Month: October 2006

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a text. Guess who?

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

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

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

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

What. The. Fuck.

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

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

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

Um. No. Not yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I need your advice kids.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Firehook Bakery & Coffeehouse
1909 Q Street, NW

Home Rule
1807 14th St NW

Java House
1645 Q Street, NW

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

Olssons Books & Records
1307 19th Street, NW

True Value Hardware
1623 17th Street, NW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Monday Lovers!