Damn it. It was my Resolution to post more this year. Obviously I’m the suckage at that.

It’s been another two months of crazy. I’m trying to get a business off the ground, my dad was sick, my uncle died, I had to get rid of Speedracer and bought another, still unnamed vehicle that the fucking dealership cannot provide the title for - so I sit in limbo-non-registered land, X and I have been to California and back, as well as hell and back, I got strep throat, three colds and am on my second round of antibiotics, well, third if you count that monster antibiotic shot they gave me in the ass, and finally, X and I got engaged. Four times.

Yes. You read that right. Four times. We had a bit of difficulty pulling it off correctly.

The first time, X sort of hands me the ring but doesn’t say a whole lot. As I said to him, “I don’t need a skywriter, but you know, you have to ask the question.” He said he would do it over.

I waited patiently for several weeks, then months, and finally I started asking. “When am I getting the ring back? X? When am I getting the ring back? Do you still have it? Did you return it? No? Oh. Well when am I getting the ring back?” He finally said, “I planned on giving it to you last week when we were walking along the beach with the dogs.”

Me: Oh? Well, it was deserted out there. That would have been the perfect time. You know I love the beach. What stopped you?
X: Well, I was about to. Remember when I was pulling the shells out of my pocket?
Me: Yeah?
X: Well I was about to pull out the ring but then, “HELLO?” (at this point X imitated me on the phone, using the universally known  “hand-as-telephone symbol” to indicate that yours truly had taken a call.)
Me: So I was only on the phone a couple minutes, couldn’t you have tried again?
X: Well, yes, except that do you remember when Thora took a dump and you picked it up and carried the poop bag with you because there was no garbage can?
Me: Yes?
X: And I kept telling you to get rid of the poop? Well that was because I wanted to give you the ring. But I wasn’t about to propose with you holding a bag of dog shit in your other hand.
Me: Okay. Well. I want it back.

I sort of thought X would wait until we were out at the beach again since that’s pretty much our sanctuary. But we went to dinner last week at our favorite restaurant and suddenly I was like a freaking bloodhound. I said, “Do you have the ring in your pocket?” He said no. I started to claw at his pockets and he told me that he didn’t have it with him. Then he said I looked sad. I said I wasn’t so much sad as I was upset that I was wrong about this. I just had the feeling that he had the ring. He said, “Let me show you what I have in my pockets.”

Out came the the ring. And the question.

I wish I could say that we were graceful about it, but truth be told, it wouldn’t be X and I if it wasn’t fumbled, awkward and had a “do over” called a few times.

X was talking to his “birth brother” (the one we haven’t met yet) as I guess you would call him, on the phone during the throes of Engagement-Gate-2010.  X told him after the first engagement that went awry that he had to propose again and X’s brother said, “Oh? You too?” Apparently he too screwed up his proposal to his girlfriend.

Damn, it’s like, in his blood or something.

And ladies and gentlemen? This is officially no longer a dating blog! Yay!

It’s been a very busy few months. Life’s getting away from me. I think. Maybe it’s not. I suppose I’m in full control, just busy. Let’s see…

We found X’s birth dad. Dead. Very sad. Very upsetting. Though, when we finally got a name from his birth mom, and googled the name, we found an obituary for him with a picture. It was like looking into a mirror 25 years from now. X contacted his half-brother, and they’ve been in contact pretty regularly and we have it on the list to meet up with him. He said he didn’t really believe X until he saw a picture on X’s company website, and he had to sit down he was so stunned. X had a half-sister who has died, but her daughter said the same thing, looking at a picture of X so reminded her of her mother that she cried.

I’ve been fully entrenched in my “new-ish” career. I decided to stop working for the man, and got my real estate license. It’s very exciting to wake up every day and go to work for yourself. I’m quite pleased with my progress. X said I really packed a lot of shit into the last 2 months of the year. Took the class, took the test, got the license, signed an Independent Contractor Agreement and I’m cooking with gas.

This of course, will destroy my internet anonymity, as my picture will be slapped all over the web. I’m not exactly happy about this, but, as I look back on all my years of “Velvet,” I think, “Well, I told the truth.” The blog is more of a testament to a period of time spent in D.C. than any reflection on me personally. At least, I like to think so. Okay, maybe sometimes I was an asshole. But I was a funny asshole!

I finally woke up one morning with the idea of what I could actually pen into a book. It will probably never happen, but I did get an outline on paper. Truth be told, I think the idea I have would be mostly unique, but I’m not sure it will ever see the light of day as a manuscript because I don’t have the time to dedicate, unfortunately.

I have had a long long long personal “to do” list, not the least of which was to finalize all my immunizations. For reasons I will never fucking understand, most of the doctors I called don’t have the vaccines I needed - Chicken Pox? Really? Anyway…I had to fold and go to the D.C. Department of Health.

Let me tell you that today was the 4th time I had been there and it was a nightmare each and every time. If I could have gotten these shots anywhere else, I would have. But I was sort of stuck. I got there so early that I was 3rd in line, thankfully. And just as they were giving me my shot and updated records, the receptionist came into the waiting lounge and said someone had taken a shit out in the hall and she needed “maintenance” and “some air freshener.” I looked at the kid next to me and said, “Good luck. Hold your breath. I’m running through there now!”

Have you ever walked into a room where an adult just took a shit on the floor? No? Do you wonder what people’s reaction would be? Let me tell you -  they all pretty much looked like someone just took a shit on the floor next to them. Because the D.C. Department of Health is so jam-packed, there wasn’t much room to spread out.

For work, I need a new car. The two seater Speedracer won’t cut it. I sort of have that Patty Hearst syndrome with my car. It’s had so many fuck ups that I sort of feel attached to it. But I get it, a two seater doesn’t lend itself well to a life with two dogs, kids and a man who hates the car, as well as shuttling clients around.

So tonight we went to check out this BMW I spied online. And after I finished the test drive, I was backing it up into the spot from which it came, when I smashed into another BMW.

Fucking. Oops.

Nothing changes around here. Typical God Damned Velvet.

When I was in high school, I had an exceptionally lame midnight curfew. My parents really liked my boyfriend though, so they said he could come in and watch TV, but we had to be in by 12. Fine by me because this also meant we didn’t have to squeeze our loving into some cliche high school backseat of the GTO romp when it was 4 degrees outside. We could do it on the nice warm couch at my mom’s house.

She didn’t love that by the way. We had several near misses and several of her Catholic-like sobbing breakdowns before I finally got “the talk” and was instructed I couldn’t have sex in her house. Or something like that. I don’t know because I wasn’t really listening. I was plotting how to get craftier at actually having sex, and spent the rest of that relationship trying to avoid getting caught.

All the boyfriends who came and went after that and my mom never let any of them come into the house or, gasp, sleep over. Until X. We went up to Gloom and Doom’s house this past summer and they let us sleep - not only in my childhood room, in an upgraded (read: non-twin) bed, but together. I still wouldn’t let X touch me. At 36, those 17 year old days were still haunting me. The worst thing ever was to get caught having sex by one or both of my parents.

Friday night I went to X’s house and we went out to eat with Number 1 and Number 2. They were in their usual rare form, and camped out on the couch to play video games when we got home. So X and I, who had been having text-foreplay for most of the week, ran upstairs to do some work on my old desktop computer and fool around. We ended up ripping our clothes off and jumping into bed, but not  before Sammy wanted out and Thora wanted in and with the door opening and closing and dogs going in and out, we finally got down to business.

When it was all said and come (heh) I got up to see if Sammy was pacing outside the door waiting to be let back in. He wasn’t, so I crawled back into bed. X was like, “Did you lock the door?” I said, “No, I’m going to get up again in a second and call Sammy because I’m sure he’ll want to get back in.” The heat was roasting us like smores so we had all the covers off. Then I heard a scratch at the door and figured it was Sammy.

It wasn’t.

Number 1 busts the door open, says, “Hi. Um. Bye.” And takes off. Uh….

So, in case anyone is doing any math right now, I spent exactly 36 years and 3 months trying to avoid getting caught by my mom having sex until she finally decided to stop caring, now at 36 years and 9 months, I’m back to getting caught. By a 15 year old. Damn it. Six months is way too short a window.

The reason for Number 1 coming to the door was because Number 2, true to form, hit his head on something. X went up there to see how he was and give him some ice and he said, “Don’t touch me! Number 1 told me what you were doing! Wash your hands!”

When we were out on Saturday night, I said something to X like, “Where are we sleeping tonight?” And Number 1 made the air quotes and said, “sleeping” under his breath. Damn it to hell! Maybe he just wants to call my mom so they can listen in on my phone calls, and read my diary.

Thursday morning X and I arose with that anticipation I just can’t begin to describe. I knew he was nervous but he wouldn’t admit it. Shit, I was nervous. We pulled out the directions and began our drive west. I kept wondering what made us think this was a good idea - to go to a house with his birth mother (who we never met) and all his relatives (who we also never met) and spend Thanksgiving there, but whatever. I’d like to say here that X and I don’t really do anything half-assed, that we think everything out in full detail, but that would be a colossal lie.

(Note to X who is thinking, “What is she talking about? We don’t do anything half-assed!” Okay X. Think about all the conversations we have where you end them by saying, “Well, we’ll figure it out.” Honey. We NEVER figure it out. We just fly by the seat of our pants. Oh! Pants! Reminds me! Back to my story!)

So we’re driving out to the house and the directions just keep going. Turn on this road. Go 30 miles. Turn on this road. Go 10 miles. Turn on this road. Go north 2 miles. Turn on this. Another 35 miles. I think the piece of shit GPS is napping. It’s tired. And it likes to give very bad directions by the way. (”Turn left! Get in left lane! Oh, you’re in left lane? Kidding! Get back out there! You need to keep going straight! Fooled you! Dumbass!”)

As we get within 15 minutes of the house I had a sudden urge to chop and snort all my Klonopin. But I resisted. I did, however, desperately need a Diet Pepsi. We stopped at 7-11.

X and I went inside and I went to the bathroom. I came out, poured my soda, paid and we left. As we were putting on our seatbelts, X said, “So, what would be the worst thing to happen to me 10 minutes before pulling up to my birth mother’s house?”

“Um. I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Well, I somehow managed to get the after-pee leakage on my jeans.”

“OH MY GOD OHMYFUCKING GOD NO NO NO! ARE YOU KIDDING?”

I looked at X’s crotch.

X said, rather calmly, “Well. No. I’m not kidding. So I tried to dry them under the dryer in the bathroom but then someone came in and it just looked like I was trying to fuck the dryer hole, so I left.”

“This wouldn’t happen to you if you learned how to wear underwear! Now what? You’ve waited all these years and we have to drive in circles waiting for your jeans to dry?”

People, I wish I was kidding, but no, I’m not. This is me and the love of my life. Half assed and wet crotched until the end.

This time I took a picture…

In all seriousness, when we pulled up to the house, I was just so proud of X - so proud he did this. Ok, must stop gushing because he’ll be grossed out and embarrassed by my gushing.

Anyway, I don’t think that the visit could have gone any better. Without going too far into any detail - they all knew about him, and they have all been looking for him for a while. But they were missing a key piece of information that X had - the name of the agency where he was placed. For a bunch of reasons, that information was never divulged to his birth mother because she went through a third party. So she didn’t know, and no one knew, and there you have it. They searched for him on the internet and didn’t get very far. Until now.

And so X has a whole family now, the bonus of which might I add? THEY’RE NOT GREEK! Oh my god, he’s out of the cult and he left me here alone!

His pants finally dried, by the way.

I’m not sure which planets have aligned to allow the following to happen, but it is still a shocker.

You may recall our near miss in Delaware, where we almost latched on to some drunk in a Karaoke bar, sure she was X’s birth mother. Well, one of us was sure. X has found her. The contact he attempted through the agency finally reached his birth mother.

Guesssss where we’re going for Thanksgiving????????????? EEEEEE!!! Soooo exciting!

Have a happy Turkey Day everyone. I’ll be manning the video camera, trying not to cry, and making sure no one sneaks any bacon in my mouth as I’ll likely be the only vegetarian at Thanksgiving dinner in the country this Thursday.

In other news, I’m pushing my little “I’ll never work for anyone but myself again” plan into action. X mentioned something this weekend about how I need to come up with my company name so he can get my paperwork ready to file as a Small Business or something.

X: What are you thinking?
V: Something with Sammy and Thora’s name in it.
X: Are you serious?
V: Why? Would that be bad?
X: Uh. Yeah. You want people to take you serious.
V: But I love Sammy and Thora.
X: Jesus Christ. What am I getting myself into?

I really thought that with being laid off I would have a lot more time on my hands to do the things I love - sleep, write, run, see X. Unfortunately, none of those dreams have come to fruition.

My knee is all jacked up so there’s no running in my near future. Crap. And I’ve been somehow so busy that there’s barely any time for the other stuff. Though I am paving my way for my future. At least I think I am. I thought at first that I just wanted to be happy and to make enough money to get by. Then I smartened up and realized that would be stupid. I have achieved a lot, and still have a way to go, and it would have been stupid for me to stay at the Vortex or another place just like it just to crank out a paycheck. I am capable of so much more.

I sent my resume out to four recruiters the first few days after being laid off and three of them called me in for interviews. I know. Yay! Here’s how that went.

Recruiter #1: Asked me “So, how did you like the corporate culture at the Vortex?” Not, “What did you like about your last job” or “What are you looking for in a new job,” but a question about the “Corporate Culture?” Interesting. My first reaction was to bust out laughing. My second reaction was to put my finger up as if to say “hold on,” and then laugh some more. I asked her why she was asking because let’s face it, no one asks you about a fucking corporate culture unless they know that it’s a dysfunctional corporate culture. She then launched into a dissertation about how they as recruiters have sent 15 people to interview there over the last year and how all the candidates came back going, “What the fuck kind of place is that???” The one person who actually took the job ended up leaving within a few weeks. I said, “Oh yea! I heard about her!”

Recruiters Number 2 AND 3: Asked me to come work for them. As a recruiter. Both of them shockingly had the same reasoning for this offer of employment. They said my background was unique but ran the gamut of the real estate industry and as such I would be able to effectively find both clients and candidates and match them up, resulting in commissions extraordinaire. I cannot say that I didn’t internally swoon at their praises and that it didn’t validate the last 15 years of my calculated career choices because it did.

While these offers were flattering, and one I thought of entertaining seriously, I just don’t know. I’m old enough now to know what I’m good at, and what my limitations are. I’m not sure if switching into a different field makes a lot of sense for me. Or anyone at my point in life and career. I’m not sure if having a job whose sole purpose is to find other people jobs would make me happy. I like building things.  Sigh.

I had to convey this in logical terms to my parents, who felt that (yet again) I should abandon my dreams in lieu of the guaranteed paycheck. They used that disapproving, “Well, you should consider all your options.” I said, “I have considered them, and I have learned one very important thing. Except for X, all the people I have worked for have been stupider than I am. This means, I’m missing the mark. If I’m smarter than most of the people who have signed my paycheck in the last 15 years, then I have a huge opportunity. I just need to make it happen.

So I’m off pedaling my tricycle on a related path in real estate, hoping it pays off. I believe I’m off to a great start. And part of my plan involves one day working with X again. We’ll see.

Oh. In case anyone was wondering exactly how stupid the Vortex really is, let me tell you what they did to me with my severance.

They were “so proud” to be able to offer me this severance package that was “way beyond” what anyone has ever received, and was apparently supposed to be something my boss had to fight for. Admirable, right? Sarcasm sarcasm.

So when they wrote out my contract, I realized they made a mistake in my favor. I signed it, sent it back and asked them to sign it and send it back to me. I figured they would catch the mistake. They didn’t. They cut the check for the same amount in the contract.

They somehow managed to give me twice as much as they told me they were giving me. Dumbasses. I literally laughed ALL THE WAY TO THE BANK!

Well, I really did it this time. I made that bacon cake and had a little party for Thora with a couple of her little neighborhood doggie friends.  I haven’t managed to keep a goldfish, hamster or chinchilla alive anywhere near their expected lifespan. So this? Thora’s 10th Birthday? This is a big deal.

Last year I bought her a cake from one of those fancy dog places. Twenty bucks down the garbage chute. She hated it. I couldn’t even carve into it. I think they tried to pass off a week-old cake on me. It was gross. Even Sammy wouldn’t eat it, and that is rare. Sammy has never met a morsel of food that he didn’t like.

This year I wanted to make her a cake. I googled and found recipes, but this one sounded the best:

Bacon Chicken Layer Cake

3 cups flour
1 T Baking Powder
1/2 cup Margarine
6 eggs
1/2 cup corn oil
2 jars strained chicken baby food
2 cups shredded carrots (I didn’t use these)
plain or vanilla yogurt (I used cream cheese)
2-3 strips Bacon fried crisp (I used the whole package, 14 strips)

Mix everything together except the yogurt/cream cheese and bacon, beat for 2 minutes, put in two 8 inch rounds and bake at 325 for 60 minutes.

When the cake cools, frost it with the yogurt or cream cheese, and layer bacon in between the tiers. Yum yum.

The dogs, by the way, will look like this during this step:

Then you put the top part on to the bacon and cream cheesed part and frost the rest. Then you can have some fun with it.

I used Puperoni sticks for candles. But obviously I didn’t light them.

When we unveiled the cake, X said I should just put it in front of her. So I did. She went for the Puperoni stick first.  Then she went after the “T” in Thora. Ted helped.

The other dogs, my Sammy and Ester’s Dudley, were both rapt with their marrow bones, and didn’t realize “cake-gate 2009″ was happening just a few steps from them.

So we cut some pieces off for Sammy and Dudley and let them share in the cake goodness. X’s human kids, Number 1 and Number 2 thought they were going to get to try the Bacon Cake. But they renegged when they heard “baby food” as an ingredient.

After her plate of meat and her bacon cake, and her new presents, Thora was sufficiently pooped. Too tired to move. Poor baby.

Happy Birthday my little Princess!

In other dog news: Homeward Bound is doing another adoption at PetSmart this week in Potomac Yard. Today from 3-6, Saturday 10-6 and Sunday 10-5. Come rescue a dog instead of going to a breeder! Mutts and strays need love too!

Details here!

Being a lady of leisure is very fun.  In between receiving a plethora of phone calls from my now ex-place of employment telling me how miserable it is and how everything is exploding, I’ve been planning a 10th birthday party for Thora. Yes, my little angel turns 10 tomorrow!

I cannot wait to picture blog for you the party prep, and the actual party. I really cannot wait. There’s a Bacon Cake. But, that has to wait. I have something else to address.

Did you see that phrase above about “ex-place of employment” and “explosion?” Yeah. That. Hee hee hee. I actually cannot believe in one week how horrible it seems to have gotten over there. And the phone calls are coming from people who I didn’t even really talk to before - at least not outside work, or even about work, so clearly something is wrong. Well, something was always wrong, it’s just clearer (and funnier) from this vantage point.

A co-worker and good friend of mine, JetSet, had already given her notice prior to my getting laid off.  JetSet has kept in very close touch with me to tell me what’s been going on. Another co-worker who I had grown very close to, called me in secret from work to tell me what’s been going on. A girl from Accounting told me I was the only “real” person there and she has been texting to tell me what’s been going on. Another person called me last night to tell me their version. And lest you think that’s all, JetSet’s boss called me tonight to tell me what’s going on.

So, what’s going on?

Betty Ford and Napoleon dually run my now-ex-division. “Run” is debatable. Apparently on Friday (and Saturday!) so much mail arrived that the way it was described to me, I can only imagine it rivaled what Santa receives at the North Pole. Everyone (everyone includes Betty and Nap) had to stop what they were doing to “open mail.” All the elves opening the mail. The image of Betty and Nap as Santa and Mrs. Claus with letter openers in their hands? L.O.L. Seriously.

JetSet has been having major passive aggressive drama with her boss - hence the reason for her quitting. JetSet and her boss ended up in a closed door meeting and Betty Ford got called in because she’s at the top of the booze train food chain.

JetSet’s boss called to tell me her side of that drama, and told me about her exchange with Betty Ford, once my boss and still hers.

Betty accused JetSet’s boss of “not being happy.” I said, “OH NO! Those are the words of DEATH! You just got the hangman card! You better start looking!” She then basically told me about an exchange with Betty Ford that mirrored my own conversation with her three weeks ago from tonight and look where that got me. I expressed my desire to do “more,” mentioned a couple pieces of information and she said “not to worry about it, and she would fix it.” Yeah. She fixed it all right. That story ends with me on the Virginia Unemployment Line with all the Day Laborers.

So JetSet’s boss says that she told Betty Ford “of course I’m not happy. My husband just got laid off and I don’t know how I’m going to pay the mortgage next month!” And Betty Ford replies…wait. This one needs its own paragraph.

Betty Ford says, “JetSet’s Boss. We are all under a lot of personal stress. Your husband lost his job. Analyst lost her Mom yesterday. I don’t have hot water at my house. But we all have personal things to overcome to get our jobs done.”

JetSet’s boss was like, “Did she really just put her not having hot water in the same classification as my husband losing his job and us possibly losing our house and Analyst’s mom dying? Really?”

I said, “Dude. Get out of there. The writing is on the wall now. They don’t care about anyone but themselves.”

I couldn’t help myself. I called JetSet. When her boss left (and was probably on the phone with me) Betty Ford put all her cards on the table. Betty said to JetSet that “no one likes working with JetSet’s boss and no one wants to talk to her and it’s going to change.” Wow. A VP saying that? Seems unprofessio…wait.  I take that back. I forgot that this is the same woman I’m discussing who ran from her office to mine screaming that if a certain employee didn’t get a report to moi, that he would be “FUCKING FIRED.” She said this while stomping and passing by, oh, about a dozen people.

I forgot that this is the woman who showed up at a meeting with a large account very late, and reeking of whiskey.

I forgot that this is the woman who left that meeting and went to another, with our largest client, and intoxicated everyone in the next meeting (and in the next building) because of aforementioned whiskey smell.

When I mentioned this to someone at work, she said, “Yeah, they used to track Betty’s time because she always arrived to work late with some story about traffic. But she wouldn’t get here until 11 or 12, and so I know they were watching her for a long time but I’m not sure if they still are.”

What galls me is, she’s one of several high level employees there who obviously have a “problem.” One VP is so hopped up on pills that he only comes in one or two days a week, usually around 4 p.m., and barely makes any sense. Employment history? 21 years with the Vortex.

Another VP has come in, gone into her office, and passed out drunk at her desk at 9 a.m., so stone drunk that she didn’t hear the people banging on her door asking if she was okay. She was sleeping.

How is it that they justify keeping these gutter rats, but yet, someone like me, who held it all together is eliminated because they can’t afford the salary? In my opinion, they can’t not afford the salary. But whatever. It’s all entertainment now.

Interview Question for Next Potential Employer:

How many people here show up drunk for work?

I hated it from day one.

And today was day, um, I don’t know 600?

The day I got laid off. Ha! Top that!

True story.

Phone Call to X, today, 1:14 p.m.
X: Yellllllo?
V: Baby! What’s the best thing that could happen to me?
X: We got married.
V: NO!
X: You’re pregnant!
V: NO! Come on! A little less about “you” and a little more about “me!”
X: Napoleon got fired.
V: No….
X: Betty Ford got fired.
V: No…..
X: I don’t know.
V: Think more globally.
X: Um….

[answer after the next call]

Phone Call to Lily, in the Maternity Ward, 1:17 p.m.
V: Lily, what’s the best thing that could happen?
Lily: Bipolar Betty got fired.
V: No.
Lily: Well, that’s the best thing that could happen to me!
V: Come on! Why is no one getting this?

OUR OFFICE CAUGHT ON FIRE TODAY! BWAH HAHAHAHAHAHA!

Unfortunately, the public servants of the ‘burbs are markedly more responsive than those of the District, and the fire was squelched before it got to my floor.  When I heard those alarms go off though, mama was out the door with all her goods in under 2 minutes. The only thing I left behind that was personal were two pairs of 6 year old Nine West boots.

See? It pays to clean out your desk!

Tomorrow’s task: fill all office fire extinguishers with kerosene.