People. I love you. I know that you come here for dating, good, bad and otherwise. And yet, I have entertained you from atop this soapbox, bitching about D.C. and my favorite topic, the cops. Wonkette got me again, thanks to them for the linkage. But, tonight, you shall get what the original Velvet was created for – dating. I am here to entertain.
All right. Sunday, I had Date 11 of the 14 date obligation with, shall we just call them IJL? I mean, that’s what they call themselves. The details of the date, set up by whatever I named that chick – Cathy I think, were fine. She sounded like she knew what she was doing. I met Date11TheBoroughsBaby at Daily Grill at 1:00. Anyone who knows me knows this is prime skin cancer hour and I do not like giving that up for what might be a shitty date. And we know that it’s not like IJL is going to suddenly discover an arsenal of good looking men who they forgot to set me up with before. But, being that it was my first one “back out there,” I decided I should behave and not cancel.
I saw him walking up to the restaurant and my first impression wasn’t the greatest, but I shall shine the light on myself for a second. I was wearing a sundress, flip flops, and my bathing suit underneath the dress. I was too lazy to change. Or shower. So I smelled like Eau de White Trash in line for the roller coaster at an Amusement Park – Coppertone SPF 8! (Never go lower than SPF 8 or God Forbid, not wear any sunscreen, okay! Trust me, I’m a pro.)
They seat me first, and as I’m going to the bathroom to wipe the sweat off my face, here he comes, with the other hostess. We said a quick awkward hello and I trotted off to the sink to swim in the cold water for a minute. When I returned to the table, he stood up to greet me. Um. What the fuck. None of these guys have done that. Okay, so he’s a gentleman. Nice. Points for that even though that act of standing up when I come back makes me feel like an idiot.
Not a lot of details to share. He’s from NY, hence the name. We ate. He paid the bill despite my best efforts to throw money at him, and we exchanged information. He was comfortable with himself, and I could go out with him again. Can I see myself ripping off his clothes? Jury still out. And if the jury is still out, um, that could be a sign in itself. Next.
Date 12 was Tuesday evening in Bethesda. I get to the restaurant and I’m late because I stopped at Loehmann’s. Stupid Velvet. Remember the layoffs! But at least I didn’t buy anything. (When did clothes become ugly? Hang in there Seven Jeans, I need to squeeze another year out of you…) The hostess brings me over to Date 12. Instantly not attracted. Not my type, no negotiation on this. But a really nice guy. Just talks a lot. Way too much in fact. Let’s knight him and give him his name: Date 12 Sir Talks A Lot. There.
He grew up in Bethlehem, PA, also the hometown of Velvet’s Dad, and I do know a bit of Bethlehem history. Yet, any time I discuss Bethlehem with people, and describe where my grandparents lived, I get that face. Apparently, it’s the wrong side of the tracks, literally. I had a boyfriend in college who was from Bethlehem and he said, “Oh, NO ONE GOES OVER THERE!!” This guy tonight? He said, “I don’t know where that is. I’m guessing South Side though from what you described. A lot of immigrants lived and still live up there.” Yeah, what do I look like with this fucking FLAG OF GREECE spread across half my back? But I digress.
I learned all I needed to know about Beth Steel. (Note to eyes: If you fucking glaze over again when I need you to feign interest, you are dead to me. I will bring you back for more laser surgery since you loved it so much the last time…remember? You sealed yourself shut for two fucking days and refused to come out! Try me.)
Suddenly in my head, I’m whisked away to New York and I’m having sex with James Gandolfini. I have no idea where this daydream came from, but I was trying to wager what sex with him would be like. Would it be Tony Soprano “I’m in control/holding a gun to your head” kind of sex, or would it be a big joke of an experience with a semi flaccid penis that barely registers on the scale? Oops. I realize I have now missed several crucial minutes of the Bethlehem Steel story. Damn. I hope he didn’t cover the part about how they closed because my Grandparents had died by then and I never followed the story. According to my date, the Hispanics have taken over my grandparent’s neighborhood. And now, Papou and Yiyia are rolling over in their graves.
I wanted to tell my favorite story about my dad and growing up in Bethlehem, but his stories kept going. I also learned more than I needed to know about some company called Green Thumb something and ugh, I can’t even get into it. It sounded like a weird job. I was speechless. Of course the one line I’m always dying to use came to mind: “Did I tell you about my latest yeast infection?”
The bill comes, we pay, we leave. He walks me to my car, talking now about not liking the dressing up for his job. He laments how he hates ties. I say, “I wonder what the purpose of ties really is.” He says, “I know the whole history of the tie.” Sometimes, I will never learn. Seriously. Stupid mouth. You’re next after the eyes for some surgery, and I’ll have you lasered shut if possible too.
Verdict? Obviously there was no way I wanted to rip his clothes off. In fact, I wanted him to put more clothes on. Please, more ties. Several of them. Really, the look great on you. Nice as you are, I just can’t imagine you with nothing on.
Two to go. Then, I’m lubed up and ready to go out on real dates. Oops. Poor choice of words. Lubed. Heh. Eh, fuck it. Just…hit…publish.