Month: July 2006

Friday night around 2 a.m., I walked in the door to my house, sat down on the floor with Sammy and Thora, and cried. Sammy crawled in my lap and I asked him, “Would it really be so bad if it was just the three of us forever?”

Backing up…

Some of you sent me emails last week, after the last post, telling me that everything sounded great and to not worry about the situation with the blog being “out.” But. But. After a back and forth with a couple of you, it seems that not only did I present the most positive of lights, but I left something out that significantly changed how I felt about the present situation with one Sherlock. Sigh.

I was doing well until Wednesday last week. (Woo hoo, I made it 4 whole days without freaking out!) But as I was leaving to pick up Sweet so we could punk out our hair and hit the Poison concert, Sherlock called. He said he knew I didn’t like surprises but he got a ticket to the concert. There was some back and forth about me just wanting to go with my friend, and him saying he wouldn’t come out there unless he could hang out with me. The details are unimportant, but just know that I did not embrace this plan. When I make plans with girlfriends, I make plans with girlfriends. And I don’t bring guys along who I happen to be dating. It’s just not cool. And it felt like too much.

I got a couple text messages during the concert that were suspect due to their timing. One came at Poison’s first break. Another came with a song reference while they were playing said song. I’ve described that feeling of having the walls close in on you, and this just reminded me of that feeling. I’m not comfortable with the idea of being in a huge crowd, knowing someone is probably there looking for me. It’s eerie. That’s all I have to say about that. Eerie. For a woman who has already had a stalker, this is not a good feeling.

I didn’t post this because both he and his tip off friend are reading. And that whole idea makes me ill. But, it’s the price I pay for not being 100% anon.

When he admits he was at the concert, I just start to unravel. And, right on schedule, here we go. We have a big talk Thursday. I’m trying, I have to tell you guys, I’m trying. I had a six year relationship and the day we broke up I was ready to date. But I’ve had a couple two-monthers and they have fucking killed me. I just can’t get into all this deep talk and such. He wanted to meet up on Thursday night to get this drama infused talk out of the way. No. No, and NO. I didn’t want to do that. I just wanted to go hang with my dogs since they were neglected the night before and catch up on some sleep. We stuck with having our plans for Friday.

Friday night I left my house with an open mind. We went to eat. We played pool. We were playing darts and waiting for a table, and he was firing off some questions, then sort of put me on the spot by asking what else I wanted to know about him. I don’t view this getting to know you period as a race, and I really just ask questions as I think of them. So I, probably nastily, said, “Is this an interview?” Look, I know. I don’t have a lot of finesse when I’m feeling cornered. Which I was. I honestly just wanted to drink beer and play pool.

Let me screech ahead because this is just going on too long. Pool is over, and we head back to his place for the old “Let’s have one more drink but we both know we are going to fool around” finale to the evening.

When one person is into the other, you get the vibe. You can’t fake that feeling toward someone. It comes across in gestures and comments without much effort. Then we had a conversation that went something like this. Forgive me, the details aren’t exact, and shit, I’m sure someone will critique since they have been very busy hitting up the Velvet in Dupont blog today. Fucking annoying. Anyway, convo mode.

Me: I’m not there.
Him: I know.
There was some conversation that got us to this next exchange, but I don’t remember what it was.

Me: I couldn’t have the kind of sex with you that I would want to have if there was a relationship here.
Him: What? What does that mean? What do you want? Do you even know?
Me: Yes.
Him: What
Me: I want someone I can have sex with but not have the relationship part.
Him: That’s a brave thing to say.
Me: Yeah. I guess. Look. I am not the girl you want me to be. I just can’t be that right now.
Him: What if I said I was hesitant too?
Me: Then I think we should rewind this past week and do it all over. Because you were giving off all the signs.
Him: Ok, I guess I was.
Me: You say all the right things. You do. But I was on the noncommittal express and you pulled the bait and switch. You said you didn’t want a relationship in your profile. For 95% of women, what you are saying would be gold. But it’s just not for me.
So, we get our things together and he’s going to drive me back home. At that point I probably would have just let me walk if I were him, but whatever. So, on the ride:

Him: I think you do want a relationship.
Me: You know, last winter the man who runs DC Blogs said to me that my blog was good because it just goes and goes, and that most dating blog writers end up in a relationship and get boring. There is a reason for that Sherlock.

So he drops me off, and wants to park the car. I said no. He asked what I was going to write so he didn’t have to look. I said, “I’m going to write that I’m surprised by myself because I could have had what I thought I wanted, and I really don’t want it at all.”

That’s when I walked in and sat on the floor with Sammy and Thora and cried. Sometimes a seemingly insignificant relationship burns you so badly that you can’t stop stumbling with everyone else who comes along. I know you all will see tremendous irony in this, because I’m so honest on this blog, but, I’ve become the most guarded I’ve ever been in my life.

I finally got off the floor and went to walk the dogs. When I was outside with them, I got a text from Sherlock asking me to call him. I did, and after a couple words back and forth I said, “I’m done. I’m talked out. No more talking.” And on that, we hung up.

I’ve been quiet for the week, I know. I mean, I’ve posted, but not the usual stuff. We have a mutually co-dependent relationship, don’t we? You come here to be entertained, and I come to write, and get opinions and spur conversation. It doesn’t work if I’m not honest. It can never work properly if I’m not honest. What’s holding me up? Let’s get to it.

1) I have someone who is scaring me. I’m tired of the emails. I don’t know you, I don’t want to know you, I don’t know what you want, but I have an idea. What you send me is not appropriate. I’ve told you several times. I will no longer be answering anything you send.

2) I am seeing things in my stats that are equally scary. Why is a Private Investigation firm on my blog a dozen times a day? Who are you and what are you looking for? You better reveal yourself and your intentions or your IP will be blocked. I don’t want to step in the ring again no matter how deranged your client. But if you stick a toe back in, be prepared, because I’ll go to the motherfucking end. And from what I’ve been told, you won’t be satisfied with that end.

3) The cop thing. I’ve been told that if I continue, I will end up dead. That’s promising. They have to get me first though, don’t they? Cough. See items 1 and 2 above, po-po!

4) The boy thing. I just don’t like this idea of someone I’m dating being able to read this blog. I thought at first that if I’m honest then what would it matter? But I’ve paid a heavy price for violating this rule before. See #2 above. Some rules are made to be broken. This one isn’t. So, the blog goes, or the boy goes. Watch me, as I eat my words: “I would never let this blog get in the way of a viable relationship.”

Let’s discuss the boy for a minute. The Queen of Quantity named him Sherlock, for his innate ability to find my blog from my online profile (I hear he had a little help,) and his ability to find my Craigslist ads I posted for my FirstDateDC research. The man is a super sleuth. I realized right away, I would never be able to get anything by him. He said, “Maybe that’s a good thing.” He might be right.

So, the recap. Last Sunday, after a few email exchanges, he said, “Let’s have a quick dinner tonight. Don’t think about it. Just say yes.” As I mentioned earlier, I loved the idea that he said in his profile that he was too busy for a girlfriend. There was comfort in that. Comfort like macaroni and cheese comfort. People, I am not a good girlfriend. I will tell you this now. Not that I can’t be nice and good to someone, but I am not good in a relationship. The idea of being tied down makes me instantly want to date a dozen other people just to prove I can still do it.

Our quick dinner lasted 5 hours. He walked me home. We kissed. It all felt so very right. He didn’t play any stupid games of waiting three days to call, he said he just wanted to talk to me. And I wanted to talk to him. Talk we did. On and off all day Monday and Tuesday. A couple hours on each of the nights. During some of our conversations, he asked me if I was going to move to Phoenix. Okay, so he’s been on the blog. He mentioned reading the things I wrote last week about Jack and that love triangle, and how deep it was in comparison to my other posts. These details are not bothersome on their own. The past is the past. I don’t care who reads what. But this ability to read the blog going forward, and the knowledge that his friend has been a reader for some time (Hello you!) is truly frightening.

For a control freak like me, this is a huge problem. I prefer to actually control the information and emotion I show for a man. There is something in my formula that feels comfortable in doing that. Not that it has worked for me before, but it’s all I know.

But, then I consider the other side for a minute. I think about the control freak in me being challenged in this manner. Nothing I think and post is secret. Decisions aren’t always mine to make. Someone calling me and saying, “Don’t think, Just answer.” Fuck. There’s something incredibly thrilling about that. Giving up the control. Letting someone else just decide. Wow. I make every single decision in my life from when I wake up to what movie I’m going to watch to when the dogs get their walks, what we eat, when we eat and on and on and on. I’m freaking out at the idea that someone could come along and change that. I’m freaking out more at the idea that I could really get into that. I’m freaking out most that to have this type of arrangement, you need trust. Something I’m very low on at the moment. Again, see #3 above.

By Wednesday, I was nearing uncomfortable. I woke up with a nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. I call that naggy feeling – raging anxiety. I live in an intricate world I’ve created for myself with friends and happy hours and nights out with the Queen of Quantity, who I am so much on the same page with when it comes to partying. (I know it’s not intricate! Christ!) I believe that I would be quite content with a man to spend my time with. But along he comes, and I get scared. So scared. Seriously. When I see it going well, I head straight for sabotage mode. Because the bottom line of all of this is, I just don’t think I’m suited to get married.

I sent him a text the other night in response to something he said. It said, “Don’t let me panic.”

He’s trying. My god is he trying. We talked today for a while and I explained where I was, that I need to just move it slower. He said all the right things. He’s into me, he won’t play games, he wants to try this. I reminded him of his proclamation on his profile about not wanting or having time for a girlfriend.

He said, “If you told me a week ago that I’d be at this point right now with you, a total 180, I never would have believed it.” He said his friend said, “Wow, you are really falling for this girl.”

Gulp. Deep breath. Does someone have a paper bag? I might pass out.

My my my. The years have been kind to you Bret Michaels. How I still love thee.

Lucky I stocked up on undies at Victoria’s Secret, cause these are a mess. Straight to the stage trash with you.

Come to Velvet. I have some things to show you. It won’t hurt. I promise.

Full update found on my SourNSweet guest post.

Also a First Date DC guest post today as well.

No, I’m not systematically shutting down and posting elsewhere. I’m still trying to figure out what to do. It’s definitely a problem having someone you are dating also reading your blog. A huge problem. I woke up this morning realizing that one of those things will have to come to an end. Quickly. I just don’t know which one yet. Back to la la land. Bret..mmm…

More on worlds colliding in a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist asks, “What caused that breakup?”

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

The therapist asks, “Define separated.”

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist says, “What did he look like?”

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

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

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

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

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

Therapist says, “Go on.”

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

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

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

Therapist asks, “Do you regret it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maryland, Baltimore, United States, 0 returning visits

Yeah. Gotcha.

Bar sex? Huh.

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

Washington, Tacoma, United States, 30 returning visits

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

Christ.

Update 2 ~

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

Ontario, Toronto, Canada, 9 returning visits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready?

“Are you in a band?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“SLUT.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I get laid off, I’m leaving D.C.

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

Dear Washington D.C.:

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

In no particular order:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

Touche. Truer words were never spoken.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and this:

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

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

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

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

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

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