Month: November 2006

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

Cast of Characters:

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

This story starts in January of Year 1.

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

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

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

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

After Interview #1:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other famous Opie-isms:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part II coming next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4) Your favorite swear from this list is:

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

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

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

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

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

7) Your best friend is:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Points:

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

My Answers & the “Logic” Behind Them:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Blog:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Velvet

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

Sammy also slept, in the cutest pose ever

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Sherlock:

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

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

Let’s go. In no particular order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Velvet

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

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

Again. Sherlock driving by my house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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