Month: June 2006

A couple quick things first.

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

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

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

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

******

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

*****

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

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

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

*****

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

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

*****

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A mass explosion of bras and panties. Everywhere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another night in the life of a typical DC woman…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exit 18th Street Lounge, stage left.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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