Year: 2006 (Page 1 of 4)

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.

Two friends asked me this weekend if I would post their respective, current plights on my blog seeking your expert, non-biased opinions. This works out well for me considering that my own weekend passed in such a drunken (cough, among other things, cough) haze that I don’t really recall any material of my own. Though, I do remember a near bar fight with some troll who couldn’t wait 10 seconds for me to pee and found it necessary to bang on the door like a lunatic and I also remember that the bar I went to on Friday was subjected to an armed robbery just minutes before my girls and I walked in. But I digress. Today is about the friends needing your advice.

Situation 1:
My friend Kate has been seeing a guy for a little while now, and he was at her house on the other night. As the evening progressed, they had sex. She told him to make sure he pulled out. Then, feeling a change in the dynamic, she knew that he had come and she asked him point blank if he did. He said no. She got up, and being that this is something we girls will find out anyway (helloooo gravity,) she went to the bathroom and realized that there was now a “mystery” substance coming out of her body. So she asked him again, “Are you SURE?” He said, again, “No.” So she presents her evidence (verbally, not like she showed it to him, though I said she should have,) and he says that he didn’t feel it. She told him she highly doubted he could have an orgasm and not feel it. He’s sticking with his story, denying all knowledge on his part that he actually came.

Now, despite the fact that I have very large balls, I do not have a penis. I cannot answer this question for sure, I just know that of the men I have been with, no one has ever been “not sure” whether they actually had an orgasm or not.

Boys? Little help? Is it possible to come and not feel it? Is he a big, fat, lying, selfish, pre-pubescent boy who can’t control or feel his orgasms?

Situation 2:
Another friend who I’ve named “Sixes and Sevens,” met a guy at a bar. They both seemed quite interested in each other and spent a good portion of the evening talking. The guy seemed to be painfully shy. Despite this, he asked for her number twice and they exchanged information. There were some emails over a couple days that seemed to show interest on both sides of this puzzle. Then there was talk of possible weekend plans. He was unable to meet her Friday, but said that Saturday he would be at a certain bar with a bunch of friends if she wanted to stop by.

The bar in question is not a contiguous space, and while we sat in the bar at the corner, he made his way around the place talking to various people but never came over to say hi to her. She assumes he saw us and didn’t want to come over because he didn’t like her or thought it was weird that she showed up at the bar. I think he was pretty drunk and possibly didn’t see us. He and the friends were really downing the Schlitz. So, what do you all think? Did he see her and not want to talk to her? What should she do? Wait for him to call? Call him? Email him and tell him that she was there and he didn’t see her and she felt like she was intruding in his night out with friends?

Help the girls out with their problems please, as my well of knowledge has been sliced, diced, cut, burned, bumped, blasted, blown and insufflated.

I was walking by a fancy store today, skidded to a halt and turned to feast my eyes on this:

It’s pink. It’s retro. It’s all things I love, and what tricycles should have been when I was bopping around. I bought it, shoved it in Speedracer, and whisked it away from the store so I could send it off to my beloved little niece. You may remember her as the “cutest baby in the world.” Well, she seriously is out of hand adorable. And I’m not just saying that because she’s my niece. See for yourself.

Clearly my brother got to her first instead of my more responsible and not nearly as sweet toothed sister-in-law. Sigh. That pint of ice cream is not for teething babies! It’s for PMSing Aunties. Send it my way bitches, I’m sending you this tricycle in exchange. God, that kid. She is so cute I can’t stand it.

In other cuteness news, Sammy and Thora are out of control with the UPS lady in my neighborhood. She gives them treats that she keeps in the truck. I get notes and calls from my dog walker that they saw the UPS truck and jumped inside. If Thora sees a UPS truck anywhere now, she bolts. I’m back to putting her on a leash because she is totally out of control. She saw the UPS lady driving down the street, and she walked out in the middle of the road with her little bow legs and stopped her in her tracks. The UPS lady had to open the door and let Thora in the truck with her because Thora would not move out of the road. My dog has become a stalker. And no, it’s not just her.

Yesterday Sammy craned his neck from the balcony and saw the UPS lady a FULL BLOCK AWAY delivering a package. She jumped out of the truck and Sammy started shrieking and barking.

I would like to hire them out for the holidays. Everyone could use a warning when UPS is coming, right? Well, I’ve got Sammy and Thora, ready to patrol for UPS, coming to a neighborhood near you. Their price is 3 milkbones an hour.

I spent a few years in my 20’s, training in Kickboxing, and not in a fruity neon lit aerobics studio kicking air. My Sensei was a Triple Degree Karate Blackbelt. Despite the fact that I used to show up for work with bruises a la Ed Norton in Fight Club, I learned a lot about how to fight and general fighting styles. Men and women fight totally different. Women are more vicious. Round for round, a woman will throw more punches per minute, hit harder, kick harder than a man ever will. To this day, that training is branded in my head. But my fighting style is also shaped through generations of Velvet family training.

The father of one Velvet in Dupont grew up in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, on the wrong side of the tracks. And I mean, the WRONG side of the tracks. No one goes into his neighborhood now. When my Uncle died, I went up to the house for memories and such, and the man who lived in the attached house said (as I was stalkerishly looking through the mail slot into what was once my Grandparents hallway,) “You don’t want to live here. This is an awful neighborhood.” But, one of my favorite family stories is one from this neighborhood. This little gem, courtesy of my dad, shaped my brothers and I how to respond in similar situations.

When my dad was in grade school in the early 1940’s in Bethlehem, he came home from school one day with a black eye. His dad, my barely-English speaking Grandfather (Papou,) pulled him aside, away from his mother and sisters and asked him what happened. My dad explained to him that every day there was a bully who was beating up the kids for their lunch money. My dad, at 10 years old (and still now at 74) refused to part with his cash and he suffered a daily beating because of it. Papou bent down and said something in my dad’s ear. My dad nodded, and they went about their evening.

The next day, Papou was summoned from his job at Bethlehem Steel down to my dad’s school. He goes in to the Principal’s office. The Principal says to Papou, “Your son is in here because he beat up this boy. Do you have any idea why?”

Papou said, “Because I told him to.”

Of course this caused all sorts of a ruckus until Papou was able to explain what had been going on. Of course the school had no knowledge of this. Everyone was sent home and problem solved. So what did Papou tell my dad when he bent down and whispered in his ear?

“Find a rock tomorrow. Roll it in snow and ice until it’s a big snowball. Then I want you to beat him with until he can’t get up.”

Let’s fast forward 45 years to the 1980’s. My oldest brother, a straight A student, became the target of a bully and a couple of his drug addict friends. The things this group did to my brother were heartbreaking. My parents refused to sit idly by and watch their son be intimidated while the school, of course, did nothing to stop what occurred on their property. One weekend we went on vacation, probably to look at colleges for my older brother. When we got off the highway that Sunday night and were making our way to our house, my brother said, “I just know they blew up our mailbox.” That was what people did in the 80’s. They blew up mailboxes with M-80’s. Vandalism was big in our neighborhood. No one could hang Christmas lights and everyone’s houses were always getting egged and sprayed with shaving cream.

Rounding the corner on my street, there was no mailbox where there should have been. My brother was so upset. My dad told him not to worry. Everyone unpacked the car and went inside. My dad went to get my brother and told him to put his shoes on. It was late at this point, the rest of us were going to bed. My dad walked into the garage and grabbed a baseball bat. He and my brother crept through the neighborhood over to the bully’s house. My dad, at 50 some odd years old, Sammy Sosa’ed their mailbox through the front yard, then walked over to it, picked it up and as my brother tells it, hurled it OVER their three story house into their backyard. I remember my brother saying, “Daddy was PISSED. I had no idea he could throw like that.”

My brother and my dad were walking back home, and my brother said, “You know, we still need a mailbox. We won’t get mail tomorrow without a mailbox.” He and my dad looked at each other and my dad said, “Oh fuck.” They turned back around and my dad ran into the bully’s backyard and got the mailbox from where it had landed just next to their pool. He brought it home to my mom, who then plopped it on a table in our garage and she painted it a different color the next moring. They put the mailbox out where ours had formerly been. Martha Stewart and Sammy Sosa – my parents.

After that, my dad and brother would occasionally sit in the car in the driveway with baseball bats, waiting for the kids to come back and try to blow up the new mailbox. I can remember being 10 years old, and watching from my window. Somehow, I wasn’t scared for my dad or brother. I just knew they had had enough and they weren’t going to take it anymore.

There are other stories that follow, of retailiation much worse, things that happened in our sleepy little town that made everyone wonder about who was really doing what. All in all, I think my brother got the last laugh, because, again, like last week’s lesson, people ALWAYS get what they deserve. Most of the kids in that group stayed on their drugs and didn’t amount to a whole lot in life. But one of them was the pilot of the flight that crashed in Queens just a couple months after September 11. While it sucked for everyone else on that plane, I can’t say I felt any sympathy for that bastard. He was the #2 guy in that gang of kids who picked on my brother incessantly.

Years later, the younger brother of the main bully started picking on my next younger brother. The legacy was passed down to the next generation. He would body slam my brother into the lockers during class changes. My mom doctored up my brother’s shoulder with a bunch of tacks, and taped them backwards to his shirt. Fucking hilarious. The next time the kid slammed into him was also the last.

That, ladies and gents, is how the Velvet family fights. There are countless more stories of my brothers and I being harassed by bullies during school. Each and every time, my parents directed us exactly how to fight back. And you just don’t fuck with Gloom and Doom, they don’t back down. We won’t instigate, but when pulled into the ring, we fight tooth and nail until the other guy is down for the count. My last name is tattooed across my back not to fill space, but to remind me that I’m part of a clique with good old days I remember happily – good old days that trained me for coping and fighting methods that I still use today. I will always and forever, no matter what, be a “insert Velvet’s Greek last name here.”

This one is long, but by far the best of the rest, and I wanted to tie it up and not have to go to a part 5!

On December 2, another surprise walks in the door – Opies predecessor and Ms. Rights old boss, the ex-Controller. He was the one who quit and they tried to get me to take his job. Ms. Right waits for the right time, then grabs him and walks into the Weasels office, and asks him about why he said she was a bad employee. I was SO PROUD of Ms. Right. I still to this day cant believe she had the balls to do this. She said to me, Oh, I’m not letting him get away. And I’m doing it in front of the Weasel, so all our stories are straight. Of course the old supervisor denied everything, and the Weasel was stunned. He sat there with his mouth on the floor like Dominick Dunne when they read the OJ verdict. Does anyone besides me remember that? No? Oh well. It was funny.

Ms. Right called corporate to report on the meeting with her old boss and the Weasel since she told them this during their meeting when they came to town. The HR bats said, “Why don’t you ask him?” Ms. Right said, “Because he doesn’t work here anymore.” Except no one counted on him showing up to say hi a couple weeks later after being MIA for a year. Ms. Right also asked about the status of their investigation. They said they completed their study and found that a lot of things were trumped up by the rumor mill. Ms. Right said, But MellyMel said she heard from Opies mouth that he wanted to fire me because I was black. Corporate HRs response? Its JUST. NOT. TRUE. We thought they were going to help us. Instead, they did nothing.

December 4^th, The Designer, MellyMel, Ms. Right, LongIsland and I have lunch in the conference room. We are laughing and making fun of each other, and a couple managers pop their heads in, with one saying it sounds good to hear laughter around the office after the last few months. Fat Bastard also pops his fat head in a bunch of times, and just stares, as he is famous for. Just staring at the girls and their boobies.

December 7^th, All of us are written up for having an extended lunch as referenced above. Fat Bastard, who as the Purchasing Manager had NO BUSINESS being in the meeting where we were told we were being written up is sitting in there just staring. (Gee Fat Bastard, dont you have some chickens to eat, or some house price calculations to fuck up? Oh, shoot, I ended that with a preposition, let me try it again. Don’t you have some house price calculations to fuck up, asshole?)

I refused to sign the sheet. The Weasel says, You know Velvet, we all just want to move on. I said, This doesnt seem like moving on. I flick their copy of the form back across the table and say, I dont need this, you can have it back. I’m not signing it. Ill write a response to what lies you have here. I walk over to the fax machine and send it off to some lawyer peeps I know who wrote a rebuttal for me in 10 minutes. I knocked on the door where they were still writing people up, threw their paper at them, then walked out. LongIsland called me in 10 minutes and said, OH MY GOD, what the HELL did you give them? They just walked out of the conference room, FLIPPING OUT and said they have to call corporate.

Then, LongIsland turned in a similar rebuttal. Gee, I wonder how it happened that ours were almost identical? A day after that, MellyMel turned in another very similar rebuttal. Again, can you believe the coincidence here? Wow! (The rebuttals were peppered with legalese designed to protect us in case we were fired. It accused them of retaliation for the sexual harassment investigation.) With each letter that arrived, the Weasel told my boss I could be in trouble if I didn’t stop. My boss said to the Weasel, I cant control what Velvet does. She is doing what she thinks is right. Then he said to me, You know I cut us deals to go to the new builder. Cant you just sit tight for 60 days and behave? I said, No. I cant. This is my good name at stake. I have to fight. I cant sit by and let them do this to us. What happened here is wrong. So very wrong. And they allow it. It’s the reason we can’t build a fucking house. Because of all this.

In January, Cocaine Carrie got drunk and called the Designer. Remember I said to not forget the conversation in Hawaii? Well, here it comes. Cocaine Carrie started telling the Designer all this strife in the office was the fault of my boss wife who shot her mouth off in Hawaii at the managers meeting. The Designer let her talk, and she said that the Weasel suspected that my boss was trying to take over, so he told corporate all about it, before any of us had even filed complaints. The Weasel sensed that the tide was turning, that people were getting sick of Opie, and instead of doing something about it, he decided to wag the dog, so to speak. He brought up another issue entirely, the planned takeover by my boss of the division, and told corporate that my boss was going to encourage all of us to file complaints against Opie to make him, the Weasel, look incompetent. So, when we all started calling and filing complaints, they expected our calls, and that is also why, despite our documentation, no one believed us.

A couple days later, they fired LongIsland for no good reason. The next day, my boss gave his notice. He handed me an external hard drive and said, Ive taken copies of all my files. Get yours too. The Weasel asked him to leave shortly thereafter, calling him disruptive.

Opie stepped back into the picture, trying to act like my new boss now. The Weasel actually told my boss he considered making me report to Opie, but my boss said, Are you kidding? After everything that happened? You need her, and thats the surest way to get her to walk out. So the Weasel became my new boss, with Opie sending me email after email asking me to do things and giving me 1 day deadlines when he knew I wasnt even in the office to work on them because I was in meetings all over the state of Maryland.

Then NeedsMeds emails me and tells me to give her the passwords for my budgets. I refused, since some Einstein from their department deleted a bunch of columns once, forcing me to have to recreate them from scratch. She copied the Weasel, so I responded as such and copied the Weasel back. He came to my desk to find out why I didn’t want to give out the password. I told him that I’m responsible for the budgets, and if they get messed up or deleted again, its my neck on the line. I also said, Besides, anyone can look at them by clicking read only, so I dont see what the problem is and why we go through this needless power play every week. He actually fucking agreed, so we asked her together why she needed the password. She said, without looking up from her computer, Opie told me to get it.

Feb 2^nd. I had a meeting with the Weasel and Opie to review budgets. We spent more time in that company reviewing budgets than we did building fucking houses. Later that day, I’m trying to run out for a meeting and the Construction Manager calls me.

CM: So what are you doing?
Velvet: I’m trying to run out of here for a meeting.
CM: No. What are you doing?
Velvet: Um, what??
CM: You know. They want to know what youre doing.
Velvet: Who wants to know?
CM: Well, the Weasel and Opie told me to ask you.

I was evasive. I told him I didn’t know. What I didn’t tell him was that a Fed Ex package arrived at my door that morning, with the offer letter to go work with my now ex, soon to be current again boss at the new builder. The only issue, I had a pending bonus of $5000 that I needed to get processed. It was supposed to be paid on the 15^th, but stupid NeedsMeds, who it seems was now boycotting the use of any brush or comb in her hair, was instructed by Opie to delay it for a month. Payroll cut off on the 3^rd. I needed proof that something I got this easement signed AND recorded before NeedsMeds will process my fucking bonus and I needed that proof within 24 hours.

I grab Ms. Right and we head to fucking Laurel Maryland. I march in to the Sanitary Commission and beg my ass off for the signed easement. The lady said, You people at OLDBUILDER and your problems, I am never doing this for you again. I said, and I promise it was hard to not smirk, Fine by me. I grabbed the letter, dropped Ms. Right off at her house, and headed to god damned Upper Marlboro to record it. In the snow I might add. I called the Recordations office and said I had something urgent that needed to be taken in today. They said I had until 4 p.m. Speedracer and I flew through the snow from Laurel to Upper Marlboro, and got to the office just in time. I asked them to record it on the spot, but because of the time, they couldnt. They did, however, give me a receipt.

I brought the receipt back to NeedsMeds that night and said, Look, see? It was recorded. She put the bonus in by the payroll deadline of the next day.

Feb 4^th. I overhear the rest of the managers talking about the Designer, and very poorly. Their gossip train continues down the office and through the halls from manager to manager. I witness it all, then inform the Designer what they were saying about her. What do I care? I’m quitting. They are all such ridiculous pathetic excuses for managers anyway. If they knew what they were doing, they would just get her on the phone to clarify what happened instead of gossiping. So happy I’m leaving! I signed that offer letter and fed exed it back. I started checking out of Old Builder.

One pending issue left. I had spent the last 6 months at Old Builder finding and negotiating the purchase of a fantastic building in D.C. This project was like my baby, and I was about to jump ship and leave it behind. The broker for the sellers of the building called and asked what was going to happen now that my boss was gone. I said that I doubted Old Builder would want to proceed, as they did not have the ability to build one house, let alone a building of condo conversions. He said in the wake of my boss quitting, he had been trying to discuss the contract with the Weasel who told him he didn’t want to proceed with the project, but he couldn’t get him to sign a termination letter. Fucking typical. I say, Send me that termination letter. He said, Oh, can you sign it? I said, No, but I know who can.

I walk into the Weasels office and with a couple magic tricks, he signs that fucking letter and signs away his right to purchase a building 5 blocks from the White House. Fucking idiot. I faxed the letter to the broker, then called him and said the letter should be coming through the fax now. He thanked me profusely, and said, I think Ill be seeing you again, no? I said, I think thats a safe assumption. Then my ex-boss calls me and says, HEY! How are you? You know, my new company is doing great. We just put a building in DC under contract…5 blocks from the White House. I said, Really? You dont say

I was fucking OldBuilder in the ass left and right this week. Damn did it feel good to strap on for once instead of having to take it.

Feb 15. Hop out of bed. Hellooooo Wachovia.com. I check my balance, see that my bonus is indeed there, and drive to work and resign to the Weasel. Damn that shit felt good. At 5 p.m., NeedsMeds wanders up to my desk, sits down and starts unloading. She told me that she asked for a raise, but Opie and the Weasel said no. Then she overheard them in their office and one of them said, A woman should never make that much money. Oh boys. Boys boys boys.

Feb 16, NeedsMeds says I need to write a resignation letter. It says, To whom it may concern: Please accept this letter as my formal resignation from OldBuilder. My last day will be Feb 28. It should have said, P.S. Please buy NeedsMeds a hairbrush, the Weasel a toothbrush, Fat Bastard 30 sessions with a nutritionist and Opie a blow up doll.

Feb 17, the Weasel told me I no longer seemed happy and we could just make today my last day. Fine by me. I just stared at him, sans expression. He said, Do you have anything to say? I said, Nope. I dont. He gave me my last check and asked for my expense report. He said it would be paid in a week or two. Fat Bastard walked me out. I’m surprised he wasnt in an electric wheelchair by that point he was so fat. Fucking asshole. I called my boss from the parking lot and said, GUESS WHERE I DONT WORK ANYMORE!!

That night I went out with MellyMel where some chick attacked us at this bar and tried to make out with us. Once we got rid of her, MellyMel and I went outside, and some guy who lived in my apartment complex followed me out there. He and I ended up making out, then I climbed to the top of the patio of this bar and was hanging upside down from the rafters. I was so fucking elated, you couldnt have brought me into a bad mood. Until at least 12 hours later.

The next morning I woke up with Bronchitis that turned into the Flu so bad I passed out twice at my house and ended up in the ER. I also passed out in the ER and they dragged me by my arm across the floor to the door of a room where the told me to get up and get in the bed. Who does this?? I would have filed a complaint but I was tired of filing complaints. I had a 103.5 temp for 4 days. Before they released me, they said, Do you need a note for work? I would have laughed if I could have opened my mouth. I like to view this as the catharsis of OldBuilder leaving my system. I was really sick. I mean, really sick. It was horrible. I think I may have died at one point, it was that bad. Actually, it took me 8 months to feel like myself again. I still don’t know what I had.

March 1. I say to no one in particular in my apartment: Is it possible I can no longer work for OldBuilder, yet they are still torturing me? An email from NeedsMeds informs me that she cannot release my expense check until I return the rolodex. (It is MY rolodex from my last job. Not theirs.) I’m done playing games with these fucking ninnies. They have officially fucked the wrong girl.

I fire off an email to the CEO at the Redneck Headquarters. I officially pull out the big guns. It says this:

Dear Mr. CEO:

You may recall that we met when you visited the Maryland Division last February. I worked directly for my boss. We also discussed the fact that you knew my brother, who works at hoity toity investment firm in New York. Sadly, I gave my notice to the Maryland Division and was subsequently terminated two days later. Now they are holding a final expense check for which they are claiming they want a rolodex returned which I have already explained to the Weasel, does not belong to Old Builder. It is my personal rolodex. While I’m no longer surprised by any of their behavior, it is unconscionable of them to hold this check, and might I add, illegal.

Sincerely,
Velvet

I never did get a response from him. He was probably out hunting with Cheney, picking off employees. But I got an email from the Weasel within the hour, who said that I would receive my check “tomorrow.” The fucking hilarious irony? The check was only for $60. So for $60 they were willing to fuck with someone who has a brother in a very high place in a New York Investment Firm, quite important for a public company who wants to look good to Wall Street and who may not want them to know what fucking dickwad poor, sexually harassing managers they are.

A week later NeedsMeds calls me at home to discuss how miserable she is. She goes on and on for an hour. I keep trying to get off the phone with her because she called during peak time and I was out of minutes. Then the crazy bitch goes back and tells the Weasel that I called her and pumped her for info. What. The. Fuck. The Weasel tells anyone who is talking to me that it could be very bad for them. OMG! In my whole life I have never been the bad influence. Now I’m a bad influence on an entire company!

Early April. Someone overhears Opie looking through resumes, picking out the obviously African-American names, saying, No, we dont want another problem around here. Lets hire an Asian. They are submissive.

April 8^th. When I left, Opie and NeedsMeds took the budgets over from me. Opie zeroed everything out and had the buffoon interns start from scratch. Without all the footnotes, formulas and detailed history, they were sufficiently fucked. CompanyGirl flew in from Redneck Headquarters to Maryland to have a meeting, and allegedly her boss was to come the following day. The first day Ms. Right was called into the meeting and she said she sat in there all day watching Opie get grilled, watching CompanyGirl ask where all the numbers were that Velvet and I worked on. Opie kept running out of the room, calling the interns in asking questions, and Ms. Right said it was an entire day of watching him squirm. Around 4 p.m., CompanyGirl called her boss and told him there was no reason to come. Then she turned back to the group and said to Ms. Right, Would you please leave us alone for a minute?

There were a lot of closed doors, but ultimately they fired him for zeroing out the budgets. According to NeedsMeds, he was really fired for the sexual harassment, but they were just waiting for another excuse. Part of me wished I could have hung in there for the extra 6 weeks it took to see him get fired, but, they needed me to leave to provide them with the excuse to fire Opie. (Sarcasm on its way in 321) Well, I’m so happy I could provide that for yall! Yee haw! Yall come back now when you learn how to really run a company, ya hear?

If anyone is keeping score, I’m the reason Opie got hired, and I’m also the reason he was fired. If I had wanted that job, he wouldnt have gotten it. And if I had stayed to be the budget bitch, they wouldnt have found their excuse to can him. He left my boss a message saying he was fired for not outing yours and Velvets mistakes. Then he emailed me the same garbage. My dad was like, Wait, he EMAILED YOU as if he never created all these problems? This guy is insane! Months later, my boss received a phone call from someone at Old Builder, and they said, We found old paper copies of the budgets, and everything was on target. Opie really did a number on this place.

The End.

OH, wait, you want the closing credits with each person’s fate. Okay.

NeedsMeds had a meltdown, quit, went back to Old Builder and then quit again. She showed up on my caller ID about a year later, and I picked it up. She hung up on me, and then I called her right back and she let the machine pick it up. I should have left her a message: Hello? Your crazy-meds ran out. Better get more before your insurance expires.

Opie went to work for another builder where he promptly asked his assistant if she shaved or waxed her pussy. He was fired within a year. Hes now job hunting again, and used my boss for a reference on a couple jobs. My boss said to anyone who called, Only hire him if you want all the women in your office to file a lawsuit. He is now using someone else I know for a reference, and that person hasnt provided him a good one either. My boss said, What? Hes using someone else? Wonder how long it took him to figure out I was slamming him all over the place. Its a small industry with consolidations daily. I doubt hell work in this town again. He can’t get a good reference.

Fat Bastard was fired. My boss saw him at a restaurant last week with his wife and kid, trying extra hard to use a coupon they didn’t qualify to use. Hes been out of work for 6 months and told my boss things were really bad. My boss said he was a dick about it. Well, he always was an angry asshole.

The Weasel was demoted, then fired. He now works for another builder but is allegedly miserable. They have him out in the field, instead of in a cushy office.

Cocaine Carrie was very miserable without the above people to keep her company. She called my boss at his home number to speak with him, presumably about a new job. Except she didn’t get that far. His wife answered. And she lit into Cocaine Carrie for everything she said to the Weasel, and all the trouble she caused. She said, None of you people helped my husband when he was at Old Builder, and now every one of you who is miserable or has been fired have come crawling back for a job.

People always get what they deserve. Remember that kids.

About a year after working for my current company, a company I love, I was on a business trip. My boss said I made a good impression on the President of another division and he wanted me to fly to Texas and hang out in his division for a week to see how things operate.

Velvet: No.
Boss: What? Why not?
Velvet: If I didn’t learn it at Old Builder, I would be a fool.
Boss: Oh, you don’t think hes on the up and up?
Velvet: No. I don’t. I’m better at it this time around.

Two months later, he was fired for sexual harassment. My boss came in and said, That manager was fired. Seems someone filed a complaint about him.” That’s what makes this company so great, they don’t tolerate that crap for a second.

Once you’ve suffered at the hands of an Opie, you can spot another one miles away. Sexual harassment isn’t about sex and some horny bastard who isn’t getting any at home. It’s about control, every single time.

*Entire story is true and happened over the course of 16 months at a top national homebuilder. Commenters who can verify that the preceding 4 posts are in fact, very true, are MellyMel and Kiki.

Okay, so it is now September. At our monthly division meeting, the Weasel made an announcement that no one is to call Corporate HR, and that they dont want to hear our problems.if we have issues, handle them with Opie. All the girls look around the room like, What the fuck?

One night in September, after Ms. Right is officially slated to join our department and escape the clutches of the evil Opie, the Weasel catches me on my way out of the office and tells me how untrustworthy Ms. Right is, and how she makes so many errors, and you have to constantly check her work, and that all her supervisors have had problems with her. Might I mention to you readers, that Ms. Right is not only a woman, but an African American woman? See where this is going? Yeah. Anyway, a week later, our Regional Accounting department come to town and mentioned to the Weasel that Ms. Right seems really happy in our department. He says, right in front of me, and I’m not kidding, Well, we are really happy to have saved an employee from quitting. When we have someone good, we like to keep them.

In the end of September, we are doing our fiscal year end budget meeting. I put my laptop on the conference room at the corner closest to the door and walk into the kitchen for some water. When I come back in, my laptop has been slid down the table, for no reason other than that Opie wanted to sit at the head of the table. And were talking about a conference table that seats 24-28 people. (Its a control thing, see? I only put my laptop there b/c it was closest to the door, but Opie likes to be at the head of the table. Its like when your boss chair is higher than the visitor chairs. Its because (s)he is exerting a perceived sense of control.) I said, You took my seat. He said, Well, you can sit on my face. The meeting ensues, and the Weasel asks me how things are going with Selma since our email war. I reply that shes still out of control and that someone should stop her bullying the rest of the admins. The Weasel says, Youre a manager now, you should say something to her too. My boss later said to Opie, Hey, you heard it, shes a manager now, put her raise and bonus through.

Putting me in the same management class as Opie, bringing my salary oh-so-much-closer to his, and giving me a bonus set into motion an entire office war.

The end of September. I walk by the reception area to see a temp waiting to interview with Opie. I know shes a temp, because she worked for us the prior spring, and Opie raved about her. Later:

Velvet: Hey, glad to see you got that temp back. I know you guys really liked her.
Opie: Can you believe she has 12 cats now?
Velvet: What? She said she was reconciling with her husband. Why would he move back in now with more cats there?
Opie: Why not? Thats a lot of PUSSY!
Velvet: Youre disgusting.

The next day, the Weasel walks up to me as I’m checking our mail at the reception desk.

Weasel: You know, if youre going to say that kind of stuff, you probably shouldnt say it to our HR person.
Velvet: What?
Weasel: You know, that comment, you shouldnt say that stuff to the HR person.
Velvet: What are you talking about?
Weasel: The comment about the temp. Opie told me what you said.
Velvet: What did I say?
Weasel: You knowthat thingabout the tempand her cats.
Velvet, raising voice: ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THE PUSSY COMMENT?
Weasel: ShhYes.
Velvet: I didn’t say that! He did.
Weasel: He said you said it.
Velvet: Well I didn’t say it. He said it.
Weasel: And he said you did.
Velvet: I didn’t say I’m not capable of saying it, but I didn’t say it. He did.
Weasel: He says its you.
Velvet: Hes lying.
Weasel (with a grin like hes calling my bluff:) You knowwe can settle this right now.
Velvet: Ill meet you in his office.

We meet in there and have the stupidest, most childish of fights. You said it, No, YOU said it. I stomped off, as Greeks are known to do, saying, “Opie, you aren’t making me take the fall for this.” The Weasel caught me in the hall and said the only non-asshole thing he said to me in my time working there: Are you okay? Because I do realize that if you said it that you are the type of person to own up to it, and since you insist he said it, I do believe you. I shrugged it off. But then I got this email from Opie:

If it wasn’t you who said it…it was somebody else…I couldn’t come up with that on my own… …. 🙂

XOXOXOX

My boss told me behind closed doors that I needed to get this documented, because things were going to get bad and we needed this to be down on paper. So I forwarded that email (including Opies XOXO kisses) to the Weasel, copied my boss and wrote this:

Dear The Weasel:

I received this email regarding our earlier conversation in Opies office, of which I am still seething. Opie verbally mentioned the person who he now alleges made this statement; however, I really think who said it is irrelevant. The fact that he repeated it and ultimately blamed it on me is very upsetting. We obviously do not have everyone on board with the new teamwork spirit. I thought you specifically addressed the blame game and asked the Managers to pass this information on to their staff. Wasnt Opie at that meeting? Again, I am not offended by the comment itself as much as I am by being blamed behind my back without a chance for immediate defense. I am upset to think that for hours or perhaps overnight, you were sitting with the feeling that I was responsible for saying this.

I have a review pending and I need reassurance from you that you know my name was mistakenly involved in this situation. I dont want any of this to negatively affect me.

I know that you want us to handle problems internally, however, there is more here and it might be bigger than handling within the division. You recommended at our last staff meeting that we could go to Opie with our issues. I am not alone in this division in my feelings that I cannot trust him. He is not a viable outlet for HR Complaints and Confidential Matters. Among the many inappropriate comments he has made to me, I personally witnessed a derogatory comment he made about one employee to another. These things may need to be on some sort of record. There are too many incidents at this time to ignore and I dont know that we should be sweeping these issues under the rug.

Thanks,
Velvet

The Weasel called me into his office, we had a quick chat, mostly so that he could stop me from calling Corporate about what had happened. He said he would take care of it. The next morning, the Weasel called me into his office again. He said he was extremely disturbed by what had transpired and spent a good portion of his evening thinking about it. He said he was 50/50 on whether to just fire Opie or to give him one more chance. He decided to write him up and give him his final chance. (The reason for this is that the fiscal year end AND the Hawaii Managers Meeting were rapidly approaching he needed Opie to fudge all the numbers he could and be available to explain them when asked. The Weasel has no sense of finance, numbers and sadly, PROFIT.) The Weasel said he had to ask me if I felt sexually harassed by the comment. I so so so badly wanted to say yes. I knew that if I did, Opie would have been fired in a heartbeat. But who am I kidding? I’m offended by very little. So I said no. But I did tell him that very few of the women in the office trust him and that this is not the first time something like this has happened.

Lets pause for a recap: If Opie didn’t grow to hate me when he was interviewing and knew if I accepted his job, he wouldnt get it, if he didn’t grow to hate me when he saw me getting salary increases and bonuses that rivaled his own compensation, he certainly hated me now that I put his fat little neck on the chopping block.

So they write Opie up. My boss is in the room. It doesnt go so well, Opie is obviously really pissed off and starts blaming a bunch of shit on me. My boss says, “You don’t get it. If she really had it in for you she could have had you fired for what you did. We’re a public company, do you think they want this kind of press?” The Weasel strips him of his HR duties and they pass them off to some other Accounting flunkie, NeedsMeds, who Opie and the Weasel become the puppet masters for anyway.

Opie sends an email to the CompanyGirl apologizing for his comment, and copies my boss and the Weasel. He predictably doesnt copy me, the one whose name he attempted to drag through the mud. Why should he?

After the Opie-getting written up saga, this is when the Division President called me into his office and asked me if I wanted to “go to the company ranch.” I put this story in Part 1, but here it is again, now in the context of what was going on in the office, it will make more sense why I said no. Recopied from Part 1:

When they asked me, a long time member of PETA, a vegetarian, a woman and other labels of all things that seemed to not belong at this ranch, I said no. The Division President (hereinafter referred to as the Weasel) said, You shouldnt say no. I said, You want me to share a room and eek, a bathroom with someone I dont know, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell phone, no computer, and no TV, watching guys hunt and kill things that I would be likely to leash and name Scruffie? I’m saying no. Needless to say, it didn’t go over very well. But that was to be expected. I had already helped blow the whistle on their rampant sexual harassment. They didn’t like me very much. And I thought they were trying to get me out to that ranch so they could kill me. There was no way in fucking hell I was going to go.

The Weasel, Opie, Cocaine Carrie and my boss go out to Hawaii in the end of October for the Company-wide Managers meeting. All anyone is talking about in Hawaii is the HR problem in Maryland. My boss then wife gets drunk and tells Cocaine Carrie all sorts of stuff about the Weasel and how inept he is as a manager. What she doesnt realize is that Cocaine Carrie and the Weasel are sleeping together. No one at the office, including my boss, ever knew this conversation took place for several months though. And, remember this conversation, it blindsides all of us shortly.

Meanwhile, back at the office, it was like mutiny. The inmates were running the asylum, people were fighting, screaming at each other, and the two lone managers left, Fat Bastard and some other manager who I actually thought was pretty cool, played golf all week.

So, the boys and Cocaine Carrie get back from Hawaii and suddenly there is a really weird vibe in the office. (Again, we didn’t know about the conversation between my boss’ wife and Cocaine Carrie. It takes months for everyone to find this out.) Opie and the Weasel joined forces on one side with Patty and Selma, and my boss was on the other with the rest of the people. The history here is that my boss had saved that division from shutting its doors by acquiring a lot of land and making them a lot of money. Most of the smart people knew who to side with. A few remained in the middle, but as Ive learned with my family fights and with this, you have to stake a claim in one side, otherwise, you get shunned by both, and if both turn on you, you could end up the new enemy.

Opie built up his harem of Accounting people from 3 to now 8. There are 8 people in Accounting. What the fuck they are all doing when admittedly from his own mouth, most of the accounting was done at a corporate level is beyond the rest of us.

Early November, my boss shows up at my desk.

Boss: Something is going on, I need you to call the CompanyGirl.
(Again, CompanyGirl is the Regional CFO and right under the CEO of our company. She is highly respected by the guys at the top – President, CEO and the rest. It is shocking they “let” a woman as high as CompanyGirl was, as she was one of two who made it this high in the company.)
Velvet: What am I calling her for?
Boss: These guys are setting me up. They are trying to make our department take the fall for us not making any money this year, and really its the fault of Purchasing because FatBastard has no fucking idea what hes doing. But I need you to fish around and see why they are on this witch hunt.
Velvet: What am I going to say?
Boss: Ask her what info they are looking for. Then try to tell her whats going on here.
Velvet: What? Youre going to get me fired.
Boss: Come on. You made friends with her when she was here, you took her out. I need you to do this.
Ms. Right slides her chair over to my desk and says: Yeah, you need to call her. Shes your bud.
Velvet, to boss: Are you going to protect me if something goes wrong?
Boss: Yes.
Velvet: God damned it. Okay.

So I made the call, and of course, got the point across that they were trying to blame our department for everyone elses mistakes. She must have called Opie and the Weasel to “clarify” what she was asking for, and that took the heat off all of us. For a bit. When my boss relayed this to his then-wife, she said, If you ever leave, you have to take Velvet with you. Shes incredibly loyal.

Mid November, MellyMel had some surgery that ended in a bit of a complication and she took a couple extra days off. When she came back to work, the girl literally had a tube coming out of her body to drain an infection. Opie told her that she better start looking for a new job because she had taken so much time off everyone wanted her fired. I said, Cocaine Carrie had a facelift and was gone for 2 weeks and no one said shit about that! MellyMel came to me at the point of tears. I called my boss who was not in the office that day and he said, Time for her to report it to HR. Its a violation of some sort. So she did. And then that is where MellyMel and I became good friends. She used to be on the other side with Opie and Patty and Selma. But, now, she realized that it was not doing her any good. Then she unloaded all sorts of stuff she knew. Hooray! I had all new goss – a lot of it about me, but typical stuff of Opie having disclosed both my salary and the Designers to Patty and Selma and that he called the Designer a gold-digger among many other names. His hatred of both the Designer and I was solely because our salaries were hovering closer and closer to his own, he had a Russian Mail order bride spending all his money, he just knocked her up with the 4^th kid and was totally miserable. Oh, and Kiki, he said that he was sorry you had quit because you had the biggest titties in the office.

At this point, aside from Patty and Selma, all the women in the office banded together. It was a good feeling. But of course it doesnt last.

November 18. I’m sitting at my desk, and LongIsland calls me. She said, You will never believe who just walked in. HR from Corporate! These two old bats spent two days interviewing select people, including myself, LongIsland, Selma, Ms. Right, the Doormouse and some managers including my boss and that other guy I said was pretty cool. One of the HR bats was wearing so much makeup, that Ms. Right and I had a skit routine of her getting ready in the morning. We would do the visual of her putting on powder, then more foundation, then more powder, then more foundation. She actually took calls on her cell phone as we were giving our reports. The other one, in this long flowered prairie skirt (hello rednecks) was taking notes. When you said something really offensive, she would write like a crazy person, then slow down to a more normal pace until you started saying, then Opie said he was going to rip my dress off and they would write at a furious pace again.

After they meet with everyone, they end up in the Weasel’s office. We are all heading out to lunch, and end up walking out with the HR bats and the Weasel. The Weasel was going to lunch with all the manager boys. But then he asked us where we were going, and ends up coming with us. LongIsland told him he had to pay! So I call my boss, who is still upstairs and say, “We’re going to the Italian restaurant and you will never believe this. The Weasel blew off the guys to come with us.” My boss asks where he is. I said, “In the other car with LongIsland.” My boss looks out the window then says, “Tell me if that car turns around for any reason. I’m going in his office.”

My boss goes in the Weasel’s office while I’m on the phone still. He finds his notes from his meeting with the HR bats. All it says is “Go on company outing” and “Buy tee shirts for staff that say ‘Old Builder.'” My boss says, “Jesus Christ. HR missed the whole point of this. They think we just need to have some bonding experiences.” This is the moment he made his decision to quit. November 19.

I went to Italy for 10 days right after this. The morning I was leaving, my boss called me and said, Are you coming back? I said, Yeah, why? He said, I was afraid with all this shit that you wouldnt come back. And my wife made me call you to tell you that I cut a deal for us to go to a new company, so you cant stay in Italy because you will have a new job soon. I flew back to Dulles on November 30. When I went back to work, it seemed like everything was getting back to normal. I was incredibly wrong.

I suspect you will need the following to keep the rest of this saga organized.

Cast of Characters:

My Boss Same boss now, a Senior Vice President at Old Company
The Weasel Division President. Looks like a weeble from all angles.
Opie The Controller
Fat Bastard Opies sidekick and another useless manager. At one point loses 30 lbs. on the South Beach diet, but then, seems to gains 11 lbs. a week, by some miracle of dieting combined with Krispy Kremes.
MellyMel You see her comment here. We both work at the same builder now, thankfully a different place than Old Company. She replaced Kiki when Kiki walked out.
Patty and Selma Two sales Administrative Assistants ugly as shit and smoke a lot.
Ms. Right My boss and my wonderful department coordinator, formerly Opie’s assistant from accounting.
Cocaine Carrie Sales rep who routinely shows up in the office, incoherent with white crust dangling in her nostrils. Also rumored to be sleeping with the Weasel. A visual: Both the Weasel and Cocaine Carrie are around 5’2.
Kiki My friend in the Construction Department, walked out in April of Year 1.
Doormouse Marketing Assistant
LongIsland The Receptionist
The Designer Helped customers design the interior of their homes. I shared an office with her, also my friend.
NeedsMeds Opies true Accounting Assistant who becomes HR.
CompanyGirl – The Regional CFO.

This story starts in January of Year 1.

Opie starts working and initially seems to be one of those guys who is under the mistaken impression that he was hired to change things. Unfortunately Old Company and its employees were VERY RESISTANT to change. Opie starts out by being Mr. Nice Guy, to everyone. He sucked up to everyone in the office – admins, managers and everyone in between. In addition to being the Controller, he was also our division Human Resources dipshit.

In February, just a couple weeks after Opie started, our CEO came to town to tell us how great and wonderful we were. We all had an offsite meeting, and Opie told LongIsland to call for a temp, and to request someone “cute and blonde so the CEO will think we really have our shit together.” A funny aside, the Weasel sent out an email announcing this visit, copied the CEO, then spelled his name wrong in the body of the email. I had not laughed that hard since my High School Geometry Teacher backed up and fell into the garbage pail.

In late February, the Regional CFO, CompanyGirl, came to town to meet Opie. I had some awful cold and had come in late to work, only to do a few things, then was going right back to bed. Opie demanded I stay to talk to them. I said, “You better change your tone with me or you will be dealing with them on your own.” I ended up coughing and hacking my way through a meeting with Opie and the CompanyGirl until 8 fucking 30 at night…when I had planned to be in bed by 4. CompanyGirl sung my praises and I was in good with her from there on out.

Okay, so Opie decided that the only member of his department, Ms. Right, couldnt get anything right and he wanted to hire another Staff Accountant to help her. (By help, I mean, he couldn’t control Ms. Right, who worked at Old Company for 5 years and was very well versed in all things Accounting. So he wanted to control her via a “middle man.” Or in this case, woman.) In March, he beings his interview process.

After Interview #1:

Opie: I interviewed a great girl last night for a Staff Accountant.
Velvet: Um, did you say last night? I was here late, I didn’t see you.
Opie: Oh, I didn’t do the interview here. We met at a bar.
Velvet: Really?
Opie: Yeah, take em to a bar, get a couple drinks in them, and then the truth comes out.
Velvet: Truth? What kind of truth?
Opie: This chick is great. Shes 25, really hot, doesnt want to get married or have kids, shed be perfect for this kind of job.
Velvet: Am I really hearing this right? You cant ask someone if they want to get married or have kids on an interviewat a bar no less!

Opie waved his hand at me to brush me and my girl-silliness off I suppose. I told my boss who then told Opie that he cant hire that girl because of the circumstances of their interview. So Opie calls the staffing agency and gets another prospective employee to come over. He interviews her in his office. The paper thin walls allowed Kiki, sitting in the next office, to hear the entire interview, including Opies world class questions like, What color is your thong today? and the ever-popular Are you married? This one, a little smarter than the last barmaid, actually reported the incident to her staffing agency. Girls just out of college are really smart these days. If this happened to me 10 years ago, I probably would have answered the question and never thought twice.

By May, Opie had honed his interviewing skills and finally got someone to accept an offer though sadly not for his department. She was going to be a Marketing Assistant. Someone actually nicknamed this girl the Doormouse so thats the name I’m going to use. He told me that he finally got a hottie to work at our office. Of course this wasnt before he interviewed one of my drop dead gorgeous friends from grad school (think Salma Hayek) who he said was too hot to work at Old Company and none of the guys would get anything done. It was probably true, but he still shouldn’t have said it. And it’s not a reason to not hire her.

Over that summer, LongIsland took a cruise with her boyfriend, who bought her a Louis Vuitton bag in the islands. Selma came into Opies office when I was in there and said, He bought her a Louie! They obviously had a conversation prior to my coming into his office. He said to Selma, She must be good in bed. Selma walked out and said to LongIsland, We decided you must be good in bed. LongIsland promptly filed a complaint. Selma, as the messenger, took the fall for Opie and never ratted him out. Why? Because he promised her he was going to be in charge of the place one day and she believed him.

One night during the summer I was leaving the office. I popped my head into my boss office to say bye and Opie sees me in the hall and stands in my way. I say, You are in my way. He says, I’m going to rip that dress right off of you. The Weasel hears it, but walks the other way instead of doing something.

These stories go on forever by the way. What follows is a chronological string of unrelated stories, but giving you an idea of what Opie was like, and the demeanor in the office.

Other famous Opie-isms:

People around here dont respect me, but start jacking with their bonuses and they will learn to respect me real fast.

Our company CFO has no business going to the guys on Wall Street because that job shouldnt be done by a woman, it is for a pin-striped wall street guy.

(To the Designer, when asked why she was no longer informed about Managers meetings:) Because its a guy thing.

(To other employees:) Unfortunately I have to give LongIsland a raise today.

(Loudly, in the hall:) Everyone knows the Weasel and Cocaine Carrie are FUCKING!

(To my boss, when the Weasel warned him to stop openly discussing everyones salary:) I know who squealed and I’m going to get back at her. (It wasnt me by the way.)

Selma, often drunk at work, starts blind copying the Weasel on emails she sends to me and anyone in my department. The Weasel (because hes a stupid fucking moron) hits reply all, outing Selmas blind copy action. Selma and I had an email war about it, and it was obvious the Weasel was encouraging this behavior.

The next week one of our million dollar homebuyers calls the Construction Superintendent to ask a question about their house and he responds by calling them White Trash and hanging up on them.

In July, Ms. Right expresses an interest in moving into my department. Opie tells me her salary, and what a horrible worker she is, that she doesnt have an education beyond high school, and is a real Nine-to-fiver. He simultaneously is telling Ms. Right that she shouldnt work for us because we are up to something.

Opie had previously determined that the two people in our division who were reimbursed for mileage could no longer be reimbursed due to some company policy about not paying mileage. (Cheap Old Company felt that we knew we were in a business where we may have to drive to subdivisions, and we should suck it up.) Opie told both employees who it affected that their salaries would increase accordingly to offset the mileage loss. One employee was female – The Designer; the other, male. Both drove roughly the same miles a month and both received a $500 reimbursement check each month. Opie increased the males salary by $700 a month and The Designers by $400. Each knew the other was compensated differently. When Opie asked the male how it was working out, the Designer said, I notice you didn’t ask me how it worked for me since you all screwed me so bad. They end up having an argument where the Designer tells him this disparity is discrimination and storms out. Opie turns to the guy and says, Shes ridiculous. Its like asking all the guys to get their dicks out to see whose is biggest. I said, Hellostill in the room. Opie says, Oh you dont count.

Suspiciously, the Weasel was still managing to scrape mileage checks from Old Company. No one seemed willing to cut him off. Rules don’t apply to all you see.

In the end of July, everyone who wasnt in upper management was told they now had to punch a clock well, on the computer. I asked Opie about overtime, and he said the company wouldnt pay it. I said, Well, if they arent paying it, then what do I do about that? He said, You can either work a 40 hour week which will hinder your chance for a promotion, or you can put in for your overtime and they will eventually fire you. After further review of who became exempt and who became non-exempt, surprise surprise, all the women were now clock punchers, and all the men were big tough salaried employees. Even though there were men who were levels below me, every single guy in that office was magically salaried and all us sluts and hos were all hourly.

The first week of August, I emailed Corporate HR to ask a few vague questions about how they made this determination of hourly vs. salary. After several ridiculous emails, they called me and asked me why I was asking them this question, as the determination was made inside the divisions for who was hourly and who was salary. Before I realized it, I was spilling my guts about what Opie said, and had emails to prove it. They asked me to forward the emails, which I did.

The next day was our Company Outing, on some stupid boat out to St. Michaels Island. (Whose fucking idea was this? Yes, lets put a company full of people who hate each other on a boat and sail them through the swamps of the Chesapeake Bay.) That morning, my boss called me to verify that first, I was awake (yeah, I suck at getting up,) and two, how I was getting to Annapolis. Unfortunately I was meeting the bozos at the office and carpooling. Then he said, Hey, something happened. Opie and the Weasel were behind closed doors last night for a while, seems someone finally called HR on Opie and I think he got written up. The Weasel is trying to figure out who called, but when he asked me I said, It could be any number of people. I said, Oops. I should probably tell you something. He was hysterically laughing when I was done. Then he called the Weasel and said, Hey, I just asked Velvet and she has no idea who could have done this. And the Weasel said, Oh, no, no one would ever think it was Velvet. HA! I had them still fooled at this point in August, Year 1. The worst part, I got to the office parking lot and ended up having to ride to Annapolis with the Weasel and FatBastard that morning. I was so freaked out they were going to corner me and throw me overboard that I got rip roaring drunk.

Fat Bastard, while I haven’t mentioned him much, was hired about a week or two after Opie, buddied up to him really fast, and acted like a weirdo around the office. He would be in a conversation in the hall with someone and if a girl walked by he would stop, back away from who he was talking to, acting like he was letting you by, and then stare at the girl, up and down, up and down. UGH! It grosses me out just thinking about it.

All right. So, that summer a couple things were going on. First, Opie had packed the office with temps. I have no idea what they were doing, but one by one, they started quitting. Some of them would leave after the first week and not come back. Others made it one day. One actually left at lunch and didn’t come back. Another said she had a doctors appointment at 10:30, she left and was never heard from again. That temp allegedly called their agency and said we were the most screwed up company shes ever seen. An hour and a half it took her to figure it out. I said to my boss, Damn, it took me 5 months. That chick is smart, we should hire her. Another temp wrote a letter to the staffing agency detailing why she wouldnt return to our company. It listed mostly all the assholes (Selma, Opie etc.) and accused them of various things. I felt that letter was really symbolic of what went on at Old Company. Opie and the Weasel chose to laugh about it, reading it over and over all week long.

The second thing going on was that all summer, homebuyer after homebuyer came to settle on their new house. I sat next to the settlement room and could hear through the wall what was going on in there. Most of the settlements went down the same way. The buyer handed over their cash, then they were told that there was no U&O (Use and Occupancy) permit for their house and they would not be receiving the keys. Just like on a gameshow, they were told fabulous accommodations would be provided by the Rockville Motor Inn. (Or some other shitty hotel.) Families literally had moving trucks in our parking lot, waiting to get their keys so they could spend their weekend moving. People took days off work, only to find out there would be no new house for them. Ive never seen so many irate, dissatisfied customers. People would scream and yell, or cry at the settlement table. Why? Because we were the biggest fucking asshole builder who had NO BUSINESS building houses. Some customers actually created an I Hate Old Builder website. I said it over and over, When the market turns, we are going to be sorry we treated people this way.

LongIsland found a survey on the internet of all the DC Metro builders and their customer service ranking. It was a percentage, not a ranked number though. So, you’ve got homebuilder A, and all their customers are satisfied, they get 100%. Homebuilder B could also rank 100%. Well, there are all the homebuilders in the area, pretty evenly spaced, from 100% down to 55% customer satisfactions. Then there was one lone builder, far from the pack, down at 17% satisfaction rate. Guess who? Yea.

Customer service was in the toilet, and the division was headed there as well. Summer was cooling off, but the fights, they were just heating up.

Working on Part 3. And I’m really tempted to start posting real names so if you guys run across any of these people, you’ll know.

The shit, so to speak, has been hitting the fan at work for a few months now. Its no secret I work for a homebuilder. And, its no secret that homebuilding is suffering a horrible miserable downslide due to the assholes of Greenspan & Company. Again people, you cant fuck with a self-correcting economy without lube for too long before it snaps back and bites you square on your unemployed ass.

Well, not my ass. Not yet anyway. Ive survived another round. And learned a new definition of irony: Being asked to witness and notarize the termination letter of a man who has hated me from his first day at worka man who tried to make me his secretary, who was sadly mistaken to think I, yes, I, would be filing his papers and filling out his Fed Ex labels. I know what youre thinking, Why Velvet! You didn’t get an MBA to be someones secretary! Okay, maybe you werent thinking it. But if you were, I would say to you, Dont forget I got a FOUR POINT OH OH OH!! So I definitely dont want to be that bitchs secretary. But unfortch, in this industry, they see a woman coming and they see tits and someone they can make take dictation. Or just dick. Depends which builder you work for.

My company now is blissfully, and I mean blissfully with the times. Our Headquarters is in a pretty metropolitan area in a non-redneck part of the country. This is key my friends. Pay attention to where your company’s Headquarters is located – it determines a lot about your corporate culture. My old company (hereinafter referred to as Old Company,) had a headquarters in yeeeeee hawwwww, Cletus, the middle of fucking nowhere. Why were they there? Because they chose to be cheap, over having a bit of a sophisticated presence. Old Company made no bones about how cheap they were, and encouraged it from the top down to the lowest levels of the company.

Anyway, the President of Old Company had this ranch out in the middle of bumfuck Texas, that was literally 3 HOURS from a cell tower. It was so fucking far from anything relevant that even the tornadoes won’t go there. Every year they pegged a couple of suckers from each division to go “out to the ranch.” It was supposedly an honor to be asked. You would be flown to Dallas, then to some smaller city west of Dallas (no, dont say Ft. Worth and no I dont remember where it was,) then driven 3 hours in ATVs to the ranch. Events that occurred at this ranch included hunting, killing things, shooting anything that ran and skinning various animals.

When they asked me, a long time member of PETA, a vegetarian, a woman and other labels of all things that seemed to not belong at this ranch, I said no. The Division President (hereinafter referred to as the Weasel) said, You shouldnt say no. I said, You want me to share a room and eek, a bathroom with someone I dont know, in the middle of nowhere, with no cell phone, no computer, and no TV, watching guys hunt and kill things that I would be likely to leash and name Scruffie? I’m saying no. Needless to say, it didn’t go over very well. But that was to be expected. I had already helped blow the whistle on their rampant sexual harassment. They didn’t like me very much. And I thought they were trying to get me out to that ranch so they could kill me. There was no way in fucking hell I was going to go.

I always say now to my friends who worked there with me and read this blog (Kiki, MellyMel, FreakyN) that I wish I had a blog when we worked there. My parents said they were glued to the phone every night at 6:00 waiting for my update call of what happened at work that day. It was their nightly entertainment. And in the first phone call, my dad gave me some invaluable advice: Document everything. So I did.

Strap on your seatbelts. Fun story of a top national homebuilder (and I mean TOP) and shady goings-on coming in installments, but startinnnnng NOW!

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Just as a first relationship shapes you for future relationships, your first job seems to operate in a similar manner. My first job was working for Nine West, as a Production Buyer. In my division, and in the whole company, there were endless examples of intelligent, talented, sophisticated women in Management. Retail proved to be all gay men and bitchy women, but the example that these women set was what I thought I would encounter for the rest of my career. How wrong I was. After three years at Nine West, I moved to Atlanta for the ill-fated relocation to live with my then boyfriend, AtlantaBoy. I got a job in the buying office of the now defunct Richs Department Stores. What a hellhole that place was. But still, tons of intelligent women, whose opinions were coveted, roamed the halls of Richs Corporate Offices. And a few rednecks. It was, after all, Atlanta.

When I left Atlanta, I left retail behind for good and moved to Maryland for grad school. Through a couple hurdles, I got a job working for a Land Developer. As nutty and sometimes shady as this man was, I learned a lot and he let me manage a lot. When someone else in our office balked at a project that involved going out to see a suspected murderer’s mail order bride and strong arm her into signing away her property, he said to him, Fine, Ill put the pit bull on it. Guess who the pit bull was? Yeah. I learned my work ethic from all those tough, smart, strong women through the years who took no shit from anyone, always knew their stuff, and looked great while doing it. I learned to not underestimate the value some expensive clothes can buy you in terms of impressions. But working in Land Development? More a jeans and sweater kind of job. Some days you get to wear boots and trek through the mud. It was a nice dichotomy for me actually. I liked not having to be so buttoned up.

So I continued working for the Developer, and when I graduated school and left the burbs behind for DC, I got two job offers, both with top builders. One was in Orlando, the other, local in Maryland. I opted not to move, though I wonder what my life would have turned out like if I went to the land of all things Disney.

Three months into my time with OldBuilder, the Controller up and quit. The Weasel (remember, the Division President) freaked out to my boss, the second in command, saying, What are we going to do? My boss said, I dont know what YOURE going to do, but if I was you, I would figure out who in this office is qualified to be a Controller, and ask them if they want the job. The Weasel looked at him with a blank stare. I know now he was probably only considering the men in the office, not any of the women. My boss cut off his daydreamy gaze and said, VELVET! Ask VELVET! Shes the only one in here with an advanced degree for Christsakes.

So after much hemming and hawing, mostly because a girl could never be so smart to work a calculator and stuff, the Weasel asks me to take this quiz. Its a personality and aptitude test. Having just come off the runway from grad school, and having completed a very useful Leadership major, I buzzed through the test with ease. It had a bunch of different parts and covered a completely wide range of areas. One part had questions like, Id rather spend the day a) fixing my car or b) making a collage. Then there was the math section, the verbal section, and then a couple sections with questions like, I think most people, when left alone, can be trusted true / false. It was really an odd test, I did what I thought was right and submitted it.

Monday morning my boss came in my office and shut the door. My heart dropped into my stomach for a split second until he bust out laughing. He said, The Weasel called me Saturday morning and said he got your test back. Apparently no one has ever scored as high as you did. You were like a 99% match for the job, with a 0% error, meaning, you werent trying to lie or fudge your answers. I was in shock. My boss went on to tell me that they were going to offer me the job, and I should be ready with my answer. I already had the answer being a Controller is a more of a later step in a career. And numbers and finance jobs are always easy to get. I liked what I was doing, and I wanted to stay in Development. That is what I told everyone, they agreed and then hired a man I’m going to call Opie. During Opies interviews, he asked if there were any other candidates for the job. My boss said there was someone internally but it didn’t look like she was going to accept it.

Shortly after Opies arrival, he determined by process of elimination, that I was the only possible candidate, and from that moment on, he had it in for me. When I tell you what this man did to me and to the rest of the women in the office, you may be shocked. Or you may not. But it was diabolical, and twisted, and as someone told me the other day when his name came up in conversation, Theres just something wrong with him.

Part II coming next.

The Queen of Quantity said I was on fire last week. I’d been shooting off one liners faster than Dane Cook would have on the Titanic. I’d share, but, for them to make any sense, I would have to trot a long way in background for the punchline. It’s too hard. Just know that I’ve outlined a game plan for her on a chalkboard she made in her house. (Fucking Martha Stewart wannabe without the jail time.) I like that chalkboard. I could use one next to my bed refrigerator.

Anyway, in an effort to fully utilize the creative genius spilling out of my body, I’ve decided to create a quiz for you. I don’t know why really. Okay, I know why. In an email exchange with Barbara, I put in one of these quiz questions and then answered it for myself.

Let’s call it the “Would I Want to Be Friends With Velvet?” Quiz. The first question actually happened to a friend of mine – one of my all time favorite “if I was stranded on an island I’d want you there with me” kind of people. But I made the rest up, I swear. Okay, let’s go.

1) You are partying in Georgetown. Two friends in town from Boston, both of the opposite sex, (if you are gay, these people are both the same sex as you) befriend you. After several drinks on their tab, they offer you a ride home. In the car, one of the two begins to hit on you. It is obvious that the other person is also interested in you, and becomes irritated at their friend. They have a fight and stop the car and demand you get out of the car. Telling you they can’t give you a ride any further and leaving you in the middle of no where, they want directions to their hotel. You:

a) Give them directions to their hotel and walk home shaking your head. Fucking tourists.
b) Convince them to let you stay in the car until you get them to their hotel where you know you can get a cab.
c) Give them the wrong directions sending them straight into the ghetto out of spite, and fend for yourself on the ride home.

2) Your house is on fire. You have two children. You can save only two things, what are they?

a) Your two children.
b) One child (whichever is closer) and your narcotics.
c) Your Gucci purse (with the drugs in them) and a picture of both kids.

3) If you could only listen to one music act for the rest of your life and it had to be from this list, you would pick:

a) Tim McGraw
b) Carrie Underwood
c) Metallica
d) Blues Traveler
e) John Mayer
f) The Killers

4) Your favorite swear from this list is:

a) Fuck
b) Motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch
c) Shit
d) Gosh Darn it

5) The character you most resemble from Sex and the City is:

a) Charlotte
b) Miranda
c) Carrie
d) Samantha
e) Magda
f) None of the above

6) How many times have you left one or more undergarments at the home of a one night stand, just so you could get the hell out of there?

a) Never, your undergarments are too nice to be left behind.
b) Never, your undergarments are too holey to be left behind.
c) Once, when (s)he fell asleep on it and you didn’t want to wake the beast.
d) Undergarments? What are those?
e) Every weekend bitch. Every weekend. I’m in the double digit loss-o-meter.

7) Your best friend is:

a) Your sorority sister / frat brother from Freshman year. Hey man, we “rushed” together!
b) Your pet.
c) Your right hand / the Hitachi Magic Wand is also acceptable here.

8) You have had sex in the following locations. Check all that apply.

a) Airplane at 30,000 feet.
b) On a nude beach in broad daylight.
c) At work, in someone’s office, during the prime business hour of 10:30 a.m.
d) In the bed of his/her ex. For revenge.
e) At the end of a very crowded pier at dusk.
f) On a motorcycle.
g) In a model apartment.
h) In a swimming pool of an apartment complex.

9) In the next Presidential Election you will vote for:

a) Rudy Giuliani
b) Rudy Giuliani
c) Rudy Giuliani

Scoring:
Add up the points for your answers.
1) a: 0; b: 5; c: 10
2) a: 0; b: 5; c: 10
3) a: 2; b: 0; c: 10; d: 0; e: 0; f: 8
4) a: 5; b: 10; c: 1; d: 0
5) a: 0; b: 0; c: 0; d: 0; e: 0; f: 10
6) a: 5; b: 2; c: 0; d: 4; e: 0
7) a: 0; b: 5 – unless your pets are Sammy and Thora, then you get 15 points; c: 10
8) 5 points for every item you checked.
9) 5 points for any answer.

Points:

0-25: Hurry! Breathe in a mirror and tell me if there’s fog on it! You are so boring you may as well be dead.
26-50: Why the hell did you have to pick the Blues Traveler? Come on! It’s your own fault. I can’t help you if you can’t at least try to help yourself you know.
51-80: You have some signs of promise. Continue your debauchery and check back with me in a couple months. A strict diet of alcohol, drugs, thievery and loving New York City and everything it stands for should get you on the right track.
81-100: Ooh. We should be friends. There are a couple things I may have to slap you around for, but all in all, this is a great effort.
101 + We should be best friends. What? We aren’t? What are you doing this weekend? I must hang out with you.

My Answers & the “Logic” Behind Them:

1 – C. Look, you HAVE to send tourists into the ghetto. Especially if they are assholes.
2 – C. Come on. You didn’t say that my dogs were in the house. It was kids. You can make more of those. Besides, mine will probably be brats who set the fire in the first place.
3 – C – Metallica. Obey! Your! Master! If you can’t listen to that, at least you should have picked a Brit sounding rock from a band who are really from Vegas. If you ever or still listen to the Blues Traveler, I hate you. I hated you in college, and I hate you now.
4 – B. It’s really the only way to go. Motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch.
5 – No one I am friends with should ever compare themself to these vapid, useless characters who did nothing for feminism besides prove that every female blogger fancies herself a Carrie-writer, deserving of a book deal and all sorts of expensive shoes. No one is as stupid as Charlotte what’s her name. Samantha in real life would have burned off her CLIT and be HIV-positive. Miranda exists people. Go down to K Street right now and look up at all those lawyers in the offices that are still lit. She’s still working, and she would never get Steve because she’s too much of a bitch. Magda would have run off with the baby by now.
6 – I don’t leave the house without my bra and panties, but I can appreciate those who do, so some points there as well. If you let the beast fall asleep on something, then I have no points for you. You haven’t been paying attention here at Velvet in Dupont. The fine art of the strip is important. You act like you are casually tossing your clothes off in the heat of the moment, but make a mental map of where everything lands. And nothing should land in a place where it can’t be retrieved later.
7 – I tried to pick both B and C, but the damn scantron wouldn’t let me. So I did choose the dogs. It took a lot of thought though.
8 – Points maxed. I’ve done them all. You should too.
9 – Any answer is acceptable here, though I actually chose “A” because I was so excited at seeing the name shown there, that I chose it first. Kind of like the “OOH OOH PICK ME” kid in 2nd grade.

That’s all I got. Okay, my funnier material still resides on that chalkboard in the Queen of Quantity’s house.

I have been ridiculously busy with work. The rundown of what is going on is layoffs, layoffs and more layoffs. I narrowly avoided getting tossed out in the last round, and now, it seems there’s been a complete realignment of responsibilities, with a lot ending in my lap. It is fine with me, really. I love being busy. It means there will be less posting. And, zero blog reading. So if I miss something big someone pleeeease send it to me. Great. Thanks.

So, not only is my industry totally male dominated, but there are pockets in the industry (more than I care to admit) that are a complete throwback to the 1950’s. You’ll just be plugging away and all of a sudden you hit a brick wall and you’re like, “WTF? Why is this all going wrong and I can’t make any progress?” Then, after exhausting all the possible alternatives for why things are off track, the only explanation that you can assign to this gross display of incompetence in your path is the fact that you are a woman and the men don’t think you should be doing this high level of a job. Yes, yes, it’s true. There are some men who think that when the female body was built, once they fit the tits in, there was no room left for a brain. Luckily my boss and two of the three other men in my office are not like that.

Without giving a lot of history that could surely get me added to the next blacklist, something interesting transpired over the last week. Someone set into play the domino effect, and some people were interested in getting a gauge of public opinion. Since I have my ear to the ground on that, I started fishing around a la Geraldo Rivera to get the feel for morale. I’m just going to dive into the middle of the convo where my boss asked me what I found out.

Velvet: By the way, HateBoy doesn’t like me.
My Boss (sighing:) No. He doesn’t.
Velvet (laughing:) You know, having my blog has taught me that not everyone is going to like me, and that many of them don’t even have a fucking good reason. I used to care about shit like that, but now, I don’t.
Boss: Well, you shouldn’t.
Velvet: It actually makes me laugh.
Boss: You want to know why he doesn’t like you?
Velvet: Because I’m just a stupid girl?
Boss: Well, yeah, I think there’s some of that in there. But he doesn’t like you because he can’t control you.

That statement stopped me in my tracks for a second, if only to recognize something quite interesting. In my dating life, the guys who couldn’t “control” me, actually ended up liking me more. Funny that it’s the opposite at work.

When people like you, they like you in varying degrees. Some are hardcore, loyal friends, doing anything and everything you need. Others “have your back” when you need it, but aren’t always around. Others just consider you a friend, wouldn’t say anything bad about you, but wouldn’t go to bat for you either.

There aren’t so many varying degrees of hate. Recently I’ve seen all sorts of behavior online that basically amounted to people stating in one way or another that they don’t like me or don’t like other bloggers, and they act out on that dislike, attacking us personally. I will always say, “Wow, I’m really surprised at how far some people will go with their hate.” But you know something? I don’t know why I say that all the time. It’s like the “I’m going out and only having one drink” lie. I never have one drink and I’m NEVER surprised at the lengths people will go to to show their true colors. All these hateful people behave the same. Once you figure out what it is that drives someone (in many of these online cases it is usually jealousy,) it’s easy to deal with them. Once I classify you as the enemy, I know exactly how to proceed.

So, HateBoy and I have to work together on a project that he tried to get me thrown off of. Except that once my boss discussed Velvet’s experience, ability to get this done, and oh lord tossed in the whole MBA thing, (4.0 bitches,) he shut up in a jiffy. But it made him hate me more. Men without advanced degrees tend to be jealous of women with them. At least that’s been my experience.

HateBoy so obviously hates me that you can see his skin crawl when I walk into the room. When you drive someone to such hatred, so much so that they seem to have an emotional reaction when they have to be in the same room with you, you know you have them. I love it like I have never loved a contentious work situation in my life. He has proven himself to be a poor communicator at best. (Read: He comes off sounding sleazy and illiterate in meetings.) So, I’m rubbing my hands together, waiting for him to fuck up. Because when he does, and I get to verbally lambast him in front of whomever happens to be around at the time, I expect to make company history.

Friday night I went to the I-66 / VP of Dior sponsored Happy Hour. Because this event was downtown, and I really despise our whole bullshit taxi system, I rode my poor neglected Harley to Mackey’s. I squeezed that bitch in between two cars and walked inside to greet the bloglings.

I did the usual Friday night routine: gym, no dinner, start drinking. This is not the best way to go, especially when Virgile Kent arrives because he starts passing the shots. For some reason, I become a very ungracious Velvet when VK hands me the secret elixir, screaming “Oh NO, I CAN’T POSSIBLY do this SHOT!” But I swigged it down, alongside a few beers and I was sufficiently buzzed. I know, what happens next is just stupid.

I got ON the motorcycle and rode home. I became a veritable daredevil, bobbing and weaving through assholes causing traffic jams where there didn’t need to be any. Then some douchebag asshole lady tried to make a left turn in front of me, into a traffic jam. Had she completed her turn, she would have stopped dead, and I would have crashed into her. But instead, I leaned on that little horn, forgetting how loud that mother is, and she stopped. I weaved around her shaking my head at her, hoping she realized how stupid she truly was.

All of this is irrelevant because the point to this story is that the motorcycle was dead the next morning. There were several scenarios that could have resulted in a dead battery, but it just meant it had to spend 24 hours on the charger. Sunday night, once my precious machinery came off the charger, I wanted to ride it up and down the garage to just make sure it worked. I cruised around a level, climbing higher in the garage when I looked down and realized Thora was running alongside me. I bust out laughing. She was so fucking cute. Her tongue was hanging down to the ground, her ears were popping up and down and I swear she was smiling. When I stopped, she stopped and looked at me. When I started going, she took off. I measured her run. She hit 12 miles an hour. Jesus. That’s faster than I can run – who knew?

I went back to see what was keeping the little sausage my other lazy dog Sammy from accompanying his mommy. He finally joined in. Here you go. I know it’s not clear, but some pictures of the Velvet family:

This post lovingly dedicated from Sammy & Thora to their friend Jake. We miss you buddy, woof woof.

An artist never really finishes his work; He merely abandons it. ~ Paul Valery

Dear Blog:

I love everything about you. You have been here for me for the last 18 months. They haven’t all been good times, but I’ve learned a lot and I have you to thank for that…I guess. I mean, I could thank myself too I suppose. I’m the one who over the last year and a half dated about 40 men. Very, very poorly I might add.

But the nature of our relationship, dear sweet blog, has changed. In writing about my dating escapades, I have somehow become…hunted. Allow me to explain. I have had the following happen to me since I started this blog in June, 2005:

• I’ve endured a horrible, threatening parody blog that likes to come back to life to spew the incoherent ramblings of its psychopathic author. What kind of 40 year old man with a wife and kids threatens a woman’s dogs who live on the other side of the country? Such a good example you are setting for your daughter there, crackpot. I can only hope your Amanda is the victim of harrassment like you enact on me. That would be schweet.
• I’ve had readers contact me to tell me that someone was searching for me on technorati, looking for bloggers who link to me. Am I really that interesting? Shit, just email me. I’ll tell you what you want to know.
• I’ve had a “reader” unravel* in my comments, then contact my commenters and strike up a conversation about me. *Unraveling = great fun and entertainment for the rest of us, by the way.
• I’ve also discovered from several people that another certain someone (who has repeatedly attempted to forge a dating scenario with me) has been contacting various “suspected insiders” and asking them to divulge the password. The “insiders” didn’t make up a very long list, and it didn’t take very long for that information to make its way back to me. Who does this? I mean, when you are striking up a conversation with someone you barely know and have rarely spoken to, then you ask for a password, doesn’t it like, click in your peasize, webnovel writing brain that what you are doing is INSANE?
• I’ve had many solicitations from readers for dates – readers I’ve never heard of, who have never commented and became irate when told, “no.”
• I’ve found references to me on other sites calling me a “trainwreck skank.” Really? I’m a trainwreck skank? Huh. Who knew that someone could use such vicious words about a woman they DON’T FUCKING KNOW. And I’m sorry that your life is so, snore, boring, yawn, that what you perceive as a “trainwreck” is a boatload of fun for me. It’s what they call “living.” But really, stay on your couch watching Oprah get fat, get thin, then get fat again.
• I’ve also seen people bitching online about why they can’t read Velvet anymore because of the password, and why doesn’t she just “close the blinds all the way?” I own the domain and the content and I can do whatever I want. I can grant a password. I can tell you no. Stop being such a baby.

Why does all this bother me so much? Initially I was disturbed by these people and their evident psychoses. My first instinct was that there are some definite personality traits that seem common to a lot of bloggers. Seriously, I know many bloggers with self-admitted mental illnesses. It makes them act out in ways that are, well, not understandable to me. But of course, part of my growth as a person involves the act of constantly looking at my own behavior as well. What have I done to drive some of the above people to this behavior?

I’m stumped. I’m not sure what it is that I’m writing about that’s making some people crazy. I don’t think what I write about is very controversial. It’s always about me. There’s no deep level commentary. There are no statements intended to stir people. DCPD excluded. (Aussie Em – that’s the D.C. Police Department, not to be confused with the other acronym I use here, “CVS.” Love you Em!) I have a simple formula here at Velvet in Dupont: I date, and I write about it. So what? But obviously, it isn’t as easy as a “so what” for some people. I don’t want to be responsible for driving any more people to the levels of insanity I’ve seen from them, all because they want to read this blog and/or get to the writer – me.

That said, I’m returning my dating, sexcapades and other personal romantic information to the nightstand drawer. This, ladies and gentlemen, is no longer a personal dating journal. You will now find mundane stories here about Sammy and Thora, Dupont Circle, me getting more tattoos, as well as generic dating and relationship posts that may draw on past personal experience, may be about friends, but will not be current with my life right now. Perhaps one day I’ll get saucy and toss in a post about a coatroom blowjob just to see if everyone left is still awake. Don’t count on it any time soon though.

“Art has to do more than look good. It has to disturb the inner spirit.” – Luelan Boddan, with many others stating a similar observation.

Is writing art? I have no idea. I don’t think so because it comes so easy to me. But I’m obviously disturbing a few (already unbalanced) people. I don’t want to be responsible for any more of this insanity. It puts all of us in danger, as we have to share the streets with these psychopaths. I’m sorry about that. I won’t do it again. I can’t guarantee there won’t be any future password protected posts, because sometime’s a girl’s just gotta have secrets. But I’ll try to keep that to a limit. It’s not my intention to exclude people who have been so nice and supportive, but, it’s hard to understand how some of the strangers feel entitled to have my life broadcast to them. This isn’t a book. Y’all aren’t paying you know. In life, there are no guarantees.

To the rest of you, the majority, who sent emails to check in and who expressed concern, you all are awesome. Thanks for your well wishes. It didn’t go unnoticed.

French kisses to all, except the 40 I’ve dated and the five six seven of you who belong in an asylum. You know who you are.

Velvet

Thora’s 7th Birthday was Sunday 11/5/06. I gave her a toy and she used it as a pillow for night night time.

Sammy also slept, in the cutest pose ever

.

And we sprinkled the neighborhood with our love. I did feel it would have been more appropriate for Sammy to actually use the urinal, since he’s now learned to crouch over holes in the ground and inject his poop in there. He’s just one step away from toilet-trained.

Writing fast, running back into another meeting in a few minutes.

Okay, so I’m not sure if he has the password or not. I can’t tell on my site stats who gets by it and who doesn’t. It just shows the hard link with the post number after it, but you can land on that page anyway if you click the title without knowing the password. The site just takes away the rest of the posts and puts you on a page with just a password box for the post you clicked a title for. So I see that he went in yesterday and was on the hard link, i.e. velvetindupont.com/p=853, but again, I don’t know if he was actually reading. There have been three coincidences where he said something the day after I posted about that very topic. But, I could just be panicking. Keep in mind, after those crazies I dealt with last spring (Mr. Banana Hammock and company) hacked into my computer and regurgitated shit out of my hard drive, I don’t put nothing past no one.

Ok. Where am I? Monday night was Sherlock’s drive by. Tuesday morning I got an email from him. It was long. Really long. Basically he wrote it as a letter to Thora, saying Happy Birthday to her (which is what freaked me out) but, then of course there’s a P.S. “Tell your mommy” section. I was most irritated at him using the dogs to try to get to me, but there were also some things mentioned in the email that really just upset me – namely his threatening to go on a date with someone this week and mentioning having been out with someone already. I wrote back short answer that said something like “Unbelievable you can’t keep it in your pants until you find out where we stand. Can I assume if you are dating other women that you will stop driving by my house as well?”

He wrote back another email yesterday afternoon, much much longer, and I was just leaving work when I saw it. I read it quickly, started to cry, snuck out of work, cried on the way home, read it again, then got ready to go take some STUPID media bistro class (People – never ever do their classes!) for three hours. In the cab I fired off a text because I was so upset. The text said something about “How could you send me an email like that. Thanks for making me cry for an hour today. You love yourself too much to love me.”

He called within a minute, but I was already in the class. I texted back that I couldn’t talk for 3 hours. He said to text when I was out – he was at a concert and put “alone” in parenthesis. I texted on my way home, he left his concert and walked home in the rain while talking to me. I really don’t know what to say about the conversation. It breaks my heart. The emails broke my heart already, but the conversation sucked as well. The emails, shit, I can’t even reprint what he wrote because it’s just so hurtful. And manipulative. Seriously manipulative. A psychaitrist’s field day. We are clearly in this mode where he thinks I was trying to hurt him on purpose, and he was therefore trying to hurt me back. I took a Klonopin before the call so I could try to stay calm, and of course I barely remember a lot of what was said for the two hours we spoke. But I do remember a couple of my main points. Awake and non-medicated, I’m surprised at how much logic my points seem to have.

I said that I wanted to be with a man who was “looking” for me. Meaning: I want a guy who is mature enough to not be just ratcheting numbers, not sleeping with anything (cough cough) that comes along. I said, (and I KEEP saying this to my therapist) that I want a guy like my brothers and my dad. Then, this is where I started crying, because there is something so genuine and admirable about the way my brothers and father treat women. I told him that my brother was on this dating hiatus when he met his wife. He was sick of wasting time and money on worthless women, decided he’d rather be alone than with someone not right. He went out one night on a whim, was incredibly rude to my sister-in-law, but then found her sneaking into the men’s bathroom at the bar because the ladies room line was too long, and he just knew he had to get to know her better. The story I have on video of him telling how they met is fucking hilarious. And that’s what I want – a guy who is waiting for me, not waiting for the least of all evils to happen by – which is what I think I was for him.

To me, being alone is fine. But I’m an “alone” kind of woman. His emails insinuated that he can’t be alone and therefore was going to keep looking for someone to make him happy. I suppose that I can somewhat understand this mentality, but having actively dated for three years now (blogging for half that time,) I can say that it gets tiring. Remember when I met Sherlock – I wasn’t looking for anything serious, and allegedly, neither was he. But all that changed.

He said near the end that he wanted to promise he wouldn’t call, but that he didn’t know if he was going to be able to keep that promise. I cried as I told him that I really and truly want him out of my life, that this has been too difficult and too painful for me to deal with, and despite the love, I just can’t go on like this. Then, I asked him to not call. I assume he’ll replace me relatively quickly. And the argument about there not being a lot of viable, good looking, single ladies is irrelevant. We’ve seen that he isn’t very discriminating as to who he wines, dines and beds.

I’m sick to my stomach. I woke up this morning wondering if I just let this whole relationship be a casualty of the blog, instead of the other way around. I wonder if I made the right decision – and you don’t have to confirm it for me, I’m wondering for myself, not from a third party perspective. Of course I get from your all’s view, this has been nothing short of a disaster. I wonder, well, I’m wondering a lot of things. But that’s where it stands. Or doesn’t stand anymore I guess.

I’ve got my uniform on. I’m just trying to stand up and go to bat.

Dear Sherlock:

I am writing you this letter to tell you why I am breaking up with you. Of course you will never see this letter, but I will read and reread it to remind myself why you and I are do not need to be together any longer.

To write a letter in the style of Papa of Velvet’s, I am going to make you the infamous numbered list. My dad makes numbered lists for two reasons. First, he is a lawyer. Just the facts ma’am. When you have a list with numbers, you know what the facts are, where they are, and you don’t have to read between the lines to get them. Second, he thinks most people are stupid. Therefore, the numbered list is a way of spelling things out in such a simplified manner that there is no room for misunderstanding. It’s a bit of a psychology trick. Dad is smart.

Let’s go. In no particular order.

1) When I was in N.Y. and we were quickly on the way to a “reconciliation” of sorts, you squeezed in one more date, but you lied to me. You told me you were “going out with friends.” You came clean afterward, but promised “no more lies.”

2) You neglected the mention of a “fuck buddy” until after I agreed to stop dating other people. Then after we got through that, you apologized and again promised “no more lies.”

3) Your crazy ex-other-fuck buddy, Rachel the ugly TravelGirl attacked me, publicly, on my blog, and you said you didn’t want to be in the middle. Only when I informed you that there was a “middle” because of you did you change your tune and start siding with me.

4) You came clean (only after threatened by In-need-of-rhinoplasty-TravelGirl) that you slept with not only the original fuckbuddy, but her (TravelGirl) and someone else in the two weeks we were not together. (But you were full-on stalking me.)

5) Before we had unprotected sex, you assured me that you always used condoms. You used the word “ALWAYS.” But then, after you and I did our testing, and tossed out the latex, only then do you tell me that you slept with Travel Whore sans condom. Not only does this disgust me for the sheer fact that she is ugly as shit, but, how could you do something so reckless with our lives?

6) You shared intimate details about me and the first time we had sex with, as Ashburnite has coined them, “the hags.”

6a) You also lied to the hags and told them I’m on meds. I’m not, but I probably should be now because of you. Thanks for that, asshole.

7) The night after we first slept together and I told you it was nothing more than sex, you somehow found it okay to show up at one of the hags doors, talk to her for two hours about me, then try to fuck her. I may be somewhat quick to jump in the sack, but I could never have so little regard for not one but two people as to jump in this quickly. It screams sleaze. Screams.

8) You have taken away my ability to write freely. The blog is now password protected and I have you and only you to thank for that. Yet…you still stop by to check the titles of the posts. What the hell?

9) You told your ex in Texas all the intimate details about us, our fights etc. Have you learned nothing?

10) Your sense of humor sucks ass. If I have to explain a Woody Allen movie to you, uh, yeah, it’s just not going to work.

11) You stalked me at Chi Cha Lounge, Cafe Citron and a Poison concert. I don’t appreciate this behavior at all. I’ve taken an ex to court for less shit than this. Don’t think I can’t find 500 Indiana Avenue again, bitch.

12) You read the blog entry about how my ex-boyfriend wrote me a whole note explaining how to get the flat tire changed, and you took it upon yourself to do the same thing with the remote control. If I wanted another AtlantaBoy, then I’d go back and get myself another AtlantaBoy.

13) You read my blog and changed like a chameleon into what you thought I wanted you to be. Only, you couldn’t sustain it for very long. I’m not sure who you are and who I’m dating, but what we have so far doesn’t feel anything close to genuine. And I’m comfortable moving on knowing that I don’t really know the real you. Because I suspect, that the real you is a needy, co-dependent, non-Woody-Allen-joke getting, non-Sarcasm-getting, sex addict.

14) You are not my type. You are too tightly wound. I’m the last of three children and I fall completely into that stereotype of the rebel and the family “black sheep.” I imagine myself dating some hipster guy who goes to London a bunch of times a year, or some guy with 27 tattoos, who just fell off a Harley – one that he’s been riding since birth, not one he bought because he didn’t want to be trumped by his girlfriend.

15) I still love Sammy and Thora more than you. If there were a fire and I could only save two of the three of you, I would save Sammy and Thora. That’s just how it is.

16) The other night after your 18 consecutive call marathon, when we finally spoke, you went into a stream of consciousness of things you were thinking. You said, and I’ll quote, “I still want all those things with you. I want to hold your hand when you have your baby…” Did you catch it? You said, “YOUR” baby. Not “our” but, “Your.” As if this was something I wanted that I forced you to go along with. Please note that before you, I never even considered having kids, ever. I like my life too much to have to sober and un-drug up for 9 months (or more!) to be a baby maker. “Your” baby. Remember that. It’s very telling.

I admit to having given you mixed signals, but it was only because I had hope that this could change and work out. It was also because I knew what an incredible douche you were, and that you are head over heels in love with me. Watching you squirm, gave a very sick sense of satisfaction, like poking a dying snake with a stick. But, I’m done.
No more kisses for you,

Velvet

I had a FUCKING GREAT post tonight. I mean, really truly great. And now it’s trumped by this information:

I was just walking the doggies and we took an extra long walk – a rare event for the last walk of the night. Though, if I had retreated home when I originally wanted (10:00 instead of 10:15) then, Sammy would not have gotten out that last poop and I wouldn’t have seen Sherlock driving by my house.

Again. Sherlock driving by my house.

I do feel like sending a text that says: “Since you can’t honor boundaries, and acknowledge the no-stalk zone of 17th Street, I’m not going to honor proper break up rules. Consider this your notice.”

The thing is, I’ve been stalked before by TheCop. So I am never surprised by what men are capable of doing (women too) but it doesn’t mean that I actually believe it will go as far as it does. Showing up at Citron was by far the scariest thing that has happened in the Sherlock stalking show. It’s the delusional “I thought you saw me, I thought you smiled at me” crap that reeks of TheCop, whose real name is Nick, because who the fuck cares now? Password! HA!

Anyway, I genuinely feel bad that he feels he has to behave like this. I know if I would just talk to him it would all go away. I went out the other night and drove by his house (I was going in that direction) and yeah, I looked up to see if he was home (he wasn’t) but, then I thought, “What the hell would I do if he saw me?” That thought alone was enough to get me the hell off his street and on to a parallel one.

In other news, yesterday was Thora’s birthday. She’s seven. My little girl is all grown up!

I made my list. I checked it more than twice. I have many many great reasons to do this breakup. I have reasons to walk away and not look back. Yet, I haven’t done it. I clearly suck worse at breaking up than I do at dating.

Every time I think about picking up the phone and having the conversation, my heart starts racing and I feel like I’m going to black out. What. The. Fuck. Why is this so hard?

Who the hell goes to the gym on Friday night at 6:30 p.m. when it’s 30 degrees outside? Really. Who? Me, and the U-Street Metro, that’s who. Right when my left cheek has decided to give birth to two unsightly zits. My luck fucking sucks.

Walking in, I bumped right into him on his way out. I may be the tiniest bit crazy, or perhaps the tiniest bit optimistic but I think he looked happy to see me. He actually smiled and stopped in my path. Quite a contrast from the other times I’ve bumped into him where he looks about as uncomfortable as one would look, say when a pair of boxer briefs is shoved up their asshole. With a car tire attached.

We talked for several minutes – much longer than any of our last attempts at being unawkward and friendly. Exchanging small talk was nice, but it still stung. He looked good. He always looks good. He seemed relaxed. We said goodbye and I went off in search of an elliptical machine.

As I climbed away, of course he stayed in my mind. I thought the timing pretty funny considering I JUST saw his girlfriend in Washingtonian. I thought about the time we spent together and how easy it was to just fall in love with him. Finishing my easy Friday night workout and realizing the gym visit was anything other than a breeze, I went home.

During my shower, Sherlock popped into my mind. I started collecting my anger at all the things he’s done to me. I said them out loud in the shower. I decided to make a list. Expect to see it soon by the way. (Suggestions & reminders appreciated.) I stepped out of the shower, grabbed my towel and then I asked myself: Why did I bump into the U Street Metro at the gym? Because coincidence resulted in both of us being there? Okay, sure. But, in the absence of religion in my life, I pay close attention to “signs.” It’s a holdover from “The Celestine Prophecy” being one of my favorite books.

The U Street Metro was put in my path to show me that I shouldn’t settle. I should wait until I feel that way again about someone else. If he asked me to take the blog down, I would, without hesitating. But Sherlock? I don’t feel that strongly about Sherlock. It might be part love, part attachment. But it has burned me out. I went to the gym last night and said to the Queen of Quantity, “I want to love a man as much as I love my dogs.” She didn’t think that was stupid at all, in fact she agreed wholeheartedly.

I dried off and fired up the laptop. The date of this post is staring at me in the face: Today is AtlantaBoy’s birthday. Another man I fell head over heels for. Another sign. It’s time for me to get up to bat and send the other team home. This game is finally over.

Eighteen missed calls. Let me say it again. Eighteen missed calls. I went to the gym and left my phone at home. When I returned home after two hours, there were EIGHTEEN MISSED CALLS on my FUCKING phone! You know who it was, don’t pretend you don’t!

I called back, got voicemail and said, “Are you on fire? Because this is excessive.” He called back when I was blasting the new shit I just downloaded (club music, not country this time) and I didn’t hear when he called back SEVEN MORE TIMES. Who does this?? I was dialing in to check the voicemail he left, and he called again. I clicked over and said, “Funny how you painted me to be crazy to those two chicks you nailed, and you’re acting again like a complete psycho.” We proceeded to have a conversation in which he ended up hanging up on me (again.)

In the 25 minutes we spent on the phone, he said that yesterday (Monday) was the first day we haven’t spoken since we started dating. I said, “Yeah, it was fucking Monday! You know I just got ridiculously busy at work and I had a lot of shit to do.” He said that if I wanted to call him, I would have, but I chose not to. Okay, point taken. But I said, “I don’t like having to check in.” Then he accused me of pushing him away. Moi? I would never do such a thing. (Cough. I just choked on something. Was that sarcasm??) Most of the conversation was him yelling at me, telling me I’m manipulating him (interesting coming from him) and me not caring – which he called me out on. My retorts to his rundown of the last 48 hours of our “non-speaking” included gems such as, “I told you I’m not a good girlfriend” and “I hate having to answer to someone.” I should copyright that shit.

The truth is, and I did say this – sometimes I just like to disappear into my own little world. It’s not normal, but it’s what I do. Look what I did with this blog – I ripped it away from so many people and only let a fraction back in. When I feel too exposed, in any capacity, I shut down and back off. I can’t explain it, it’s just something I’ve always done. When I was in high school, I used to go up to my room, shut the door and turn off the lights and listen to music for hours. In college, I’d stay in on a weekend, when I knew everyone would be out, just so I could have the place to myself.

Trust me, I need more alone time than the average person. My latest “alone time” wave started last week. I warned him long before the weekend that I wanted to do a lot of stuff around the house and wasn’t going to want to go out. (Mail piling up, clothes need to be weeded through and donated, etc.) Friday, he was nagging me to come over and I really didn’t want to. He came over, and distracted me from the cleaning I wanted to complete. Then Saturday I saw the U Street Girlfriend in Washingtonian and it put me in a shitty place emotionally. I then forced myself to go over to Sherlock’s so I didn’t have to hear the nagging. By Sunday he pissed me off with his inability to get my sense of humor. When we had sex on Sunday it was so…boring. I knew if we didn’t have sex he would really think something was wrong. So I prance into the bedroom and we have the boring sex and I’m like, “Okay, gotta go. It’s late.” He said, “No, it’s an hour earlier, I haven’t changed the clocks.” I was like, “OH GOOD! I have shit to do at home!” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He even said it was like I was running out. I was. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

By the way, we haven’t kissed since, um, before this latest blow up. I know, how are we managing to have sex for the last week and a half without kissing? It can be done my friends, let me tell you. I’m shocked that I’ve been able to pull it off. I just don’t feel like kissing him. Every time he tries, I move away. Fucked up, I know. All this latest saga with the Travel Girl shit and her subsequent email and him following me to Citron and hiding at the bar, it did a lot of damage. A lot. I think the kissing thing is too personal. Make your jokes, I’ll fuck him but not kiss him. Yeah. So? I don’t want to hold his hand or sleep over either, so there!

When I lived with AtlantaBoy, he and I had a fight, similar to what Sherlock and I just had, where AtlantaBoy said, “I wish you knew how it felt when I get shut out.” And I said, “I wish you knew what it was like to live with black clouds EVERY DAY. You can see them coming but you can’t stop them. And all you want is to be alone.” Anyone who forces their way into my path when I’m like this will be destroyed. I may live to regret it, but I’ll still destroy it in the interim.

So Sherlock ended the conversation by saying, “I’m not giving up on you. I hate being shut out, but I’m not giving up.” Then he hung up on me.

See, the irony here is not that he’s been shut out of my world. It’s that I’ve shut myself out of his. Really, I’m the one on the outside looking in, he just doesn’t know it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a text. Guess who?

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

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

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

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

What. The. Fuck.

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

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

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

Um. No. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need your advice kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Firehook Bakery & Coffeehouse
1909 Q Street, NW

Home Rule
1807 14th St NW

Java House
1645 Q Street, NW

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

Olssons Books & Records
1307 19th Street, NW

True Value Hardware
1623 17th Street, NW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Monday Lovers!

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On to other stuff.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

Click here to give to this important cause.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

Expert Driving

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

****

Expert Waitressing

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

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

****

Waitress Blackmail

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

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

****

Projectile Vomit & Million Dollar Ideas

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

****

Priorities

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

****

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

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

****

Gun Control to Major Tom

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

****

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

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

****

The Real Live Grinch

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

****

The Princess of Grace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m in Atlanta.

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

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

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

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

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

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