Ohmygod, there’s another parody blog!”

People, I don’t know! I need a fucking Cliff’s Notes blog now to keep up. There’s my recommendation – can someone create a “daily highlights of parody blogs” blog so that I can just read that one when I have time to catch up? Great. Thanks.

6. Blog-a-holics Anonymous.
Sixes and Sevens: Hi, my name is Sixes and Sevens and I’m a blog-a-holic.
Crowd: Hiiiii Sixes and Sevensssssssss
Sixes and Sevens: Velvet said she’s going to put parental controls on my computer if I don’t stop reading blogs all day.

7. Am I Hearing This Right?
Guy at Work: I hate Prescription Medicine. I got Percoset last week and I took one and threw the rest away.
Velvet: What??? HOW COULD YOU??? WE LOVE PRESCRIPTION MEDS IN DUPONT CIRCLE, I WOULD HAVE BEEN THE HIT OF THE DOG PARRRRRK!!!!!!

8. Movie Review
Velvet: This is the worst movie I’ve ever seen. What is it called?
Sherlock: Uh…Co-Ed Sex Parties, Six Hours of Dick Crazed Girls.
Velvet: I think I’m going to throw up. No one should ever watch this movie.
Sherlock: I think it’s good, but let’s give it to Ninja.
Velvet: Ooh. Good idea. I’ll send him a text.

9. Oops
Velvet: I spent $800 on Bloomingdales.com today.
Sherlock: What did you get me?
Velvet: Nothing. (under breath…Unless you can fit into some DVF wraps and a St. John dress. And no I’m not 80 years old, St. John’s new print model is Angelina Jolie, so apparently they are now targeting women my age. Shut up Sherlock. Don’t make fun.)

10. Pontification and Mortal Enemies
When various people who you despise find each other and make friends, is it a real friendship or is it just a friendship based on having a mutual enemy? I don’t know the answer to that, but what I do know is that it is all very very transparent. And convenient. I like my enemies all in one place where I can keep tabs on them.

Yeah yeah yeah. I know. Posting has been sparse. I am so fucking busy at work that it’s ridiculous. I spend more days a week in meetings than there are parody blogs. I have no chance to check my oh-so-legitimate work email much less my personal email or any blogs. I got your emails. I got your frantic phone calls. I am still alive and still in love. Just busy. I’ll stop bitching now.

I had a couple things in the works to post on, but I wanted to clear them with Sherlock first. I asked him and he said he doesn’t care. But in a way, I care. I seem to have a need to write only when there are extremes in the relationship – us at our worst or us at our best. The things in the middle of that continuum seem to define the mundane, at least to outsiders. To me though, that’s the gold. That’s the stuff that makes the relationship. So, here it is – a blast of where we are and how we’re doing.

My breakup/stomach virus weightloss is now in retrograde. It may have something to do with all those milk duds and the non-stop eating out that Sherlock and I have managed to accomplish. Then I cashed in a bunch of frequent flier miles for restaurant coupons. Oops. That ain’t gonna help one bit. That’s a good lead into our weekend by the way.

I’m not that chick who brings her boyfriend to the gym. Not so much a fan of that couples workout thing. I prefer to go to the gym and get in my zone. I notoriously won’t even bring my cell phone to the gym. But, Sherlock wanted to work out with me, so fine. Last Saturday night I agreed to take my gym up on their guest allowance and we worked out together. When we first got there, he did his thing and I did mine. Then we connected and lifted weights together. He said he was just going to follow me from place to place and do exactly what I was doing. A couple times he made comments like, “This is the weight you lift? This is what some guys I know lift.” Guess who was sore the next day? I’ll give you a clue, it wasn’t me. The irony here is that Sherlock has a rocking body and he’s always giving me nutrition advice so I really laughed my ass off at him when he was too sore to get his coat on. Oh, FUCK! I wasn’t supposed to say that. I think we agreed I would post something about my big tough strong boyfriend. Huh. Oh well. Fucked that up and I can’t seem to find the backspace key right now…

So, this past Friday night while you all were drinking your adult beverages, Sherlock and I were running on the treadmill. Yes, we’ve entered the land of lame. I just don’t feel like going out right now. It’s cold and even though the bars are blissfully smoke free, I’d rather workout, watch movies and replace calories expended with milk duds.

Saturday was the day I thought would be the entire focus of my next post, but eh, not so much. Sherlock and I went shopping at Target and the pet store. When we got back to his place, I had plans to meet up with EJ for a real estate brainstorming session. He told me to just leave all the bags because he wanted to unpack and organize everything. As I was leaving, he had started tearing his place apart cleaning. I wasn’t planning on asking him why he was acting all weird because I get like that too. I still have remaining boxes of shit my parents left with me a few weeks ago and that drives me batshit just looking at it. Anyway, back to Saturday.

Sherlock: I don’t want you to freak out but I’m just trying to get used to your stuff being here.
Velvet: Uh, you are the one who wanted my stuff here. While I know you would prefer to have me here naked, I do, like, need some clothes to wear this weekend, and some moisturizer for my face, and you know, tampons because it’s that time of the month.
Sherlock: I know, and I’m not backing up or getting scared, it’s just that I’m a clean freak and I’m trying to get used to this. I look around and just see a house out of order.

I looked around at all the dog toys in his place. Then, at that moment, Thora realized that the bags by the door contained new toys for her to destroy. I watched her dig in one of the bags and grasp a toy between her teeth. She couldn’t manage to free it completely from the bag, but that didn’t stop her from trying to play with it. She has my determination, that’s for sure. So she’s running around the house squeaking her new toy, with a Petsmart bag over half her head, and other toys tumbling out of the bag all over the place. Because it was so damn cute, and because of Esther’s recent loss, moments like that remind me how much I love those little dogs. Sherlock, however, just wanted to clean. So I left.

Sunday we didn’t have a lot in the way of plans, which is how I prefer my weekends. We went to look at a couple open houses in his building, then one in Logan Circle. After that, we went to Whole Foods. He stepped into the hardware store first while I got a jump on the shopping. Whole Foods is such a fucking disaster at any day and time during the week and I’m just not good in crowds. I haven’t had a panic attack in probably over month, maybe longer, but I could feel it starting. Shopping cart long since abandoned, I was at the salad bar trying to make my way through, and I was getting pushed in all directions. I swear that stupid overpriced grocery store is the only piece of New York City we have here in D.C. Why drive to New York when you can just go to Whole Foods? What a nightmare. I called Sherlock from alongside the 7 layer dips and said, “You have to come here now.” I was freaking out. I started to take my coat off in anticipation of pending hot flashes.

He came in, retrieved me, and the cart which was holding my Lobster Bisque and Blueberry Pie (hello!!! SCORE!) and we got in line where we spent the rest of our Sunday afternoon. See why I never make plans? A couple open houses and a trip to the worst grocery store in D.C. hijacked our entire weekend. Actually, okay, that’s not true. We did get home in time to watch the Grammy’s. Though I spent most of it with my sweatshirt covering my face. No, it wasn’t because of the singer of the Dixie Chick’s hellacious white dress that looked like a Parade Float. It was because that Lobster Bisque did something awful to both my stomach and Sherlocks. Sigh. We’ve reached a new level. Isn’t it wonderful?

Hey – does anyone know a good fumigation company?

My dear friend who comments here as “Esther” unexpectedly lost her dog Angus Sunday. The dogpark network lit up fast, as we do when there is trauma of any sort, and we all cried for Angus and Esther. Thora and Sammy got extra hugs tonight. Thinking about the day that Esther must have had yesterday is heart wrenching for all of us doggie-parents.

This is the best pic I have of Angus, kissing Esther’s chin. I’m waiting on more pics to be rounded up.

Bye bye Angus. We will miss you, and know you are in a better place.

Love,

Thora, Sammy, Ted, Opie, Charlie, Jukebox, Sam, Edie, Olive, Lincoln, Seneca, Jayna, Lucy & Jasper.

Last year on February 2nd, Reya inspired us all to participate in the Silent Poetry Day. This comes, knock on wood, at an excellent time for me, since, knock on wood, everything in my life is going so incredibly well, knock on wood. I have never been so happy with the Big Three – Work, Home and Romance. The dogs are healthy. Gloom and Doom are in good spirits. My brother and sister-in-law just had a healthy “Baby Number 2,” and my other brother is doing well also. And Sherlock. Well, I just love Sherlock. So, just like last year, I’m going to post the lyrics of a song that applies to how I’m feeling.

So all of you, have a scandalous weekend. And, here we go:

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

Life is a moment in space, when the dream is gone, it’s a lonelier place.
I kiss the morning goodbye, but down inside, you know we never know why.
The road is narrow and long, when eyes meet eyes, and the feeling is strong.
I turn away from the wall, I stumble and fall, but I give you it all.
I am a woman in love, and I’d do anything to get you into my world and hold you within.
It’s a right I defend over and over again, what do I do.
With you eternally mine, in love there is no measure of time.
They planned it all at the start, that you and I live in each other’s heart.
We may be ocean’s away, you feel my love, I hear what you say.
No truth is ever a lie, I stumble and fall but I give you it all.
I am a woman in love and I’m talking to you.
You know how you feel, what a woman can do.
It’s a right I defend, over and over again.

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

Oh my. Did you just yack? Yeah. Me too a little. When did I get so sappy? I might have to go punch myself in the face now.

For all the years I’ve been dating, for all the years my brothers have been dating, there is this annoying little glitch in our family circle that has yet to be overcome.

My parents hate all outsiders.

No no, I’m serious. Gloom and Doom hate anyone and everyone of the boyfriend/girlfriend genre. And frankly, they can be quite obnoxious about it. They are very dismissive of anyone who we bring by for an introduction. My brother had a therapist who likened our family to a cult. Don’t believe me? Think I’m exaggerating? You’ll see. Take for instance when I was dating a man who lived in Queens. He was Greek, so I figured it was safe to introduce him to them.

Velvet: Mom, this is Billy.
Mom (Gloom): Hi Bill. Nice to meet you.

It’s subtle, but it is there. The name abbreviation. Get it? They tolerated Billy, he was at least allowed in the house. But the others? Oh boy.

For years this insanity required my brothers and I to “sneak around” with significant others. But then you get to be in your early 20’s and you’re like, “Shit, I have a job, my own money, what the fuck am I doing?” So you foolishly tell Gloom and Doom that you met someone by the name of AtlantaBoy and that you are in love and are going to move in together. You are met with stunned surprise, then something along the lines of “You have proven yourself to be the biggest disappointment of our lives.” Everyone resumes their respective sneaking around, to which Gloom and Doom are wise, and say things like, “You kids don’t tell your parents anything!” But they have yet to realize that we don’t tell them because it is the same old routine every time.

Gloom and Doom boycotted my older brother’s wedding to a non-Greek. Of course there were other reasons why, but I guarantee that if my sister-in-law’s maiden name was something-opolous they would have been there. My oldest brother dated the sister-in-law who got away and she was sure that Gloom and Doom would like her because “no one’s parents ever disliked her.” Poor thing. She was wrong. I went through the cold shoulder / he’s not good enough / we’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist mentality for 6 years with AtlantaBoy. My brothers didn’t fully understand it until it happened to them. After some discussion, we all came to the same conclusion: It’s a Greek thing. Greeks are extremely ethnocentric. Even among other Greeks – if you were from the “wrong” island, my Grandmother would not be seen speaking to you. I guess Billy wasn’t from Crete. Shit, what did I know? I thought I was doing good because his last name ended in -giannis.

So you may find this hard to believe since we’ve all been living, breathing, reading and shitting Sherlock since July, but, Gloom and Doom haven’t heard a peep of his existence. Until Friday. I had this grand plan to tell my mom all about it, to drop the word that there’s a boyfriend and it’s pretty serious. But, somehow, I ended up on the phone with my dad and my mom wasn’t home. He was clearly bored and in the mood to talk. The conversation went something like this.

Dad: How are Sammy and Thora doing with the cold weather?
Velvet: They are okay. They don’t like it too much, but they get by with shorter walks.
Dad: You aren’t leaving the balcony door open for them now are you?
Velvet: Well, not today. It’s 15 degrees out there. And they aren’t even home anyway.

Oops. It came out of my mouth faster than I realized. I hoped he didn’t hear me, because he really has selective hearing, but that didn’t happen.

Dad: Where are they?
Velvet: Well, I was getting ready to tell you and mom this. There’s a boyfriend now, and it’s pretty serious. Anyway, Sammy and Thora are with him today.
Dad: Which guy is this?

We launched into a back and forth with me dispensing the details and my dad jumped on Sherlock’s company website and started looking around. Then he said something that sounded like he might actually be impressed by what this company does. Whoa. This is unprecedented.

Dad: So, how did you meet him?
Not seeing the point of lying at 33 years old, I said, “Match.com.” I also briefly considered trying to validate it by mentioning that my oldest brother met the sister-in-law who got away on match.com, but they didn’t like her either, so no sense in poisoning the well.
Dad: What did you say it was?
I repeated myself. He repeated it back to me, wrong again. There I am, sitting in my office screaming “MATCH DOT COM! MATCH, LIKE YOU ARE LIGHTING A FIRE WITH A MATCH.” Awesome. There is silence. I can hear the wheels turning in his brain. I imagine him looking for my profile. I contemplate directing him to some other profiles I know of on match. Then he speaks.
Dad: Ha! That sucker! You dumped the dogs off on him?

That was basically the end of it. Now, I know what everyone is thinking: “Wow. That went really well Velvet. Maybe Gloom and Doom aren’t so bad.” But, you would be wrong. For, if OlderBrother and Oldest Brother were comment numbers one and two on this post, here is what they would say:

OlderBrother: Why are you bothering me with this shit? I hate them. They didn’t come to my wedding, and besides, we had another baby last night, “cutest baby in the world number deux,” and thinking about them not knowing their grandkids just pisses me off. You just wait, you’re going to get the “WE DECIDED” phone call in a few days: “We decided that Sherlock is an alien homophobe who hates Greeks and wants to annihilate the entire population, and has three wives across the country who he’s supporting as well as several kids. And he’s probably 50 and an alcoholic.”

OldestBrother: Yeah, wait till Dad tells Mom and they develop all their conspiracy theories on Sherlock. They will come up with something ridiculous about him that they can use to tell you that he’s not right for you, then they will say that there’s enough time to get to the Greek Church on Sunday and meet someone. I don’t know why you tell them anything in the first place.

That’s about how I expect it to go. I told my OldestBrother on Friday about the above conversation and he said, “You know, when this is all said and done the only person in this family they are going to be speaking to is a dog. Sammy.”

Sherlock and I went out to dinner tonight to our new favorite restaurant. After we were done eating, I jumped up and down in my chair and clapped my hands while screaming, “MILK DUDS MILK DUDS MILK DUDS.” Sherlock said, “You want Milk Duds?” See, Sherlock has come to understand that when I want chocolate, I really want chocolate with caramel. Milk Duds usually do the trick, but sometimes Rolos or Sugar Babies also work. He also knows that they don’t sell Milk Duds at the 7-11 by his place. So we had to walk a little for them. 29 degrees out there. It’s cold.

We got to the store and he asked me to find him some lip balm. I went off in search of that and shortly after finding it and picking every lip balm product they had and putting it in the basket, I stumbled on the Valentine’s Day Candy. YAY! I love buying those stupid heart shaped cardboard boxes and then eating all the chocolate myself. But, wait! I don’t have to do that this year. I have someone to eat it with. Hooray! So, I started looking through the options and Sherlock came up behind me.

Sherlock: What are you doing? These don’t look like chapsticks or Milk Duds.
Velvet: I’m buying Valentine’s Day Candy. Will you be my Valentine?
Sherlock: Yes, of course. Are we waiting until Valentine’s Day to eat the candy?
Velvet: No. We’re going to sit on the couch and watch the movie and eat it all tonight.

This made Sherlock smile. I thought that our plan was set in stone.

We got home and he had to try to get a stain out of my shirt where some wayward food landed after I didn’t try hard enough to get it into my mouth. I unpacked the bags from the store, (that means I just threw everything on the counter,) and opened the coveted and very exciting Heart Shaped Box of candy. I put the legend out on the counter so we would know what was what. Then I grabbed my soda and the pretzels and headed into the living room. I thought he was just behind me with the chocolate since he had JUST SAID, “I won’t make popcorn, we can just have a chocolate night.”

I got to the couch and he’s not behind me. I waited. And waited. And waited! Then I said, “What are you doing?”

He popped his head out from around the corner and said “Me?” Aggravated, I said, “Yesssss,” and as I said it I noticed that his mouth was moving. He had some food in there. I said, “What are you DOING?” He said he was making popcorn. I could hear the microwave humming from where I stood. I’m trying to wrap my brain around what is going on but it just isn’t making any sense. I said, “So what are you eating?” He just looked at me with this expression like, “This is where I’ve fucked up. I know.”

I walked in there, and he has eaten THREE of the Valentine’s Day Chocolates. What. The. FUCK!!! I said, “You fucking ate our Valentine’s Day Chocolate without me! How could you do that?” He said he thought I left it out for him to eat. I said, “No, we should eat it together. I told you we would eat it on the couch and watch the movie. This is such bad Karma!!”

We’re doomed.

Dude. He ate the fucking Valentine’s Day Candy without me.

No no no, it wasn’t a hurricane. It was just my mom and dad who came to town this last week. Well, blew through town is more appropriate, on their annual mecca from Connecticut to Florida. Last year, I detailed their stay here in D.C., which you can find here. This visit, while significantly shorter than the 48 hour disasters of past, provided me about the same amount of fodder.

Time elapsed from the moment they stepped into my condo to the time the first fighting words were spat? 1 hour, 14 minutes. Better than usual. I don’t think that broke any records. Phew.

When they got to my neighborhood they called from the street. I could hear my dad in the background saying something. I said, “Who is he talking to?” My mom said, “Oh, he’s just telling the cop that we are unloading and that’s why we are in the loading zone.” I said, “HA! They don’t give a fuck. You could shoot Dad dead right now and they wouldn’t care.” My parents are used to New York City cops who give you a ticket for hesitating in front of a building. When they pick my brother up at his apartment they slow to 15 mph a la Little Miss Sunshine, and my brother has to run and jump in, otherwise they get a ticket for “standing.”

Anyway, my mom and I had a conversation on the phone in December which went like this:

Mom: When are you going to come up here and go through all your childhood memorabilia?
Velvet: I’m not.

Well, she really showed me. After I buzzed them in, I went to my front door to let the dogs in the hall to greet them and went back to drying my hair. I waited. And waited. And waited. They never came upstairs.Twenty minutes passed. I opened the door, fearful they were stuck in my ghetto ass elevator and I saw my neighbor out there. Standing there in my robe, I was a bit caught off guard. I said, “Oh, sorry, thought you might be my parents.” She said, “They are downstairs unloading boxes. They brought you a lot of stuff!”

Oh no. OH NO! FUCK! Whatever is in those boxes will NOT fit in la Casa de Velvet! I’m at the point where I may have to throw out my tampons so I have room for Sammy and Thora’s heartworm pills! Space is not something I just have around that I can find room for more crap.

I went downstairs and my mom was guarding seven, yes, SEVEN boxes in the lobby. My dad was circling looking for parking. I called him. He was lost. I tried to navigate him back but I heard sirens through the phone. He threw the phone on the seat but never hung up. I heard the cop pull him over (who knew they did this in D.C.?) and say he ran a stop sign, or a stop light or something. My dad said he was totally lost. She asked where he was going. He told her. And she told him how to find me. Then she followed him and I got in the car with him and we parked. He said, “Hey, that’s the cop who pulled me over going to talk to her friends. I thought she was going to give me a ticket.” I was laughing so hard I couldn’t contain myself. I said, “Dad, they don’t give anyone a ticket here. She’s trying to see if they have any donuts. She doesn’t care about you and your law-breaking.”

We go inside. Dad started feeding Sammy and Thora various treats. I started opening the boxes. Um. Oh boy. Let’s say that there were some old love letters in there from my high school boyfriend as well as a saucy picture of me in some whorish Halloween get-up that I sent him when I was in college. Fucking great. I’m sure my parents saw that. Groan.

A journey through my childhood, if you will:

A jar of my baby teeth. Aww. Who knew the next set of teeth to come through there would be home to the biggest mouth in all of D.C.

I’m not sure what this is, or was supposed to be, but I made it in Kindergarten. 1978 baby!! Anyway, it seems like a wood cylinder with a face painted on it, and some cotton on top and at the beard. I guess it is the wooden Santa? No clue. I’m still an artist though, bitches.

To the untrained eye, this is a papermache baby I made in art class when I was in 4th or 5th grade. The baby is supposed to be holding a bottle. But I dare you to look closer. It seems the baby is holding an erect penis. I remember my friend Amy bit off the top of a yellow crayon so we could make it the “nipple” of the bottle, but yeah, it just looks like a dick.

Look. It was not only a book on the Middle Ages, but my FIRST – implying that there was going to be a much sought after follow up. I’m afraid I have failed my readers. I’m very sorry about that.

Finally. I got to dig into the other bag that was a mix of gifts not collected at Christmas because I boycotted going home. The bag contains the usual take of gifts, except for one item I pulled out of an envelope. It was this:

Yes. Blue Thong Undies that say “OH” just above the ass crack. Note I said “the” ass crack, and not “my” ass crack, because I will NOT be wearing these. I know, I know, you want to know why my parents got me thong underwear. They didn’t. In the last Velvet Family post, I explained how the parents and brothers can’t resist something that is “free.” Where it says “take one” they go back and take definitely more than one. And they send whatever loot they have collected around to the rest of us. My family doesn’t understand that these things are free because NO ONE ELSE wants them. My brother is perhaps the worst, he cannot resist this lure. He has sent me the “CVS” Commemorative (read: free) Christmas ornament every year since 1997. I keep throwing them away but they keep coming back. Anyway, the origin of the thong undies is unknown, but from some offer online that he answered.

I can only hope that is ALL he answered. I really don’t want to have a free Nuva Ring arrive tomorrow and coupons for a free pap smear next week at some doctor whose license was probably revoked. Ugh.

Merry Fucking Christmas. See why I didn’t go home?

In final parental love, the best and most consistent of all their gifts is the rotting food they left behind. After they were gone I smelled the milk they left. Curdled. Made me yack.

It has been an interesting few days to say the least. First, I have to say hello and apologize to my little friend, Roxy Chanel McPink. I’m not sure why, but through some crazy bullshit that can only be triggered by bloggers with nothing else to do but start trouble, she thought that I was mad at her and wrote part of my last post about her. We had an email exchange where I explained that that definitely wasn’t the case. She said she was in tears driving to work this morning. Oh no! Roxy! I’m sorry. Then she said, “Phew, because I knew you went to bat for me and I thought maybe I missed something and you needed me and I wasn’t there for you.” Damn. I love you. You are a cool chick. See? Friendship. It’s such an easy thing to maintain for some of us, isn’t it? Oh, and Roxy, a couple of the more, well, sad of the blogscene say “Dating Blogs are Sooooo over.” They think if they declare their dating blog finished on a Monday, then jump on someone else’s bandwagon the next day of the “Dating Blogs being Sooooo over” that they are like, cool or something. But, um, aren’t you writing a book and shit? Yeah. Not sure how something (like dating) that people will be doing for the rest of eternity can be “over” but whatever!! Anyway, on that note…

The Year of First Dates has come to a screeching halt. There are a few factors at work here. First, I sidelined a couple of players in the dating game because I got busy, then got the dreaded cold. So, the emails and phone calls continued, but then, I lost interest. Also, I realized, if I could meet someone as nice and witty as Fencer4, and not want to pursue it, it is because something else was at work. Yes. Yes. I know. You know. We all know. Why waste any more time?

I’m so stupidly ridiculously in love with Sherlock and so ready to move on from the Disasters of 2006. Seeing him again last weekend and feeling the way I did was really a shock. The second I put my eyes on him I thought, “Uh oh.” We spent the entire weekend together just staring at each other. The clickety click was back. The impact of everything we talked about over the weekend continued to hit me through the week. I really didn’t realize that any of this was going to happen. My head was so ready to move on and do the Year of First Dates. My heart? Not so much.

I’m in love. And I’m not sure what happens from here. Actually I know exactly what happens from here. We gots all sorts of plans. But the only plans that matter are that I’m fucking madly in love.

It’s not a lyric from a song, but rather a line from a movie. A very good movie I might add.

It’s been a really fucked up few days for me. Really fucked up. First and foremost, my liver submitted its letter of resignation this weekend. I was shocked too to find out that my liver could write at all, but yes, it can and the letter said, “Dear Bitch whose face I have never seen: I quit. I’ve had enough of whatever you choose to poison me with, and I can’t take it anymore. Goodbye.” Though I’m not sure where it thinks it is going, but we’ll see. I should add myself to the Liver Transplant List. Is there a doctor on the blog?

Thursday – Day 1 of fuckedupness
I got to work and someone walked into my office with one question that literally turned into a three hour meeting. Most of my answers were, “Well, let me log into my email and I can answer that,” but, to no avail. The meeting just would not stop. As it neared lunchtime, I got a disturbing S.O.S. message from Sixes and Sevens that said “The King of the Dog Park’s Dog is Missing!” After a phone call, I discovered that the dog was with other friends of ours and took off, somewhere around Van Ness / Chevy Chase area we think. No one is really sure where they were. Anyway, the poor King of the Dog Park was home medicating with valium before setting out to search for the dog. (See it’s not just me who is a pill popper, it’s all of Dupont Circle.) I took off in a hurry and grabbed my torch to join the search effort. Just as I was pulling into my neighborhood to park, Sixes and Sevens called and said, “That fucker walked home. Four miles, and he walked home!!”

You know that dogs really are smarter than people. We just haven’t admitted it yet. I don’t think I could find my way home from Van Ness if I was in the woods.

Friday – Day 2 of fuckedupness
I had to go to another office for work to wait for a meeting whose time was undetermined due to a bunch of other meetings. I waited, and waited and waited. Said meeting finally started at 4 fucking 30, keeping me in the middle of the boondocks until very late. Then I sat in hellacious traffic. How on earth do people live out in the ‘burbs? Anyway, during the day I was thoroughly entertained by an email from Fencer4. Thursday night he had written an email to say he had a nice time and I replied with pretty much the same thing as I wrote here – he seemed like a great guy, not sure if we’re a match but I was willing to go out again. Thursday night I was thinking that my big news to report would be that I was breaking the “first date only” rule, but, I couldn’t get enough time to type that up and things took a much funnier turn anyway. It seems that through an error on my part, the Fencer googled something I said and found…this…blog.

The Fencer has moved to a whole new category. This man is fucking hilarious. His email had me in stitches. He said, “Wow, I got off easy compared to the other guys.” Well, sadly yes, but you were a complete gentleman with a great sense of humor and at least one of the other ones definitely deserved what was written about him – HandUpTheBack2 (who emailed again,) well, arrgh. That still grosses me out. Of course all of this proves that honesty is the best policy, because he didn’t see anything different written about our date here that I had sent in an email. I even told him that I had a conversation with a friend and told her that the Fencer is totally someone who needs to go out with one of my friends. Then I got the email, and he signed it “#4” and I just died. Too funny.

Friday night once I got home, I was sooooo comfy in my bed. It was cold and rainy and I just didn’t feel like moving. But Sixes and Sevens made me get up and get dressed to go out. We left my place around 9 and I didn’t see it again until 4 a.m. Too much alcohol. Really. I must stop. We texted with the Fencer and told him that he must meet Sixes and Sevens, well, we didn’t call her that, we called her by her real name. We ambitiously planned for Saturday but Sixes and Sevens and I didn’t realize that our night (at 1 a.m.) was still far from over. She set her hair on fire and obtained a Flashdance style t-shirt from a homeless man. I almost got locked in the bathroom. We finally walked home with a friend / neighbor of ours who just moved out of Dupont and whose new home was the unfortunate recipient of some vomit from one of his friends while he made sure Sixes and Sevens and I got home okay.

I finally hit the bed at 4 a.m.

Saturday – Day 3 of fuckedupness
The original plan for the day went like this – morning – gym; afternoon – motorcycle show with Sherlock; evening – drinking with FreckledK, Sixes and Sevens and the Fencer – place to be determined.

The day really went like this. I woke up at 2:00 p.m. Texted Sherlock and said I had a hangover. He called and asked if I was going to cancel. I said no that I just needed more time. We agreed he would walk the dogs while I showered. This was the first time I had seen him since I was vomiting my brains out on New Years Day. The time before that was when I threw him out of my house. I was nervous to see him. He got off the elevator and once I saw him, um, well, I texted Sixes and Sevens after to tell her that my undies just got a little wet, and damn him for that.

We metroed to the show, and just as we were pulling up to the Convention center…

I kicked the stool out from under him.

Velvet: So, my friend called me this week and said that she was seeing this weird IP on her blog every hour, and every day there was a different outclick, but always someone we knew. She asked if I could do some research. So I did and came back that I had a match of this girl we know, but thought she was out of town and wasn’t sure why she would be on there all the time. Unfortunately, my friend didn’t have the whole IP. But then she found it, I’m not sure how, and once she gave me that, I was able to figure out who it was. She said she was scared it was her ex-boyfriend, and I said, ‘No honey, actually, it would be my ex-boyfriend.’ So…what the FUCK are you doing? What are you looking for?
Sherlock: Um…
Velvet: What did you learn about boundaries? Nothing obviously.
Sherlock: No, that’s not true.
Velvet: What are you looking for?
Sherlock: Something I didn’t want to find.
Velvet: So, let me get this straight, you are not reading my blog, but you figured that if I fucked someone else I would what – write it as a comment in someone else’s blog? Or that THEY would blog about it? Like people are so pathetic that they have nothing else in their lives than to blog about mine or what I’m writing about on my blog?

The rest of the details are unimportant, we sat outside the show on these couches covering a lot of ground and he agreed that this was the wrong way to go about whatever it was he was doing.

We went into the show, and for reference, TACOMA!, there were no hot men there, so it didn’t matter that I took a boy with me. I looked around the whole place for a pink Choppers hat, but couldn’t find one. Then we left. On the metro, I started to get hot and sweaty and shaky. Damn hangover. The liver wasn’t getting the alcohol out of my body fast enough. I thought I was going to pass out. I considered going home but knew I wouldn’t make it the transfer to metro center or the walk from Sherlock’s metro. We went to his house where I promptly fell on his couch and got under a blanket. We talked about eating Ethiopian food for dinner, but I was too sick. I asked him to go get the dogs from my house and to get my sweatpants too. He did. I canceled my plans with all for the evening and I prepared to exorcise the Friday night demons from my body.

As miserable as I was physically, I just felt so comfortable. This feeling of course, surprised me quite a bit. When he came back with el pupperino’s, they ran in like they were just here the other day. In reality, it has been probably since Thanksgiving since we were all here together.

He came over and sat down next to me. We talked about eating, but I still wasn’t feeling up to it. We ended up talking for a while. He grabbed some slack in my jeans and said, “How much weight did you lose?” I said the “Break-up / stomach virus” was really a boon to my diet. I didn’t expect to lose so much, but I did.

I don’t think I could begin to put into words the conversation that happened from this point. There was a lot of talking, a lot of ground covered, some Ethiopian food, some sleeping, more talking, and while we said a lot to each other, some things really haven’t changed. He knows I’m dating. He’s not dating. The final resolution from me was that I may still love him (more than I realized,) I just don’t like him very much right now. I’m hoping for that to change, but I’m not expecting that it will or not. And the only way I know how to keep my life moving is to keep moving with my life. I told him I was dating. I told him about HandUpTheBack2 and how it disgusted me to have someone else’s hands on me. I told him that the Fencer already found my blog, and proved to be so fucking cool that he must get set up with all my friends who don’t have eating disorders. Sherlock isn’t happy about the place we’re at, but it is better than not talking at all.

I asked him for continued space, and that if this is meant to be, I would come running back to him, as opposed to feeling obligated, forced, or stalked into it.

I finally feel like there were two adults in that room talking on Saturday. Finally.

So, the blogging thing is pretty cool, if only for moments like this. I got a Christmas postcard all the way from Canberra, Australia. Thanks Aussie Em, that was mighty nice of you, especially considering I haven’t yet sent my Christmas cards out. Err. From last year either.

Well, it’s Tuesday night here at Velvet in Dupont and we’re moving right along in “The Year of First Dates.” As I told the Queen of Quantity tonight at the gym, “If he gets a second date, it means someone else doesn’t get a first.”

I went out with the next victim tonight. My first clue something was amiss was the fact that he called last night to firm up plans and left a voicemail. Then he called again within the hour to leave almost exactly the same message over again, with painstaking details about when I could call him and on which phone numbers, until my voicemail cut him off. I wasn’t ignoring him, I left my phone on the charger while taking the doggies for a long walk. When I got home I saw his two missed calls, and he also had sent an email. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, something about if you see the email first then check the phone, anyway. I got the feeling he’s been stood up a lot, or had a lot of dating foul-ups because he was really on my ass to set up this date. Poor guy.

I spent today driving around Pennsylvania for work and learned why everyone I saw there is so obese. They actually had an 800 lb. butter sculpture in both the shapes of Ben Franklin and the Liberty Bell on display tonight at some fair. In a text exchange with Sixes and Sevens where I relayed this breaking news, she told me to stay and take a picture.

Velvet: I would, but unfortunately I have a date with another stalker-in-training tonight.
Sixes & Sevens: If he follows you home, come to my house instead.
Velvet: Historically I never find out that they are stalkers until it is too late.

So I met the date at Union Station and we journeyed into a restaurant and ate dinner at the bar. Other than our love of the Simpsons, we didn’t have a lot in common. We had a positively riveting conversation about how softshell crabs get soft – are they soft in the ocean or are they somehow treated to become soft. It was my job to google that. He’s another “D.C.” guy – can’t tell me anything about his work because it’s highly classified, and what he did tell me (which I forgot) was allegedly “too much” anyway. Okay. I shall take his word on it.

Anyway, he’s named UncomfortableLaugh3 because, you guessed it, at the end of every sentence he tosses in the uncomfortable laugh as his punctuation, heh heh heh. Even in sentences that are not funny, heh heh heh. They got the laugh, heh heh heh. Nice guy but not my type, heh heh heh. And I just checked my email and he’s sent something about the softshell crabs and asking me out for Saturday heh heh heh. But, the rule applies: If I give him a second date, that’s one less person who gets a first date heh heh heh. Oh, I never know what to say in these uncomfortable situations, heh heh heh. I could delay him for a while, or I could be direct and just say I had a nice time, but I don’t think we’re a match, heh heh heh.

While you’re mulling that over, and preparing to advise me what to do, let’s continue in the vein of uncomfortable emails. However, this time it is an email of the variety I don’t care to answer. HandUpTheBack2, if you recall, had texted as I left the bar Saturday night saying something about “And now?” I didn’t answer, because I was grossed out and I ended up on the phone with Sherlock. HandUpTheBack2 texted again in the morning about did he get a second chance. I didn’t respond to that either. Then he sent an email saying that he guessed we weren’t “on” for that night, and it was too bad because it could have been a lot of fun. I wrote back and said, “I think I would feel differently if you weren’t so affectionate with your hands last night. Good luck to you.” He responded again that he wanted another chance, but I filed him away and grayed out his line on my spreadsheet and moved him to the “DATED” section. Yes. I really have a spreadsheet. It’s a fruitful dating season. I have to do my best in the game, and coming prepared with the stats on the players helps, especially when I have three fucking men with the same fucking name. Fuck!

The Sherlock update is that he texted me on Sunday afternoon when I was napping, and then called and texted again a few hours later. I called him back when I woke up and he said he was in a bar and could he call me back. What I said was, “Sure.” But what I thought was, “Fuck that, you tried to get in touch with me three times, and me calling you is like a commodity these days since I barely do it, and you want to call me back?” So we hung up and I sort of knew this would happen – he walked right outside and called me back. I wondered if he was on a date, or just trying to make me think he was. In any case, he had a question about computers that I answered and we chatted briefly. He said he called earlier because he was hoping he could see me, that he missed me. That’s twice now, because as I went down for my nappy time I thought, “It sure would be nice to have Sherlock here now.” Then I slapped myself several times and punched myself in the face for even thinking it.

I texted Sherlock later that night and said (vaguely) that there was a Motorcycle Show at the convention center this weekend and maybe we could try going to that and see how it goes. He responded and said he would love it. Then I hopped in the shower and by the time I got out I had two texts and an email that he had found the info online and purchased tickets. That is so Sherlock. I’m sure he was thinking, “If I FIND the event online and actually BUY the tickets, she can’t back out.” Not like I can’t give him his $13 back, but still.

Date #4 of the Year of First Dates happens tomorrow night.

So I’m back to my online tricks to force myself out into the dating world. Don’t ask what site(s) because it has been a difficult mess in which to wade. Frankly, UNLIKE LAST TIME, I don’t want someone spying out my profile, right clicking and saving my pictures and emailing them to everyone they know saying, “Hey, this is Velvet.” Fucking psycho. Yeah, I know you did that. Bitch.

Back to me.

Clearly I just care less right now than I have been known to in the past. Let’s start (and end with) the hair. I tied it up for work on Friday. When I took it out of it’s cage at the end of the day, it was a little stringy. My first thought: “Shit, I have a date tonight,” was quickly followed by my second thought: “Who cares.” And, I don’t. See, it is this kind of thinking that is going to get me in trouble. Because I will walk into a date with some stud and I’ll have stringy hair and spinach in my teeth because I didn’t care enough to try. And he will probably find it charming. Then I’ll morph into who I really am and he won’t like me because I’m not the same “real” girl he first met. But if I go looking good and being all charming and witty, then I’ll never get rid of them because odds are that 99% of these guys I won’t want to see again. Ever. See? I’ve got myself set up for anxiety AND failure at the same time. A psychologist’s dream I am. Yes siree.

The first date back out there I wanted to be with someone totally not my type. It was my “practice date.” I haven’t been out with anyone in six months. Anyway, the chap who asked me out first was quite aggressive over email, and I just figured I would use the “oh, my poor broken heart, I guess I’m just not ready to date anyone” line if he tried to pursue things. Then we shared some texts and he was mildly rude in some, accusing me of bailing when I gave NO indication at all that I was waffling. I wasn’t. I needed “Practice Date.” We finally agreed on a time and place, and I texted back and ask if he’s done with work and ready. He replies ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet that he’s still tied up with work. I text back to just let me know when he’s ready. Then? Nothing. Zip. Aah, the magic. The man spent the last 24 hours accusing me of bailing, only to effectively bail. And because I am in the “not caring” mode, I remained unmoved, in sweats, ratty hair in a ponytail, no makeup. I knew he was going to bail all along so I never even got up to get ready. HA! So, that’s for you, shitwipe.

Of course the management lesson here applies, that people are always guilty of what they constantly accuse you. The boyfriend who nags his girlfriend about cheating is usually the one who is screwing around. The old boss I had who was so sure everyone was taking money out of his pocket, was in effect, cheating and stealing from others. The guy who accuses me of bailing – will be the one who bails. I sniffed it out and that’s why I never took off the sweatpants.

Sixes and Sevens tried to convince me to come to Local 16, but I hopped on IM with some Greek guy, then got a call from someone else who wanted to meet for a drink. I know, I’m quick. I ain’t fucking around anymore. It’s the year of first dates. Or something like that. And the naming system this year includes a number at the end. Much easier to keep track. So, on Friday night I met BillGates1, so named for his involvement in computers. He’s been into computers since way way way before many of us hit high school. He knows some pretty big names in the Geek Kingdom, and told me who some of his friends are. He’s started a handful of companies, but finds his work boring to discuss. We had a couple drinks, I chowed some mozzy sticks, and he walked me home. No chemistry, but it was pleasant enough and I agreed to go out with him again. Besides, even if it doesn’t work out, I could use a friend like him. Must surround myself with smart people.

I swear, when I got in my elevator, I jumped up and down, not for the sheer excitedness of the date, but because all I could say to myself was, “I WENT OUT WITH SOMEONE OTHER THAN SHERLOCK!!!”

Saturday, I had an impromptu run-in with the adorable etcetera at the Pet Store. Sammy and Thora barreled into the place and I heard someone say, “Is that Sammy and Thora?” Then we identified each other, by blog name, in front of the clerk. Yeah, we’re geeks. And I feel like Sammy and Thora are famous! Hooray! Now if I can just get them modeling contracts…I’d be the greatest pageant mom evah! Oh but etcetera, I wouldn’t wear the get up I wore to the store, I looked like hell. Ick. Moving right along…

In the evening, after I downloaded some much needed 80’s rock, (Helloooo Billy Squier,) I met FreckledK at um, a bar. I have to stop saying names of bars because then “people” end up showing up there. I convinced another suitor I’m speaking to, via text, to come from his bar to my bar. So, he arrives. And he’s not as cute as I had thought. Oops. Then we had a great conversation and he said, “How forward can I be?” I said, “Go ahead.” He said, “Will you get embarrassed?” I said, “Probably. Text it to me.” So he gets his phone and texts something about um, wanting to lick me all over. Yeah. All righty. I took off for the bathroom, but not before he put his hands all over me. And the slide up the back of the shirt, ugh. Then he tried to kiss me. Code RED Code RED! Gotta pee! Disaster averted. Dude, don’t try that again or you might find my fist in your face. I’m so unprepared for the dating world.

I found Sixes and Sevens humping a man by the bathroom. Awesome. Then we caught up on what we had done since we last saw each other a few hours earlier. I went back to my, um, date, who is now known as HandUpTheBack2, and she took off. When I sat down again, the hands were ALL OVER me and he was saying things about how great I looked and blah blah blah. Don’t men realize when you are recoiling and not into their advances? I said something to him when he acted all weird, “I’m totally not out here looking for sex.” Ugh. I have to say, it all made me sick, then it made me think of Sherlock. Damn him for entering my mind. FreckledK invented an excuse about being tired, which was so lame because he knew we were bailing, and we ran out of there so fast I am now officially embarrassed for my entire gender.

Street Talk
Velvet: What’s today? January 6th? Great. 359 days left in the year and what, at this rate, 240 more dates?
FreckledK: Do you like him?
Velvet: I did until he put his hands on me. Then it made me miss Sherlock. And damn me for saying that. It just felt weird to me, like I was doing something wrong.
FreckledK: I know EXACTLY what you are talking about.

Then. I swear. Ask her if you don’t believe me. Sherlock texted me. Right at that moment. 2 a.m. Said he was just thinking about me. I replied, “Me too.” We talked for a bit, but it was so strained. Mostly because I’m a freak. We have not been speaking a whole hell of a lot these days. I suppose he was drunk. But I brought FreckledK home and returned home to man the email. I need an assistant to help me weed through these men. Though, I’m not being picky, I’m just trying to get “back out there.” So I’ll pretty much go out with anyone who isn’t married or a serial killer. Not that I would even know either of those things until it is too late.

HandUpTheBack2 texted a couple times when I was driving FreckledK home, and then this morning at 9 a.m. (WTF??) to ask if he got a second chance. I didn’t respond, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. He sent an email saying something about being sorry it got so weird, and he was drunk and blah. Whatever. And…out!

I was supposed to have a date tonight, but he just emailed about it getting late or something, and there’s the rain, and my having just woken up from a nap so I’m not feeling charming at all. Several others on deck. I’ll keep you posted. And hopefully this nagging feeling that I’m doing something wrong by dating again will go away.

It’s a New Year. When I did the 2006 recap, and read over the last several months of the year, it was like living it again through different eyes. Toward the end of the summer, I lost my anonymity and had a “too close for comfort” situation of readers on my blog – a convoluted mess of a boyfriend, and some of his past paramours all reading every detail. This was not a comfortable place for me at all, and sadly, I went under password. It didn’t stop one of the people from attempting some underhanded methods to bypass the password, but hey, I guess I’m just that interesting or something. Whatever. So, I came back out from the password after I got everything off my chest, but stopped posting about personal things.

You know what? That was a horrible solution. Not that I can’t try to shoot my mouth off with the best of them, but, I’m not as well rounded and let’s face it, not as smart as some of the best. I can’t hold a candle to the wit and banter you will read from bloggers like Cube, RCR, the Circ, and Jordan Baker. I’m not as aware and appreciative of my surroundings as Barbara and Reya, making myself the worst “witness” anyone would want in a courtroom. (“What color was the bank robber’s shirt Velvet?” “Um, he was wearing a shirt? I don’t know, but I was chewing gum that day!”) My stories are nowhere near as “The Simpsons” style clever like Ninja’s, nor are they the best-all-around of I66’s. And I’m not well versed in all things pop-culture like one KassyK.

Unless I pick a fight with one of the cops, or Sammy and Thora vomit off my balcony, I’m so much more suited to writing about boys and sex, sex and boys, drinking, and pills. Besides, that’s what Velvet in Dupont was created for anyway.

So began my New Year’s conundrum. I wondered seriously if I should just hang this up. I thought about starting another blog, but, the thought of that tires me. I prefer to keep going with this one until it dies. I do like my privacy in many ways, but, I’ve got so many awesome readers and friends that I don’t feel like the blog is over. Then I thought, maybe I can superficially coast through some dating and well, blah. That sucks too. The thing is, Velvet is not done. The idea here was about dating in D.C. And guess what? I’m still fucking dating in D.C. Less so these days than in days past, but still, like erosion, it is a slow and painful process.

So. Fuck it. Let’s get back to it. Original and uncensored, with just enough spared to save some hurt feelings and protect my personal life. Today I’m tired and malnourished and in the mood to do a bit of gut-spilling.

In July I met Sherlock. We all know the disaster. Don’t make me relive it. I just got past my stomach virus and/or food poisoning. But since the password, and since the fall, the rollercoaster continued. All of the details are probably just the same over and over, but the bottom line is that he and I are sometimes on the same page, and sometimes we are not. Like most relationships I would imagine, when we are on the same page, everything is wonderful. And when we are not on the same page, things get really really bad. I mean, really bad. Definition of really bad was me laying in a crumpled ball at my doctor’s office saying, “You have GOT to help me!” And Doctor Hot-but-Gay has his hand on the phone and he’s hit 9-1 and is about to hit that last 1 until you assure him that this isn’t what he thinks.

So somewhere after spending a wonderful Thanksgiving together, and having a great first couple weeks in December, like the front desk at the Hyatt, I just checked right back out again. I think I’ve become so conditioned to this fucked up dating style we have here in D.C. that I now think if someone wants to see me twice inside a week then something just must be wrong with them. Okay, I’m being a bit facetious, but that’s just an example of how Sherlock and I would end up on opposite pages. The usual drill was him wanting more of my time, and my pulling back in response. When his plans suddenly changed and he was going to be in town after a planned weekend out of town, he was quite pissed that I didn’t drop my plans. I am just not the girl who fucking bails on all her friends because her boyfriend is back in town. Granted, a lot of you all do it to me. A lot of you. But I do not do it back. I do not click over to talk to a boy if I’m talking to you. I do not hang up on you if he calls. And I don’t make excuses about that. Maybe it makes me a shitty girlfriend, but, that is who I am.

After several heated exchanges, we had a less than amicable parting of the ways.

Then I realized after some things both he and I said during that conversation, that it wasn’t just so easy to walk away. I don’t then, and still don’t now think that the blame for a lot of what went wrong resides with me, but I certainly didn’t help matters.

If someone has a weakness, and you know they have this weakness, and you don’t do all that you can in your power to discourage them away from said weakness, are you somehow partially responsible for what happens?

Sure, you can argue that both parties are adults and adults make their own decisions and have to stand up for those decisions. I would agree. But I also wouldn’t walk into a room of meth addicts and start chopping, cutting, lining and snorting like a hibachi chef going for the Onion Volcano.

So, here we were, having some final, tidying up conversations. Me telling him things I think he needed to know. Him asking questions and doing the same with me. Then, as is typical for members of my family, I just shut down. I was talking and contributing and emailing and even had a phone chat or two to help iron some things out, but I kept it very business, and once it turned into a “How was your day dear” conversation, I dove off the phone, or didn’t respond to that part of the email. Then I stopped responding entirely. At least to him.

What I did respond to were so many other vices in my life. And I spent several weeks doing things to my body that oh, hurt so much and haven’t been done in ages.   When I woke up the other night with the dreaded food poisoning thing, I thought, “Here we go, this is where I finally end up in the ER for what I’ve done. And I don’t even have an emergency contact!” Shit. I should have been so lucky after what I went through for the next 48 hours.

So after several weeks of not talking to Sherlock, refusing all forms of contact even going so far as to fight with a delivery person who just wanted to deliver flowers to me on Christmas Eve so he could go home to his family and not listen to some crazy lady say, “TAKE THESE BACK AND CALL THE FUCKER WHO SENT THEM AND TELL HIM THEY WERE REFUSED,” we ended up meeting again in the strangest of ways.

Well. Not really.

Twenty minutes after I posted my death virus post Monday night and asked for someone to walk Sammy and Thora, guess who was at my door, promising no drama, buying gatorade, putting everything in my kitchen, shaking his head at the dying flowers, and walking the dogs. Yeah. If he was as mean to me as I have been to him, I would have let his dogs rot in hell.

He called to see how I was feeling last night and I was a bitch. Then I realized that I had NO REASON and was totally out of line. I apologized via text and he called. We ended up on the phone half the night. It was a good conversation. For three hours.

I don’t know what to say anymore. We are not on the same page right now. There is a lot that has happened between us to cause a lot of hurt. Hurt that I’m not sure I can recover from. This time though, I’m not going to stand idly around with my thumb up my ass. He isn’t in the picture right now, but he’s not completely out of it either. *Shrug*

With that, I’m back in the ring. And this time I’m up to something hilarious that I hope will yield some funny ass stories again. It was getting a little stale around here. So, I’m opening the window. Letting a little fresh air in. Let’s go.

I just about had all the tainted food cleared from my system when I received an email that made me throw up again.

If anyone recalls the hellacious 4 part series on “OldBuilder,” great. If not, I’ll just give you the very brief synopsis. Opie is a misogynistic, sexually harassing asshole whose hatred of me turned an entire company upside down.

Now, the email:

Just a quick note to say Happy New Year!

I hope 2007 brings you much fulfillment & success.

With Warmest Regards,

Opie

(301) 793-XXXX

Damn. Is he kidding? I have to go hurl now. I forwarded to my boss and said, “I should write back and say, ‘Look, we both know we hate each other. You can take me out of your address book now.'”

Happy New Year to you too Opie. Maybe this is the year you get and keep a job. In other “OldBuilder” news – the Weasel was fired from his next job as well. Awesome.

All together now, People ALWAYS get what they deserve.

I am sick.

I am sicker than I have been in a long time due to Food Poisoning. I feel like I am going to die. Not a good way to start off this year. Be right back. Gotta hit the bathroom.

Last night I woke up at 4 a.m. and ran to the bathroom. Ever have such a vile thing in your body that you don’t know which end it will come out first? Yeah. I sat there holding the trash can sitting on the porcelin bus, screaming for my life. Be right back, bathroom again.

So back to last night. I don’t know how, but I passed out. In the bathroom. I got hot and cold and then cold sweats, and fell and hit my head on the wall. When I woke up I could not get myself off the floor. I’m so hot. Who wouldn’t want to date me? Be right back, going to the bathroom again.

Anyway, at what point do I need to go to the ER? I am much more comfortable in my house with my own vomit and candle filled bathroom than I would be in the ER going to the bathroom in a smock. Sit tight. Going to hit the potty again.

This afternoon I vomited like the exorcist and yes, I recognized the culprit of what made me sick. Interestingly enough, it was a meal PRIOR to the last one I ate. How does that happen? Does the stomach say, “Okay, you, cheese and crackers, you are allowed by, but you butternut squash ravvies, you are staying here while we check your paperwork. Nope, sorry, you are on the do-not-fly list. Get out.” Fortunately I was awake so I didn’t choke on my own vomit a la John Bonham. Speaking of, must go vomit. Be right back.

A couple months ago, I wanted to lose like 8 lbs. so I did the ever effective South Beach Diet. I was quite happy with my weight loss. Then I had some personal traumas and lost more weight without even trying. I was at what I thought was my bottom, which was less than I wanted, but still okay. I was back to my college weight. Fine. No biggie, but all my pants keep falling off. Now with this inability to keep any food in my body, I’m unwillingly on my way to sharing a room with Nicole Richie in anorexia rehab. Fucking sucks.

Shit. Where did my boobs go? God damned it.

If anyone wants to walk Sammy and Thora (seriously) please call me.

January – The first victim of the year in dating was CL#5PornName. (Date #1.) We only went on one date, because I became enamoured with stupid CL#4NewJersey. That doofus. Sammy got a mysterious back problem that almost set me back $3000 for an MRI and such, but he magically recovered. I continue dating CL#4NewJersey (he’s in last year’s count so he doesn’t count for this year,) and El Guapo hits the scene and we team up for some good old Craigslist torture. You all loved it. Here are the links:

1) Choose your own adventure – explains the reason this guy is “chosen.”
2) With the Touch of a Velvet Glove, Abra Abra Cadabra – Enter El Guapo.
3) El Guapo Strikes Again – It just gets funnier.
4) El Guapo Fucks Up – But it is just so damn funny!
5) The Best of El Guapo Recap – Think of the Deli Meats!

February – Things continue on the CL#4NewJersey rollercoaster and then I have a date with CL#2BlueEyes (Date #2.) That doesn’t go anywhere though. CL#4NewJersey surprises me for a Valentine’s Day dinner and things seem to look up. But not for long. He disappears shortly after. It’s Just Lunch sends me out on my 10th date, Ray Romano, (Date #3) but that goes nowhere as well. CL#4NewJersey breaks up with me via email, solidifying his place as the supreme idiot of the dating world.

March – A generally non-descript month for me, though I did meet and start dating another wanker off Craigslist (Date #4.) He had a name consisting of something about a fruit (in general “fruit” is quite apropos though the specific choice of fruit in this case is not representative of his package,) and a place to take outside naps, but it’s all a hazy blur of a truly unremarkable person who told the same three stories over and over. Not so much a “catch” as something you’d like to throw back. Crazy friends included in that package as well.

April – My parents came to visit. That post is still one of my best hits on this blog. Guess you all can relate. Went to Arizona in the end of April and fell in love with the idea of moving out of D.C. It probably had something to do with an incredibly X-rated night with the cowboy. Not sure I can log this one as a “date.”

May – Not a lot of writing in May because one of my aforementioned dates went a little nuts and I just checked out of the scene for a while. It was a nice break.

June – On a major Dating Hiatus at this point. Went shopping at Victoria’s Secret and created the Hunting Guide to help gear myself back up for the game.

July – Went to Michigan to see friends get married and saw Cutest Baby in the World. Reconnected with It’s Just Lunch (who forgot about me) and went on a date with TheBoroughsBaby (Date #5) which had zero chemistry and had a date with SirTalksALot (Date #6) which also went a surprisingly nowhere.

August – Began a drama filled relationship with Sherlock (Date #7.) Found quickly that Sherlock comes complete with other girls he’s dated who are also bloggers who are also reading my blog. To say that this was a mess would be putting it lightly. I went out with OlderMan (Date #8) and he asked me out again but I wasn’t feeling that so much. Also went out with TheConsultant (Date #9.)

September – In my need to get the hell out of dodge, I head off to Atlanta. The rest of the month is pretty uneventful. Some on again / off again with Sherlock.

October – Mid October I finally had enough of the drama and went under password protection for a month. That was relieving, though hilarious to see “people” trying to crack the password as well as use the cache to get in and read. It proved to me that there really are a lot of crazies in this blog world. Things spun out of control and into directions I never expected. My panic attacks increased in frequency up from one or two a week to one or two a day.

November – Blog still under password. I learned a lot about myself by going back and reading these passworded posts. Sometimes you can get so caught up in the day to day that you miss the big picture entirely. It’s much more obvious to me at this point what was going on back then. I only wish I saw it more clearly. In my defense, work kept me very busy to notice the other stuff.

December – Posting is light again. I’m burned out on blogging this month. I’m doing more to take care of myself and trying to not be so deep and to not feel things so deeply. Letting it roll off becomes my new mantra.

When I went back and read some old posts to compile this recap, I realized how fun this blog used to be, how fun my life used to be, and how it seems to have become a big pile of shit and negativity. I’m not happy about it. Seeing it all in one place, I definitely can say that this year is not even close to what I wanted for myself. Last night I had a conversation with Sixes and Sevens and she said that dating is hard, and she prefers to coast superficially through relationships and not get entrenched emotionally because it is just too exhausting. I can totally relate. So, as I’ve said before, this isn’t exactly what I want for myself, but I don’t know what I do want. But, I’m going to keep looking. I think there is a better life out there. I just have to find it.

In any case, the score is as follows:

Velvet: 0
Potential Dating Pool: -9

I think in 2007 I’m going to consider getting back to writing about the original focus of Velvet in Dupont – Dating and Relationships.

I drank again last night. Sixes and Sevens is a bad influence. My night started off relatively healthy. I went to the gym, ran 3.4 miles on a 3% incline, came home and hopped in the shower. Then I got a text that said, “Wine? Champagne?” Damn you evil temptress. I was doing so well!

I grabbed my booze and my dogs, and went over to her place, stopping to bang on the King of the Dog Park’s window on the way. He opened it up and said he would meet me at Sixes and Seven’s house shortly. All of this drinking ensured that I would get home late, drunk, and be late for work today. But, it was a good thing. Driving to work an hour later than my usual time, I stopped at a red light downtown. I looked to my right and saw two men of the blue collar variety standing on the sidewalk talking to another guy whose face I couldn’t see.

These two guys were the hottest specimen I’ve seen in this city since I moved here. I wish I had my camera because I would have most definitely taken a picture. I seriously could not stop looking. Of course, it got the little squirrel in my brain thinking about something.

Growing up in Connecticut, and hanging out in the bars and clubs in New York City and Long Island, good looking men outnumbered the rodents in the city. Every night out yielded a handful of phone numbers from men who I would juggle for months to come. I then moved to Atlanta, and while the general look of Atlantans was different, there were still many hot men to feast the eyes on.

Then I moved here. Hollywood for the ugly. Why are we all so unattractive? I just don’t get it. Am I hanging out in the wrong places? Is it the whole city or just pockets? And good lord, am I becoming ugly by osmosis? I’m really at a loss. By New York City standards, the guys this morning would have blended in. Both about 6 feet tall, light to medium brown hair, one with some unshaven scruff, rough in a take-me-tame-me way, and not manorexic. They spend time at the gym without getting bulky and steroided up. They have the look that they actually play sports instead of watching them on t.v. They stand out in a city washed with “sameness” enough for me to slam on my brakes and stare without fear of getting caught.

When I moved here, my definition and standard of what was good looking changed without my knowledge or approval. The guys in D.C. fall into a few categories. Either he is the nerdy hipster with the trademark black frame glasses who looks like he hasn’t washed his clothes since “Like a Virgin” was number 1, or he’s the politico who spends too much time at the office going bald and not spending enough time exercising off his pot belly. If he doesn’t fall into one of the two above categories, then he has most likely become metrosexual. By process of elimination, I embraced the metrosexual look. I liked the guy who paid attention to what he looked like, bought the Seven jeans, and generally acted a bit gay when appropriate. But that hasn’t worked out so well for me. I just can’t emasculate the man I’m with. And the other types? Well, I’m just not the hipster kind of girl. And the politico? No thanks. I’ll choose celibacy.

But seeing this guy this morning just reminded me where I came from, what I grew up finding attractive and the kind of guy who I am most suited to be with. It’s more workman with toolbelt and less suits and briefcases. It’s more driving an F350 to work and less bike riding with the backpack in tow. It’s more Dane Cook, and less Buddy Holly, Carson Daly or Chris Robinson.

Aah, Dane Cook.

Oh. I hurt. Who else is at work today? Damn it. This sucks. Its a shitty day here in the District – foggy, rainy and quiet. All you people are still away. And I’m here at work, pretending to work. Though, this is for the best, because if I had one more consecutive day off, I would have been in detox by Wednesday for sure. I did a lot of drinking. I mean, a LOT of drinking. And self-medicating. Combine that with not a lot of eating and well, I hurt. HURT!

The weekend is a blur of events, quotes, hangovers and sleep, but heres what I got. If anyone who I saw can contribute more or connect any of the dots, it would be much appreciated.

The Upstairs Neighbor visited. In a drunken picture taking moment, he fell on Freckled K and broke her coccyx. We think. She was whining all weekend. FK, I did some research on broken coccyxs here. It doesnt say anything about if a hot hipster boy from San Fran falls on you at The Black Cat though.

The Upstairs Neighbor came out again on Saturday night but he brought a bodyguard this time. I dont think he wanted to be alone with FreckledK and I again. Damn.

FreckledK made me go to Georgetown on Christmas Eve to go shopping. Oh, the humanity. Okay, it wasnt that bad. I did announce to everyone on the first floor in Banana Republic, This was fun but I’m going upstairs to commence shopping for myself. Merry Christmas to the rest of you though.

After trying on several pairs of pants and discovering that after all these years Banana Republic still can’t make a pair of pants with pockets that lay flat, I went back downstairs to find FK. I saw my bestest friend in line next to her. I started screaming and pointing and he did too, then we all went to eat. The waitress at Clydes asked the kitchen to make me an item off the dinner menu and they said yes and it almost made me cry because I didn’t ask her to do that. I just mentioned that I loved it and wished it was on the lunch menu. Its the little things you know. Then we gave the waitress a ridiculous tip of like $30 on an $80 bill and she almost cried. Tears all around and we werent even at a funeral. Or my familys house.

Christmas Eve I went to dinner with Sixes and Sevens, her mom, and the King of the Dog Park. At some point during dinner, Sixes and Sevens mom mentioned her collection of shopping bags. Anything with a handle she said. I was sufficiently drunk by this point in time. Then I went home and collected every shopping bag I could find in my house and brought them over to her. She literally shrieked with joy. Who knew? I was also supposed to bring my new Taki the Greek speaking Teddy Bear that my brother gave me for Christmas (Dude, you know I’m not 10 anymore, right?) but it was just too embarrassing. “Alpha beta gamma delta epsilon zeta eta theta…OPA!…Mia Orea Petaloutha…Yeia Sou!” Jesus fucking Christ. What. The. Fuck. Did you not see the rocking pink tricycle I got you people? How about your Tourist Trap DVD or that Fekkai Gift Set? I get a Greek Teddy Bear? Fuck. What am I getting next year? A gang bang from Osama Bin Ladin and friends?

I went home and was messing around online and noticed something very interesting in my stats. Verrrrry interesting. I wonder why someone from Lewis Law Firm spent 5 hours checking the google cache for mentions of someone who has proven to be quite the psychotic around here. Then, interestingly enough, later that evening, someone in some redneck state down south did the same thing for a few hours. Christmas Eve people. Christmas Eve. Do you not have anything better to do than to scour a google cache that barely exists anymore for mentions of your nutball self? Or to have someone at a law firm do it? Jesus. What a waste of space you are.

I was about to pack it in for the night. But then FK and KassyK called me from a bar. Leave it to those two to find a bar that is open on Christmas Eve. More drinking. Could I possibly drink any more? Lets see. Yep. I could.

I spent yesterday recovering and checking out rehab programs. Just in case.

Its the Holidays everybody. Have you noticed yet how the holidays bring out the worst in many people?

Last week, Dunkin Donuts on 17^th Street was robbed. Calling all cars, calling all cars, Dunkin Donuts is in peril!

Friday 12/15, 9 p.m., Wonderland Ballroom was robbed by three masked men with guns. They took everyones cash and were out in under 3 minutes. Gentrification is a slow and painful process.

Monday 12/18, 3 p.m. A man was shot and killed at 12^th & U, just outside the 7-11. Apparently it was because of some sort of argument. 3 p.m. people. 3 p.m. Bunch of savages around here.

Monday 12/18, 3:30 p.m. I have to get Sammy & Thora out for a walk and also need to drop off an RX for my anti-anxiety medicine at CVS. I walk down the street and begin to tie them up outside. A man with a goiter rides up to me on his bike and says, Youre really trusting. I said, They wont run away. He says, No, I mean, just anyone could come and steal them. Now, this process of tying dogs outside a store is not my favorite, and Ive done it three times in my life as something happening to Sammy or Thora paralyzes me with so much fear, hence the anti-anxiety medicine RX that I was holding in hand! So I turn around and look at him, and my face must have said it all. He said, Well, I didn’t mean to scare you but and launches into more about how just anyone could steal the dogs and I would never find them. Finally he rides off. I make sure hes out of sight and I run in and drop off the RX and run back out. There are Sammy & Thora, sitting there licking their asses. Who would want to steal a mutt whose tongue tastes like ass? But, for those 30 seconds, I was really sweating it out. Asshole. Thanks a lot. Ill be doubling up when I get my hands on those pills.

Tuesday 12/19, 3 p.m., Blockbuster was robbed on 17^th Street, also by armed men. They forced an exiting customer back inside and held the place up. I would like to tell that customer that while I’m sorry for their trauma because I would have most likely crapped my pants, they should have long ago joined Netflix. Who goes to Blockbuster anymore?

I’m going to lock my door, train Sammy and Thora to use the toilet, and not leave until the madness is over.