Month: January 2007

For all the years I’ve been dating, for all the years my brothers have been dating, there is this annoying little glitch in our family circle that has yet to be overcome.

My parents hate all outsiders.

No no, I’m serious. Gloom and Doom hate anyone and everyone of the boyfriend/girlfriend genre. And frankly, they can be quite obnoxious about it. They are very dismissive of anyone who we bring by for an introduction. My brother had a therapist who likened our family to a cult. Don’t believe me? Think I’m exaggerating? You’ll see. Take for instance when I was dating a man who lived in Queens. He was Greek, so I figured it was safe to introduce him to them.

Velvet: Mom, this is Billy.
Mom (Gloom): Hi Bill. Nice to meet you.

It’s subtle, but it is there. The name abbreviation. Get it? They tolerated Billy, he was at least allowed in the house. But the others? Oh boy.

For years this insanity required my brothers and I to “sneak around” with significant others. But then you get to be in your early 20’s and you’re like, “Shit, I have a job, my own money, what the fuck am I doing?” So you foolishly tell Gloom and Doom that you met someone by the name of AtlantaBoy and that you are in love and are going to move in together. You are met with stunned surprise, then something along the lines of “You have proven yourself to be the biggest disappointment of our lives.” Everyone resumes their respective sneaking around, to which Gloom and Doom are wise, and say things like, “You kids don’t tell your parents anything!” But they have yet to realize that we don’t tell them because it is the same old routine every time.

Gloom and Doom boycotted my older brother’s wedding to a non-Greek. Of course there were other reasons why, but I guarantee that if my sister-in-law’s maiden name was something-opolous they would have been there. My oldest brother dated the sister-in-law who got away and she was sure that Gloom and Doom would like her because “no one’s parents ever disliked her.” Poor thing. She was wrong. I went through the cold shoulder / he’s not good enough / we’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist mentality for 6 years with AtlantaBoy. My brothers didn’t fully understand it until it happened to them. After some discussion, we all came to the same conclusion: It’s a Greek thing. Greeks are extremely ethnocentric. Even among other Greeks – if you were from the “wrong” island, my Grandmother would not be seen speaking to you. I guess Billy wasn’t from Crete. Shit, what did I know? I thought I was doing good because his last name ended in -giannis.

So you may find this hard to believe since we’ve all been living, breathing, reading and shitting Sherlock since July, but, Gloom and Doom haven’t heard a peep of his existence. Until Friday. I had this grand plan to tell my mom all about it, to drop the word that there’s a boyfriend and it’s pretty serious. But, somehow, I ended up on the phone with my dad and my mom wasn’t home. He was clearly bored and in the mood to talk. The conversation went something like this.

Dad: How are Sammy and Thora doing with the cold weather?
Velvet: They are okay. They don’t like it too much, but they get by with shorter walks.
Dad: You aren’t leaving the balcony door open for them now are you?
Velvet: Well, not today. It’s 15 degrees out there. And they aren’t even home anyway.

Oops. It came out of my mouth faster than I realized. I hoped he didn’t hear me, because he really has selective hearing, but that didn’t happen.

Dad: Where are they?
Velvet: Well, I was getting ready to tell you and mom this. There’s a boyfriend now, and it’s pretty serious. Anyway, Sammy and Thora are with him today.
Dad: Which guy is this?

We launched into a back and forth with me dispensing the details and my dad jumped on Sherlock’s company website and started looking around. Then he said something that sounded like he might actually be impressed by what this company does. Whoa. This is unprecedented.

Dad: So, how did you meet him?
Not seeing the point of lying at 33 years old, I said, “Match.com.” I also briefly considered trying to validate it by mentioning that my oldest brother met the sister-in-law who got away on match.com, but they didn’t like her either, so no sense in poisoning the well.
Dad: What did you say it was?
I repeated myself. He repeated it back to me, wrong again. There I am, sitting in my office screaming “MATCH DOT COM! MATCH, LIKE YOU ARE LIGHTING A FIRE WITH A MATCH.” Awesome. There is silence. I can hear the wheels turning in his brain. I imagine him looking for my profile. I contemplate directing him to some other profiles I know of on match. Then he speaks.
Dad: Ha! That sucker! You dumped the dogs off on him?

That was basically the end of it. Now, I know what everyone is thinking: “Wow. That went really well Velvet. Maybe Gloom and Doom aren’t so bad.” But, you would be wrong. For, if OlderBrother and Oldest Brother were comment numbers one and two on this post, here is what they would say:

OlderBrother: Why are you bothering me with this shit? I hate them. They didn’t come to my wedding, and besides, we had another baby last night, “cutest baby in the world number deux,” and thinking about them not knowing their grandkids just pisses me off. You just wait, you’re going to get the “WE DECIDED” phone call in a few days: “We decided that Sherlock is an alien homophobe who hates Greeks and wants to annihilate the entire population, and has three wives across the country who he’s supporting as well as several kids. And he’s probably 50 and an alcoholic.”

OldestBrother: Yeah, wait till Dad tells Mom and they develop all their conspiracy theories on Sherlock. They will come up with something ridiculous about him that they can use to tell you that he’s not right for you, then they will say that there’s enough time to get to the Greek Church on Sunday and meet someone. I don’t know why you tell them anything in the first place.

That’s about how I expect it to go. I told my OldestBrother on Friday about the above conversation and he said, “You know, when this is all said and done the only person in this family they are going to be speaking to is a dog. Sammy.”

Sherlock and I went out to dinner tonight to our new favorite restaurant. After we were done eating, I jumped up and down in my chair and clapped my hands while screaming, “MILK DUDS MILK DUDS MILK DUDS.” Sherlock said, “You want Milk Duds?” See, Sherlock has come to understand that when I want chocolate, I really want chocolate with caramel. Milk Duds usually do the trick, but sometimes Rolos or Sugar Babies also work. He also knows that they don’t sell Milk Duds at the 7-11 by his place. So we had to walk a little for them. 29 degrees out there. It’s cold.

We got to the store and he asked me to find him some lip balm. I went off in search of that and shortly after finding it and picking every lip balm product they had and putting it in the basket, I stumbled on the Valentine’s Day Candy. YAY! I love buying those stupid heart shaped cardboard boxes and then eating all the chocolate myself. But, wait! I don’t have to do that this year. I have someone to eat it with. Hooray! So, I started looking through the options and Sherlock came up behind me.

Sherlock: What are you doing? These don’t look like chapsticks or Milk Duds.
Velvet: I’m buying Valentine’s Day Candy. Will you be my Valentine?
Sherlock: Yes, of course. Are we waiting until Valentine’s Day to eat the candy?
Velvet: No. We’re going to sit on the couch and watch the movie and eat it all tonight.

This made Sherlock smile. I thought that our plan was set in stone.

We got home and he had to try to get a stain out of my shirt where some wayward food landed after I didn’t try hard enough to get it into my mouth. I unpacked the bags from the store, (that means I just threw everything on the counter,) and opened the coveted and very exciting Heart Shaped Box of candy. I put the legend out on the counter so we would know what was what. Then I grabbed my soda and the pretzels and headed into the living room. I thought he was just behind me with the chocolate since he had JUST SAID, “I won’t make popcorn, we can just have a chocolate night.”

I got to the couch and he’s not behind me. I waited. And waited. And waited! Then I said, “What are you doing?”

He popped his head out from around the corner and said “Me?” Aggravated, I said, “Yesssss,” and as I said it I noticed that his mouth was moving. He had some food in there. I said, “What are you DOING?” He said he was making popcorn. I could hear the microwave humming from where I stood. I’m trying to wrap my brain around what is going on but it just isn’t making any sense. I said, “So what are you eating?” He just looked at me with this expression like, “This is where I’ve fucked up. I know.”

I walked in there, and he has eaten THREE of the Valentine’s Day Chocolates. What. The. FUCK!!! I said, “You fucking ate our Valentine’s Day Chocolate without me! How could you do that?” He said he thought I left it out for him to eat. I said, “No, we should eat it together. I told you we would eat it on the couch and watch the movie. This is such bad Karma!!”

We’re doomed.

Dude. He ate the fucking Valentine’s Day Candy without me.

No no no, it wasn’t a hurricane. It was just my mom and dad who came to town this last week. Well, blew through town is more appropriate, on their annual mecca from Connecticut to Florida. Last year, I detailed their stay here in D.C., which you can find here. This visit, while significantly shorter than the 48 hour disasters of past, provided me about the same amount of fodder.

Time elapsed from the moment they stepped into my condo to the time the first fighting words were spat? 1 hour, 14 minutes. Better than usual. I don’t think that broke any records. Phew.

When they got to my neighborhood they called from the street. I could hear my dad in the background saying something. I said, “Who is he talking to?” My mom said, “Oh, he’s just telling the cop that we are unloading and that’s why we are in the loading zone.” I said, “HA! They don’t give a fuck. You could shoot Dad dead right now and they wouldn’t care.” My parents are used to New York City cops who give you a ticket for hesitating in front of a building. When they pick my brother up at his apartment they slow to 15 mph a la Little Miss Sunshine, and my brother has to run and jump in, otherwise they get a ticket for “standing.”

Anyway, my mom and I had a conversation on the phone in December which went like this:

Mom: When are you going to come up here and go through all your childhood memorabilia?
Velvet: I’m not.

Well, she really showed me. After I buzzed them in, I went to my front door to let the dogs in the hall to greet them and went back to drying my hair. I waited. And waited. And waited. They never came upstairs.Twenty minutes passed. I opened the door, fearful they were stuck in my ghetto ass elevator and I saw my neighbor out there. Standing there in my robe, I was a bit caught off guard. I said, “Oh, sorry, thought you might be my parents.” She said, “They are downstairs unloading boxes. They brought you a lot of stuff!”

Oh no. OH NO! FUCK! Whatever is in those boxes will NOT fit in la Casa de Velvet! I’m at the point where I may have to throw out my tampons so I have room for Sammy and Thora’s heartworm pills! Space is not something I just have around that I can find room for more crap.

I went downstairs and my mom was guarding seven, yes, SEVEN boxes in the lobby. My dad was circling looking for parking. I called him. He was lost. I tried to navigate him back but I heard sirens through the phone. He threw the phone on the seat but never hung up. I heard the cop pull him over (who knew they did this in D.C.?) and say he ran a stop sign, or a stop light or something. My dad said he was totally lost. She asked where he was going. He told her. And she told him how to find me. Then she followed him and I got in the car with him and we parked. He said, “Hey, that’s the cop who pulled me over going to talk to her friends. I thought she was going to give me a ticket.” I was laughing so hard I couldn’t contain myself. I said, “Dad, they don’t give anyone a ticket here. She’s trying to see if they have any donuts. She doesn’t care about you and your law-breaking.”

We go inside. Dad started feeding Sammy and Thora various treats. I started opening the boxes. Um. Oh boy. Let’s say that there were some old love letters in there from my high school boyfriend as well as a saucy picture of me in some whorish Halloween get-up that I sent him when I was in college. Fucking great. I’m sure my parents saw that. Groan.

A journey through my childhood, if you will:

A jar of my baby teeth. Aww. Who knew the next set of teeth to come through there would be home to the biggest mouth in all of D.C.

I’m not sure what this is, or was supposed to be, but I made it in Kindergarten. 1978 baby!! Anyway, it seems like a wood cylinder with a face painted on it, and some cotton on top and at the beard. I guess it is the wooden Santa? No clue. I’m still an artist though, bitches.

To the untrained eye, this is a papermache baby I made in art class when I was in 4th or 5th grade. The baby is supposed to be holding a bottle. But I dare you to look closer. It seems the baby is holding an erect penis. I remember my friend Amy bit off the top of a yellow crayon so we could make it the “nipple” of the bottle, but yeah, it just looks like a dick.

Look. It was not only a book on the Middle Ages, but my FIRST – implying that there was going to be a much sought after follow up. I’m afraid I have failed my readers. I’m very sorry about that.

Finally. I got to dig into the other bag that was a mix of gifts not collected at Christmas because I boycotted going home. The bag contains the usual take of gifts, except for one item I pulled out of an envelope. It was this:

Yes. Blue Thong Undies that say “OH” just above the ass crack. Note I said “the” ass crack, and not “my” ass crack, because I will NOT be wearing these. I know, I know, you want to know why my parents got me thong underwear. They didn’t. In the last Velvet Family post, I explained how the parents and brothers can’t resist something that is “free.” Where it says “take one” they go back and take definitely more than one. And they send whatever loot they have collected around to the rest of us. My family doesn’t understand that these things are free because NO ONE ELSE wants them. My brother is perhaps the worst, he cannot resist this lure. He has sent me the “CVS” Commemorative (read: free) Christmas ornament every year since 1997. I keep throwing them away but they keep coming back. Anyway, the origin of the thong undies is unknown, but from some offer online that he answered.

I can only hope that is ALL he answered. I really don’t want to have a free Nuva Ring arrive tomorrow and coupons for a free pap smear next week at some doctor whose license was probably revoked. Ugh.

Merry Fucking Christmas. See why I didn’t go home?

In final parental love, the best and most consistent of all their gifts is the rotting food they left behind. After they were gone I smelled the milk they left. Curdled. Made me yack.

It has been an interesting few days to say the least. First, I have to say hello and apologize to my little friend, Roxy Chanel McPink. I’m not sure why, but through some crazy bullshit that can only be triggered by bloggers with nothing else to do but start trouble, she thought that I was mad at her and wrote part of my last post about her. We had an email exchange where I explained that that definitely wasn’t the case. She said she was in tears driving to work this morning. Oh no! Roxy! I’m sorry. Then she said, “Phew, because I knew you went to bat for me and I thought maybe I missed something and you needed me and I wasn’t there for you.” Damn. I love you. You are a cool chick. See? Friendship. It’s such an easy thing to maintain for some of us, isn’t it? Oh, and Roxy, a couple of the more, well, sad of the blogscene say “Dating Blogs are Sooooo over.” They think if they declare their dating blog finished on a Monday, then jump on someone else’s bandwagon the next day of the “Dating Blogs being Sooooo over” that they are like, cool or something. But, um, aren’t you writing a book and shit? Yeah. Not sure how something (like dating) that people will be doing for the rest of eternity can be “over” but whatever!! Anyway, on that note…

The Year of First Dates has come to a screeching halt. There are a few factors at work here. First, I sidelined a couple of players in the dating game because I got busy, then got the dreaded cold. So, the emails and phone calls continued, but then, I lost interest. Also, I realized, if I could meet someone as nice and witty as Fencer4, and not want to pursue it, it is because something else was at work. Yes. Yes. I know. You know. We all know. Why waste any more time?

I’m so stupidly ridiculously in love with Sherlock and so ready to move on from the Disasters of 2006. Seeing him again last weekend and feeling the way I did was really a shock. The second I put my eyes on him I thought, “Uh oh.” We spent the entire weekend together just staring at each other. The clickety click was back. The impact of everything we talked about over the weekend continued to hit me through the week. I really didn’t realize that any of this was going to happen. My head was so ready to move on and do the Year of First Dates. My heart? Not so much.

I’m in love. And I’m not sure what happens from here. Actually I know exactly what happens from here. We gots all sorts of plans. But the only plans that matter are that I’m fucking madly in love.

It’s not a lyric from a song, but rather a line from a movie. A very good movie I might add.

It’s been a really fucked up few days for me. Really fucked up. First and foremost, my liver submitted its letter of resignation this weekend. I was shocked too to find out that my liver could write at all, but yes, it can and the letter said, “Dear Bitch whose face I have never seen: I quit. I’ve had enough of whatever you choose to poison me with, and I can’t take it anymore. Goodbye.” Though I’m not sure where it thinks it is going, but we’ll see. I should add myself to the Liver Transplant List. Is there a doctor on the blog?

Thursday – Day 1 of fuckedupness
I got to work and someone walked into my office with one question that literally turned into a three hour meeting. Most of my answers were, “Well, let me log into my email and I can answer that,” but, to no avail. The meeting just would not stop. As it neared lunchtime, I got a disturbing S.O.S. message from Sixes and Sevens that said “The King of the Dog Park’s Dog is Missing!” After a phone call, I discovered that the dog was with other friends of ours and took off, somewhere around Van Ness / Chevy Chase area we think. No one is really sure where they were. Anyway, the poor King of the Dog Park was home medicating with valium before setting out to search for the dog. (See it’s not just me who is a pill popper, it’s all of Dupont Circle.) I took off in a hurry and grabbed my torch to join the search effort. Just as I was pulling into my neighborhood to park, Sixes and Sevens called and said, “That fucker walked home. Four miles, and he walked home!!”

You know that dogs really are smarter than people. We just haven’t admitted it yet. I don’t think I could find my way home from Van Ness if I was in the woods.

Friday – Day 2 of fuckedupness
I had to go to another office for work to wait for a meeting whose time was undetermined due to a bunch of other meetings. I waited, and waited and waited. Said meeting finally started at 4 fucking 30, keeping me in the middle of the boondocks until very late. Then I sat in hellacious traffic. How on earth do people live out in the ‘burbs? Anyway, during the day I was thoroughly entertained by an email from Fencer4. Thursday night he had written an email to say he had a nice time and I replied with pretty much the same thing as I wrote here – he seemed like a great guy, not sure if we’re a match but I was willing to go out again. Thursday night I was thinking that my big news to report would be that I was breaking the “first date only” rule, but, I couldn’t get enough time to type that up and things took a much funnier turn anyway. It seems that through an error on my part, the Fencer googled something I said and found…this…blog.

The Fencer has moved to a whole new category. This man is fucking hilarious. His email had me in stitches. He said, “Wow, I got off easy compared to the other guys.” Well, sadly yes, but you were a complete gentleman with a great sense of humor and at least one of the other ones definitely deserved what was written about him – HandUpTheBack2 (who emailed again,) well, arrgh. That still grosses me out. Of course all of this proves that honesty is the best policy, because he didn’t see anything different written about our date here that I had sent in an email. I even told him that I had a conversation with a friend and told her that the Fencer is totally someone who needs to go out with one of my friends. Then I got the email, and he signed it “#4” and I just died. Too funny.

Friday night once I got home, I was sooooo comfy in my bed. It was cold and rainy and I just didn’t feel like moving. But Sixes and Sevens made me get up and get dressed to go out. We left my place around 9 and I didn’t see it again until 4 a.m. Too much alcohol. Really. I must stop. We texted with the Fencer and told him that he must meet Sixes and Sevens, well, we didn’t call her that, we called her by her real name. We ambitiously planned for Saturday but Sixes and Sevens and I didn’t realize that our night (at 1 a.m.) was still far from over. She set her hair on fire and obtained a Flashdance style t-shirt from a homeless man. I almost got locked in the bathroom. We finally walked home with a friend / neighbor of ours who just moved out of Dupont and whose new home was the unfortunate recipient of some vomit from one of his friends while he made sure Sixes and Sevens and I got home okay.

I finally hit the bed at 4 a.m.

Saturday – Day 3 of fuckedupness
The original plan for the day went like this – morning – gym; afternoon – motorcycle show with Sherlock; evening – drinking with FreckledK, Sixes and Sevens and the Fencer – place to be determined.

The day really went like this. I woke up at 2:00 p.m. Texted Sherlock and said I had a hangover. He called and asked if I was going to cancel. I said no that I just needed more time. We agreed he would walk the dogs while I showered. This was the first time I had seen him since I was vomiting my brains out on New Years Day. The time before that was when I threw him out of my house. I was nervous to see him. He got off the elevator and once I saw him, um, well, I texted Sixes and Sevens after to tell her that my undies just got a little wet, and damn him for that.

We metroed to the show, and just as we were pulling up to the Convention center…

I kicked the stool out from under him.

Velvet: So, my friend called me this week and said that she was seeing this weird IP on her blog every hour, and every day there was a different outclick, but always someone we knew. She asked if I could do some research. So I did and came back that I had a match of this girl we know, but thought she was out of town and wasn’t sure why she would be on there all the time. Unfortunately, my friend didn’t have the whole IP. But then she found it, I’m not sure how, and once she gave me that, I was able to figure out who it was. She said she was scared it was her ex-boyfriend, and I said, ‘No honey, actually, it would be my ex-boyfriend.’ So…what the FUCK are you doing? What are you looking for?
Sherlock: Um…
Velvet: What did you learn about boundaries? Nothing obviously.
Sherlock: No, that’s not true.
Velvet: What are you looking for?
Sherlock: Something I didn’t want to find.
Velvet: So, let me get this straight, you are not reading my blog, but you figured that if I fucked someone else I would what – write it as a comment in someone else’s blog? Or that THEY would blog about it? Like people are so pathetic that they have nothing else in their lives than to blog about mine or what I’m writing about on my blog?

The rest of the details are unimportant, we sat outside the show on these couches covering a lot of ground and he agreed that this was the wrong way to go about whatever it was he was doing.

We went into the show, and for reference, TACOMA!, there were no hot men there, so it didn’t matter that I took a boy with me. I looked around the whole place for a pink Choppers hat, but couldn’t find one. Then we left. On the metro, I started to get hot and sweaty and shaky. Damn hangover. The liver wasn’t getting the alcohol out of my body fast enough. I thought I was going to pass out. I considered going home but knew I wouldn’t make it the transfer to metro center or the walk from Sherlock’s metro. We went to his house where I promptly fell on his couch and got under a blanket. We talked about eating Ethiopian food for dinner, but I was too sick. I asked him to go get the dogs from my house and to get my sweatpants too. He did. I canceled my plans with all for the evening and I prepared to exorcise the Friday night demons from my body.

As miserable as I was physically, I just felt so comfortable. This feeling of course, surprised me quite a bit. When he came back with el pupperino’s, they ran in like they were just here the other day. In reality, it has been probably since Thanksgiving since we were all here together.

He came over and sat down next to me. We talked about eating, but I still wasn’t feeling up to it. We ended up talking for a while. He grabbed some slack in my jeans and said, “How much weight did you lose?” I said the “Break-up / stomach virus” was really a boon to my diet. I didn’t expect to lose so much, but I did.

I don’t think I could begin to put into words the conversation that happened from this point. There was a lot of talking, a lot of ground covered, some Ethiopian food, some sleeping, more talking, and while we said a lot to each other, some things really haven’t changed. He knows I’m dating. He’s not dating. The final resolution from me was that I may still love him (more than I realized,) I just don’t like him very much right now. I’m hoping for that to change, but I’m not expecting that it will or not. And the only way I know how to keep my life moving is to keep moving with my life. I told him I was dating. I told him about HandUpTheBack2 and how it disgusted me to have someone else’s hands on me. I told him that the Fencer already found my blog, and proved to be so fucking cool that he must get set up with all my friends who don’t have eating disorders. Sherlock isn’t happy about the place we’re at, but it is better than not talking at all.

I asked him for continued space, and that if this is meant to be, I would come running back to him, as opposed to feeling obligated, forced, or stalked into it.

I finally feel like there were two adults in that room talking on Saturday. Finally.

So, the blogging thing is pretty cool, if only for moments like this. I got a Christmas postcard all the way from Canberra, Australia. Thanks Aussie Em, that was mighty nice of you, especially considering I haven’t yet sent my Christmas cards out. Err. From last year either.

Well, it’s Tuesday night here at Velvet in Dupont and we’re moving right along in “The Year of First Dates.” As I told the Queen of Quantity tonight at the gym, “If he gets a second date, it means someone else doesn’t get a first.”

I went out with the next victim tonight. My first clue something was amiss was the fact that he called last night to firm up plans and left a voicemail. Then he called again within the hour to leave almost exactly the same message over again, with painstaking details about when I could call him and on which phone numbers, until my voicemail cut him off. I wasn’t ignoring him, I left my phone on the charger while taking the doggies for a long walk. When I got home I saw his two missed calls, and he also had sent an email. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense, something about if you see the email first then check the phone, anyway. I got the feeling he’s been stood up a lot, or had a lot of dating foul-ups because he was really on my ass to set up this date. Poor guy.

I spent today driving around Pennsylvania for work and learned why everyone I saw there is so obese. They actually had an 800 lb. butter sculpture in both the shapes of Ben Franklin and the Liberty Bell on display tonight at some fair. In a text exchange with Sixes and Sevens where I relayed this breaking news, she told me to stay and take a picture.

Velvet: I would, but unfortunately I have a date with another stalker-in-training tonight.
Sixes & Sevens: If he follows you home, come to my house instead.
Velvet: Historically I never find out that they are stalkers until it is too late.

So I met the date at Union Station and we journeyed into a restaurant and ate dinner at the bar. Other than our love of the Simpsons, we didn’t have a lot in common. We had a positively riveting conversation about how softshell crabs get soft – are they soft in the ocean or are they somehow treated to become soft. It was my job to google that. He’s another “D.C.” guy – can’t tell me anything about his work because it’s highly classified, and what he did tell me (which I forgot) was allegedly “too much” anyway. Okay. I shall take his word on it.

Anyway, he’s named UncomfortableLaugh3 because, you guessed it, at the end of every sentence he tosses in the uncomfortable laugh as his punctuation, heh heh heh. Even in sentences that are not funny, heh heh heh. They got the laugh, heh heh heh. Nice guy but not my type, heh heh heh. And I just checked my email and he’s sent something about the softshell crabs and asking me out for Saturday heh heh heh. But, the rule applies: If I give him a second date, that’s one less person who gets a first date heh heh heh. Oh, I never know what to say in these uncomfortable situations, heh heh heh. I could delay him for a while, or I could be direct and just say I had a nice time, but I don’t think we’re a match, heh heh heh.

While you’re mulling that over, and preparing to advise me what to do, let’s continue in the vein of uncomfortable emails. However, this time it is an email of the variety I don’t care to answer. HandUpTheBack2, if you recall, had texted as I left the bar Saturday night saying something about “And now?” I didn’t answer, because I was grossed out and I ended up on the phone with Sherlock. HandUpTheBack2 texted again in the morning about did he get a second chance. I didn’t respond to that either. Then he sent an email saying that he guessed we weren’t “on” for that night, and it was too bad because it could have been a lot of fun. I wrote back and said, “I think I would feel differently if you weren’t so affectionate with your hands last night. Good luck to you.” He responded again that he wanted another chance, but I filed him away and grayed out his line on my spreadsheet and moved him to the “DATED” section. Yes. I really have a spreadsheet. It’s a fruitful dating season. I have to do my best in the game, and coming prepared with the stats on the players helps, especially when I have three fucking men with the same fucking name. Fuck!

The Sherlock update is that he texted me on Sunday afternoon when I was napping, and then called and texted again a few hours later. I called him back when I woke up and he said he was in a bar and could he call me back. What I said was, “Sure.” But what I thought was, “Fuck that, you tried to get in touch with me three times, and me calling you is like a commodity these days since I barely do it, and you want to call me back?” So we hung up and I sort of knew this would happen – he walked right outside and called me back. I wondered if he was on a date, or just trying to make me think he was. In any case, he had a question about computers that I answered and we chatted briefly. He said he called earlier because he was hoping he could see me, that he missed me. That’s twice now, because as I went down for my nappy time I thought, “It sure would be nice to have Sherlock here now.” Then I slapped myself several times and punched myself in the face for even thinking it.

I texted Sherlock later that night and said (vaguely) that there was a Motorcycle Show at the convention center this weekend and maybe we could try going to that and see how it goes. He responded and said he would love it. Then I hopped in the shower and by the time I got out I had two texts and an email that he had found the info online and purchased tickets. That is so Sherlock. I’m sure he was thinking, “If I FIND the event online and actually BUY the tickets, she can’t back out.” Not like I can’t give him his $13 back, but still.

Date #4 of the Year of First Dates happens tomorrow night.

So I’m back to my online tricks to force myself out into the dating world. Don’t ask what site(s) because it has been a difficult mess in which to wade. Frankly, UNLIKE LAST TIME, I don’t want someone spying out my profile, right clicking and saving my pictures and emailing them to everyone they know saying, “Hey, this is Velvet.” Fucking psycho. Yeah, I know you did that. Bitch.

Back to me.

Clearly I just care less right now than I have been known to in the past. Let’s start (and end with) the hair. I tied it up for work on Friday. When I took it out of it’s cage at the end of the day, it was a little stringy. My first thought: “Shit, I have a date tonight,” was quickly followed by my second thought: “Who cares.” And, I don’t. See, it is this kind of thinking that is going to get me in trouble. Because I will walk into a date with some stud and I’ll have stringy hair and spinach in my teeth because I didn’t care enough to try. And he will probably find it charming. Then I’ll morph into who I really am and he won’t like me because I’m not the same “real” girl he first met. But if I go looking good and being all charming and witty, then I’ll never get rid of them because odds are that 99% of these guys I won’t want to see again. Ever. See? I’ve got myself set up for anxiety AND failure at the same time. A psychologist’s dream I am. Yes siree.

The first date back out there I wanted to be with someone totally not my type. It was my “practice date.” I haven’t been out with anyone in six months. Anyway, the chap who asked me out first was quite aggressive over email, and I just figured I would use the “oh, my poor broken heart, I guess I’m just not ready to date anyone” line if he tried to pursue things. Then we shared some texts and he was mildly rude in some, accusing me of bailing when I gave NO indication at all that I was waffling. I wasn’t. I needed “Practice Date.” We finally agreed on a time and place, and I texted back and ask if he’s done with work and ready. He replies ten minutes before we’re supposed to meet that he’s still tied up with work. I text back to just let me know when he’s ready. Then? Nothing. Zip. Aah, the magic. The man spent the last 24 hours accusing me of bailing, only to effectively bail. And because I am in the “not caring” mode, I remained unmoved, in sweats, ratty hair in a ponytail, no makeup. I knew he was going to bail all along so I never even got up to get ready. HA! So, that’s for you, shitwipe.

Of course the management lesson here applies, that people are always guilty of what they constantly accuse you. The boyfriend who nags his girlfriend about cheating is usually the one who is screwing around. The old boss I had who was so sure everyone was taking money out of his pocket, was in effect, cheating and stealing from others. The guy who accuses me of bailing – will be the one who bails. I sniffed it out and that’s why I never took off the sweatpants.

Sixes and Sevens tried to convince me to come to Local 16, but I hopped on IM with some Greek guy, then got a call from someone else who wanted to meet for a drink. I know, I’m quick. I ain’t fucking around anymore. It’s the year of first dates. Or something like that. And the naming system this year includes a number at the end. Much easier to keep track. So, on Friday night I met BillGates1, so named for his involvement in computers. He’s been into computers since way way way before many of us hit high school. He knows some pretty big names in the Geek Kingdom, and told me who some of his friends are. He’s started a handful of companies, but finds his work boring to discuss. We had a couple drinks, I chowed some mozzy sticks, and he walked me home. No chemistry, but it was pleasant enough and I agreed to go out with him again. Besides, even if it doesn’t work out, I could use a friend like him. Must surround myself with smart people.

I swear, when I got in my elevator, I jumped up and down, not for the sheer excitedness of the date, but because all I could say to myself was, “I WENT OUT WITH SOMEONE OTHER THAN SHERLOCK!!!”

Saturday, I had an impromptu run-in with the adorable etcetera at the Pet Store. Sammy and Thora barreled into the place and I heard someone say, “Is that Sammy and Thora?” Then we identified each other, by blog name, in front of the clerk. Yeah, we’re geeks. And I feel like Sammy and Thora are famous! Hooray! Now if I can just get them modeling contracts…I’d be the greatest pageant mom evah! Oh but etcetera, I wouldn’t wear the get up I wore to the store, I looked like hell. Ick. Moving right along…

In the evening, after I downloaded some much needed 80’s rock, (Helloooo Billy Squier,) I met FreckledK at um, a bar. I have to stop saying names of bars because then “people” end up showing up there. I convinced another suitor I’m speaking to, via text, to come from his bar to my bar. So, he arrives. And he’s not as cute as I had thought. Oops. Then we had a great conversation and he said, “How forward can I be?” I said, “Go ahead.” He said, “Will you get embarrassed?” I said, “Probably. Text it to me.” So he gets his phone and texts something about um, wanting to lick me all over. Yeah. All righty. I took off for the bathroom, but not before he put his hands all over me. And the slide up the back of the shirt, ugh. Then he tried to kiss me. Code RED Code RED! Gotta pee! Disaster averted. Dude, don’t try that again or you might find my fist in your face. I’m so unprepared for the dating world.

I found Sixes and Sevens humping a man by the bathroom. Awesome. Then we caught up on what we had done since we last saw each other a few hours earlier. I went back to my, um, date, who is now known as HandUpTheBack2, and she took off. When I sat down again, the hands were ALL OVER me and he was saying things about how great I looked and blah blah blah. Don’t men realize when you are recoiling and not into their advances? I said something to him when he acted all weird, “I’m totally not out here looking for sex.” Ugh. I have to say, it all made me sick, then it made me think of Sherlock. Damn him for entering my mind. FreckledK invented an excuse about being tired, which was so lame because he knew we were bailing, and we ran out of there so fast I am now officially embarrassed for my entire gender.

Street Talk
Velvet: What’s today? January 6th? Great. 359 days left in the year and what, at this rate, 240 more dates?
FreckledK: Do you like him?
Velvet: I did until he put his hands on me. Then it made me miss Sherlock. And damn me for saying that. It just felt weird to me, like I was doing something wrong.
FreckledK: I know EXACTLY what you are talking about.

Then. I swear. Ask her if you don’t believe me. Sherlock texted me. Right at that moment. 2 a.m. Said he was just thinking about me. I replied, “Me too.” We talked for a bit, but it was so strained. Mostly because I’m a freak. We have not been speaking a whole hell of a lot these days. I suppose he was drunk. But I brought FreckledK home and returned home to man the email. I need an assistant to help me weed through these men. Though, I’m not being picky, I’m just trying to get “back out there.” So I’ll pretty much go out with anyone who isn’t married or a serial killer. Not that I would even know either of those things until it is too late.

HandUpTheBack2 texted a couple times when I was driving FreckledK home, and then this morning at 9 a.m. (WTF??) to ask if he got a second chance. I didn’t respond, mostly because I didn’t know what to say. He sent an email saying something about being sorry it got so weird, and he was drunk and blah. Whatever. And…out!

I was supposed to have a date tonight, but he just emailed about it getting late or something, and there’s the rain, and my having just woken up from a nap so I’m not feeling charming at all. Several others on deck. I’ll keep you posted. And hopefully this nagging feeling that I’m doing something wrong by dating again will go away.

It’s a New Year. When I did the 2006 recap, and read over the last several months of the year, it was like living it again through different eyes. Toward the end of the summer, I lost my anonymity and had a “too close for comfort” situation of readers on my blog – a convoluted mess of a boyfriend, and some of his past paramours all reading every detail. This was not a comfortable place for me at all, and sadly, I went under password. It didn’t stop one of the people from attempting some underhanded methods to bypass the password, but hey, I guess I’m just that interesting or something. Whatever. So, I came back out from the password after I got everything off my chest, but stopped posting about personal things.

You know what? That was a horrible solution. Not that I can’t try to shoot my mouth off with the best of them, but, I’m not as well rounded and let’s face it, not as smart as some of the best. I can’t hold a candle to the wit and banter you will read from bloggers like Cube, RCR, the Circ, and Jordan Baker. I’m not as aware and appreciative of my surroundings as Barbara and Reya, making myself the worst “witness” anyone would want in a courtroom. (“What color was the bank robber’s shirt Velvet?” “Um, he was wearing a shirt? I don’t know, but I was chewing gum that day!”) My stories are nowhere near as “The Simpsons” style clever like Ninja’s, nor are they the best-all-around of I66’s. And I’m not well versed in all things pop-culture like one KassyK.

Unless I pick a fight with one of the cops, or Sammy and Thora vomit off my balcony, I’m so much more suited to writing about boys and sex, sex and boys, drinking, and pills. Besides, that’s what Velvet in Dupont was created for anyway.

So began my New Year’s conundrum. I wondered seriously if I should just hang this up. I thought about starting another blog, but, the thought of that tires me. I prefer to keep going with this one until it dies. I do like my privacy in many ways, but, I’ve got so many awesome readers and friends that I don’t feel like the blog is over. Then I thought, maybe I can superficially coast through some dating and well, blah. That sucks too. The thing is, Velvet is not done. The idea here was about dating in D.C. And guess what? I’m still fucking dating in D.C. Less so these days than in days past, but still, like erosion, it is a slow and painful process.

So. Fuck it. Let’s get back to it. Original and uncensored, with just enough spared to save some hurt feelings and protect my personal life. Today I’m tired and malnourished and in the mood to do a bit of gut-spilling.

In July I met Sherlock. We all know the disaster. Don’t make me relive it. I just got past my stomach virus and/or food poisoning. But since the password, and since the fall, the rollercoaster continued. All of the details are probably just the same over and over, but the bottom line is that he and I are sometimes on the same page, and sometimes we are not. Like most relationships I would imagine, when we are on the same page, everything is wonderful. And when we are not on the same page, things get really really bad. I mean, really bad. Definition of really bad was me laying in a crumpled ball at my doctor’s office saying, “You have GOT to help me!” And Doctor Hot-but-Gay has his hand on the phone and he’s hit 9-1 and is about to hit that last 1 until you assure him that this isn’t what he thinks.

So somewhere after spending a wonderful Thanksgiving together, and having a great first couple weeks in December, like the front desk at the Hyatt, I just checked right back out again. I think I’ve become so conditioned to this fucked up dating style we have here in D.C. that I now think if someone wants to see me twice inside a week then something just must be wrong with them. Okay, I’m being a bit facetious, but that’s just an example of how Sherlock and I would end up on opposite pages. The usual drill was him wanting more of my time, and my pulling back in response. When his plans suddenly changed and he was going to be in town after a planned weekend out of town, he was quite pissed that I didn’t drop my plans. I am just not the girl who fucking bails on all her friends because her boyfriend is back in town. Granted, a lot of you all do it to me. A lot of you. But I do not do it back. I do not click over to talk to a boy if I’m talking to you. I do not hang up on you if he calls. And I don’t make excuses about that. Maybe it makes me a shitty girlfriend, but, that is who I am.

After several heated exchanges, we had a less than amicable parting of the ways.

Then I realized after some things both he and I said during that conversation, that it wasn’t just so easy to walk away. I don’t then, and still don’t now think that the blame for a lot of what went wrong resides with me, but I certainly didn’t help matters.

If someone has a weakness, and you know they have this weakness, and you don’t do all that you can in your power to discourage them away from said weakness, are you somehow partially responsible for what happens?

Sure, you can argue that both parties are adults and adults make their own decisions and have to stand up for those decisions. I would agree. But I also wouldn’t walk into a room of meth addicts and start chopping, cutting, lining and snorting like a hibachi chef going for the Onion Volcano.

So, here we were, having some final, tidying up conversations. Me telling him things I think he needed to know. Him asking questions and doing the same with me. Then, as is typical for members of my family, I just shut down. I was talking and contributing and emailing and even had a phone chat or two to help iron some things out, but I kept it very business, and once it turned into a “How was your day dear” conversation, I dove off the phone, or didn’t respond to that part of the email. Then I stopped responding entirely. At least to him.

What I did respond to were so many other vices in my life. And I spent several weeks doing things to my body that oh, hurt so much and haven’t been done in ages.   When I woke up the other night with the dreaded food poisoning thing, I thought, “Here we go, this is where I finally end up in the ER for what I’ve done. And I don’t even have an emergency contact!” Shit. I should have been so lucky after what I went through for the next 48 hours.

So after several weeks of not talking to Sherlock, refusing all forms of contact even going so far as to fight with a delivery person who just wanted to deliver flowers to me on Christmas Eve so he could go home to his family and not listen to some crazy lady say, “TAKE THESE BACK AND CALL THE FUCKER WHO SENT THEM AND TELL HIM THEY WERE REFUSED,” we ended up meeting again in the strangest of ways.

Well. Not really.

Twenty minutes after I posted my death virus post Monday night and asked for someone to walk Sammy and Thora, guess who was at my door, promising no drama, buying gatorade, putting everything in my kitchen, shaking his head at the dying flowers, and walking the dogs. Yeah. If he was as mean to me as I have been to him, I would have let his dogs rot in hell.

He called to see how I was feeling last night and I was a bitch. Then I realized that I had NO REASON and was totally out of line. I apologized via text and he called. We ended up on the phone half the night. It was a good conversation. For three hours.

I don’t know what to say anymore. We are not on the same page right now. There is a lot that has happened between us to cause a lot of hurt. Hurt that I’m not sure I can recover from. This time though, I’m not going to stand idly around with my thumb up my ass. He isn’t in the picture right now, but he’s not completely out of it either. *Shrug*

With that, I’m back in the ring. And this time I’m up to something hilarious that I hope will yield some funny ass stories again. It was getting a little stale around here. So, I’m opening the window. Letting a little fresh air in. Let’s go.

I just about had all the tainted food cleared from my system when I received an email that made me throw up again.

If anyone recalls the hellacious 4 part series on “OldBuilder,” great. If not, I’ll just give you the very brief synopsis. Opie is a misogynistic, sexually harassing asshole whose hatred of me turned an entire company upside down.

Now, the email:

Just a quick note to say Happy New Year!

I hope 2007 brings you much fulfillment & success.

With Warmest Regards,

Opie

(301) 793-XXXX

Damn. Is he kidding? I have to go hurl now. I forwarded to my boss and said, “I should write back and say, ‘Look, we both know we hate each other. You can take me out of your address book now.'”

Happy New Year to you too Opie. Maybe this is the year you get and keep a job. In other “OldBuilder” news – the Weasel was fired from his next job as well. Awesome.

All together now, People ALWAYS get what they deserve.

I am sick.

I am sicker than I have been in a long time due to Food Poisoning. I feel like I am going to die. Not a good way to start off this year. Be right back. Gotta hit the bathroom.

Last night I woke up at 4 a.m. and ran to the bathroom. Ever have such a vile thing in your body that you don’t know which end it will come out first? Yeah. I sat there holding the trash can sitting on the porcelin bus, screaming for my life. Be right back, bathroom again.

So back to last night. I don’t know how, but I passed out. In the bathroom. I got hot and cold and then cold sweats, and fell and hit my head on the wall. When I woke up I could not get myself off the floor. I’m so hot. Who wouldn’t want to date me? Be right back, going to the bathroom again.

Anyway, at what point do I need to go to the ER? I am much more comfortable in my house with my own vomit and candle filled bathroom than I would be in the ER going to the bathroom in a smock. Sit tight. Going to hit the potty again.

This afternoon I vomited like the exorcist and yes, I recognized the culprit of what made me sick. Interestingly enough, it was a meal PRIOR to the last one I ate. How does that happen? Does the stomach say, “Okay, you, cheese and crackers, you are allowed by, but you butternut squash ravvies, you are staying here while we check your paperwork. Nope, sorry, you are on the do-not-fly list. Get out.” Fortunately I was awake so I didn’t choke on my own vomit a la John Bonham. Speaking of, must go vomit. Be right back.

A couple months ago, I wanted to lose like 8 lbs. so I did the ever effective South Beach Diet. I was quite happy with my weight loss. Then I had some personal traumas and lost more weight without even trying. I was at what I thought was my bottom, which was less than I wanted, but still okay. I was back to my college weight. Fine. No biggie, but all my pants keep falling off. Now with this inability to keep any food in my body, I’m unwillingly on my way to sharing a room with Nicole Richie in anorexia rehab. Fucking sucks.

Shit. Where did my boobs go? God damned it.

If anyone wants to walk Sammy and Thora (seriously) please call me.