Month: April 2006

Sure, I’ll come out for a drink with you all!” Famous last words.

I’m back bitches. When I hit the ground at Dulles and turned on my phone, I had a text message from the Queen of Quantity. “Are you home yet? We’re going out tonight.” I texted back that I was on the runway. She called. I said, “Hell fucking yeah I’m going out tonight.” That was exactly the person I needed to talk to. And there you have it. Several tidbits first, however.

Home. I was incredibly happy to see my dogs. Damn I love those little shits. I was also incredibly happy to have dinner with a friend. Thanks for that, by the way. You know who you are, wink wink.

So, it was a good trip. I got the work stuff accomplished and I realized that I have a true love for Phoenix. So, while the market isn’t right at this point, I’m diving in to buy something in Phoenix when the market stabilizes. Too bad I didn’t think of this when I lived there before. Oh yeah, I didn’t have any money when I lived there before. And I probably would have bought it jointly with my ex. Gamoti. Just the thought of that gives me the shakes. That’s the phonetic spelling of Greek profanity by the way.

Sad to report that my heart still aches. This will probably take longer to get through than I thought. Do they make a pill for this? What I’ve learned is the next time I feel panic-ridden I need to check out sooner, before I say things to people I don’t mean to say.

I’ve been getting a lot of emails from you all on recent subject matters. I can’t thank you enough for this. I seem to get as many or more emails than comments, and in this case, having these conversations off line was much better. So thanks.

Ok. Let’s get to it. I met up with The Queen of Quantity and Esther, as she asked to be named, and others at Cafe Citron around 10:00. Ha! It’s still 7:00 for me, if I’m still on Arizona time. I really push the envelope with that time difference by the way. So, I arrive, they have a table already and a bar tab rolling. For someone who woke up in Arizona yesterday, it was a night of massive, incredible drinking. Seriously, I don’t know why I say the words, “Sure, I’ll have a drink with you all” when that basically means, “I’ll get annihilated and stumble home at 2:45 a.m.” That shit still makes me laugh because I really do mean “one drink” when I say “one drink.”

The bar was a sea of EuroTrash. Sad but true. We almost got in a fight. One of our crew is getting married next week, and another in the group who knows the owner of Cafe Citron or something, had reserved a special table. Some girl jumped on it and started dancing and wouldn’t leave. Fight brewing, the girls at the table next to us said, “We got your back. Take that bitch and her stupid friend.” Holy moly. I’m too old for fighting, I might break a hip, but I’d do it in a heartbeat if I had to. The girls, outnumbered, finally left our table.

Now. The truth. Brace yourself.

When Velvet gets incredibly drunk, she fantasizes that she could really pull off life as a stripper. I have my lineup of stripper songs ready to go. And I’d be a damn fucking good one too. Very drunk. Dancing on a table on Cafe Citron. (They told us to!) And, yes, off come the clothes. Damn you Bombay Sapphire. That’s your fault.

Now, I don’t need an audience for this event. In fact, I don’t need anyone. I’m a one man, er, woman show. But, yes, I was approached. Several times. Aggressively. Seems that something about watching a woman rip off her clothes and a man is convinced he must have her. Ok. I’ll play.

First victim. All over me. Country of origin: Venezuela. Asked for my name. I replied: Renee. Yeah. That ain’t my name. Would NOT leave me alone. When I tried to get away from him, he put his hand, yes, his whole hand, down the back of my jeans and yanked me back to him through the crowd. Several times. I couldn’t get rid of him and he kept coming back to harass. He was acting like a jealous boyfriend and I’ve had that already in the form of one crazy named in prior posts as “The Cop.” I finally had to tell him to get the fuck off me. Let’s say that he wasn’t pleased. I could envision his last girfriend cowering in the corner as he beat the shit out of her for buying a skirt with a hem above the knee. Exit stage left, stat!

Second victim: Tried to get me to jump off the table into his arms. Country of origin: Brazil. Asked for my name. I replied: Diane. That ain’t my name either. Saved me, briefly from Victim Number One’s advances.

Third victim: Grabbed my hand as I was trying to go to the bathroom. This one was actually a few inches taller than me, as opposed to the others. Country of Origin: Afghanistan. Asked my name. I replied something incomprehensible like the teacher on Charlie Brown, just to see if he would ask me to repeat it. Nope. That mofo nodded like he heard what I said.

At the end of the night, our engaged and about-to-be-married-any-minute-now friend lost one of her shoes. Who loses one shoe? It was truly hilarious. But she went to look for the missing shoe and when she didn’t return in a timely manner, I went to look for her. As I wrestled through the crowd, there were hands grabbing me all over. I finally took one hand, dangerously close to my breast, and threw it back at the body it was attached to. Are these guys fucking kidding me? Do they seriously think this shit works? Let me give you a hint. Lose the attitude and the groping technique and try this again by just saying, “Hi.”

Someone ended up giving our friend a pair of shoes. Again, I ask: Who comes to a bar with a spare pair of shoes? Out of the smoke and standing on the sidewalk, Esther says, “HELLO! GIRLS!!! I was sending the smoke signals all night to be rescued and no one helped!!” To which everyone responded, “SHIT! I WAS WAITING TO BE RESCUED MYSELF.”

I don’t think I need to go back there again. But ladies, dinner friend included, thanks for yanking me out last night and being friends. Y’all are awesome. Completely awesome.

It’s like a marathon of convo mode. Well. It works best. This one is a phone call.

My friend HandyMandy in Phoenix: Hey, what are you doing?
Velvet: Walking to my boat, I mean rental car to pick up some peeps and go to dinner.
HandyMandy: Damn, I wanted you to come out with us.
Velvet: We’re just going to dinner. They are 80, and they were out until midnight last night. I doubt they want to do more than just eat and come back.
HandyMandy: Want to go to a country bar?
Velvet (As CMT.com blares on my laptop back in my room): Do I? Hells the fuck yeah!
HandyMandy: Ok, Call me at 9:00. But here’s what you’re gonna do….Take 51 South to I 10 East toward Tucson. Exit at Elliot Road. Turn left on Elliot and Right on Priest. You will be going to a place called Graham Central. We’ll be in there. (Sidebar: Did I hear Gram Central? Shit. Velvet doesn’t need to be in a place like this when we’re so close to Mexico. I’ll end up arrested for sure.)

Before she hung up, she told me it was a “huge bar.” According to this link…I see that.

So, hmm. Making my way across I 10. I see my exit and steer the giant American made boat I’m driving across the road. So not used to this car. Speedracer would have gotten me here sooner.

I park and get out of the car. Holy fucking cowboys Batman. Jesus Christ. All I can see is a sea of men in tight jeans with cowboy hats. Holy. Shit. Did I mention that I’m not coming home? Good lord. And I’m just in the parking lot at this point.

Ok, so you must now put this all into perspective for a second. I’m (of fucking course) sauntering up to the front door of this monstrosity in the usual 4 inch heels, jeans, white peasant type shirt thing. From the girls we have a sea of tank tops and cowboy boots. Let’s say that I stand out a tiny bit. I’m a casualty of my geography. Right now, I scream “East Coast Snob.” I’m very conscious of this so I overcompensate in being nice. And I get tested very quickly as some guy approaches me in the parking lot.

Guy: Hey, are you going in there?
Velvet: Yep.
Guy: Well, here, I want to give you a guest pass to L.A. Fitness. We’re having an event this weekend and….
Velvet: Save your breath. I don’t live here.
Guy: Where do you live.
Velvet: D.C.
Guy: Hey! Congratulations on getting a baseball team again!
Velvet: Thanks! They are closing the gay strip bar and drag club to build that stadium, but I’ll survive I suppose.
Guy: Let me finish handing these out and I’ll come in there and buy you a drink.

Uh. What? What the hell just happened? Shit that would NEVER be so easy in D.C.

So I get to the door, show my ID and it takes them 45 minutes to find my damn birthday on it. Then the guy looks at me, smiles, shakes my hand and says, “Welcome to Arizona.” Dude, are you fucking kidding me? In D.C. they push you in toward the bar hawking the $15 drinks du jour. I find my HandyMandy, so named for her master cooking and sewing abilities, and we join her friends. They are already surrounded by a bunch of cowboy hats. And yes, I took out my camera. I seriously, could not stop. And the “I’m from out of town” worked pretty well, until I got drunk enough to use the “Guys just don’t wear their jeans this tight where I’m from” line. I got pictures of it all.

And drinks? They cost like $2 or $3. My bar tab was a joke. Everyone was drinking on it and it didn’t break $30. And I tipped the girl $20 and I thought she was going to cry. Again, in D.C. these damn bitchy bartenders act all deserving and shit. I waited tables and/or bartended from age 16 to 28. Twelve years of restaurant wages. You can bet your ass whenever someone gave me an OBVIOUSLY generous tip, I went back and thanked them. Yet, when I tip well in D.C., no one says a peep. So fuck all of them. Good or bad, they get 20%.

I took tons of pictures. I’d post them if I remembered my flipping USB cable, so the pics will have to wait. I saw HandyMandy perform a strip tease type of dance, all by herself on the dance floor. I line danced. Some cowboy tried to teach me to slow dance, but I’m totally just boobs, hair and high heels. Not much else. I’m unteachable. He insisted that everyone can be taught. “Cowboy, no, seriously. I can’t dance, but you should watch me surf the net. I’m real good at that.”

The Cowboy took me back to his place and found out that I’m good at a few other things as well. He was…fierce. When he started slathering me with oil I was like okay this is how a dick just magically ends up in an ass and I’m out. But the next day I realized I wanted another round. And I also realized I had forgotten to get his damn phone number.

I hate ending with the question thing, and this one is really rhetorical anyway. Do you D.C. folk remember what it’s like to go to a bar and not have ONE CONVERSATION about politics? It was sooooooooo nice.

Yesterday:

Velvet (to boss’ voicemail:) Hey. It’s me. Listen, two things. First, you should have come here because there’s no one here to laugh at my sarcastic jokes. Second, I’m, uh, not coming back. Can I get a transfer? Thanks. Call me.

I didn’t hear back from him yesterday. Is it possible that I could have pissed off yet another person in my life? But we talked today. Back to convo mode.

Boss: I got your message. Yeah, we can transfer you out there. But what should we do about your dogs? How can I get them out there?
Velvet: I haven’t thought that part out yet. If I don’t get them here soon, they ban animals flying into Phoenix airport for the summer.
Boss: Why?
Velvet: Too hot.
Boss: I had to leave the office. Rick was really getting on my fucking nerves.
Velvet: (This is the person in my office who hates me.) Awww. How sweet! He has you all to himself and he’s dying to play nice!
Boss: I can’t take it. I actually had to go downstairs and get a drink to cope. Then I went back upstairs and he was all in my face so I walked out with my computer and now I’m at Starbucks.
Velvet: But he can see Starbucks from his window.
Boss: So listen, can I buy your condo from you? I’ll give you $200,000.
Velvet: Um. I can see how you would think that is a fair offer in this soft market…
Boss: Ok. $202,500.
Velvet: Now you’re talkin! Now, if you can just double that number, I should be able to break even.
Boss: Hey, I heard you were really sick. How are you?
Velvet: Yeah, can you believe this shit? I’m at a Conference for building houses for people over 55, am easily the youngest person here and I’m sitting around my room coughing up my lungs while they go out, get drunk and gamble! They are all staying out until midnight, which is 3 a.m. for us!!
Boss: So you’re not out drinking?
Velvet: Hell no. Though, I do need it this week.

So, it’s Wednesday night. The work portion of this trip is finished. Golf clubs and suitcases are being loaded into vans on their way to the airport to all points out of here. Soon, this place will be a ghost town, and I’ll be the only one here sunning my Greek ass. And I don’t plan to come home until I’m 11 shades tanner and several shades saner than I am right now.

Unfortunately for me, my emotions peak and bottom at places that I never thought existed. This never used to be the case for me, but as I get older (groan,) I find that my priorities change and my attitude toward things change. For instance, tomorrow when everyone is gone, even though they are work friends, I’ll be lonely.

Last week I had a convergence of pre-flying jitters, PMS (something that never used to bother me,) and was (and still am) harboring a fantastic cold. Everything bothered me much more than it does at other times. Something as simple as people not getting along is enough to make me cry.

I’m trying to come back to life. It’s been a rough rough seven days. Sorry. And hell, I feel like I’ve done a lot of apologizing lately, but the people who really matter don’t seem to care about my apologies.

Saturday. I’m sitting on the plane on the runway at Dulles, I lean my head against the window. I look out at the torrential rain coming down, pummeling the planes as they take off in front of us, waiting for one of those planes to just not make it into the air. Waiting for it to come back down, crashing in the Dulles suburbs. Or maybe that’s the fate saved especially for my plane. “Life can’t suck any more than it does right now,” I thought. Well, I guess it could. Of course it could. Someone could be dead. Bite my tongue. But no, just me who feels dead.

I’m already panicked about flying and have plane crash dreams averaging about once a week now. But add to my fear of the weather the fact that I’m really sick. Allergies turned into a really bad chest cold. Head clogged. Ears clogged. How can I fly like this? I just coughed up the contents of a third world country sewer and several vital organs. You’d think they would put me in quarantine.

Instead I’m sitting next to a woman obviously bothered by my sniffling and coughing. And “sitting next to” is questionable because she’s spilling over into my seat. Oh, am I bothering you that much? Sorry I’m having trouble breathing but I’m a little stuffed up and part of your shoulder and arm is crushing my good lung. Suck it lady. Go find an empty seat next to a seemingly healthy person. My germs will find you sooner or later.

I’m sad to report that what’s his name and I are no more. I appreciate all your well wishes on that front, but the curtain is down on that show, and the theatre as they say on Mondays, is dark.

Arriving in Phoenix, I’m hit with massive amounts of nostalgia. I lived here with my boyfriend of 6 years exactly five summers ago. In fact, we moved to Phoenix on April 25, 2001. I returned to Phoenix on April 22, 2006. I forgot how much I loved it here. I forgot how much getting away from home can give you clarity.

I’ve already paid hundreds of dollars to extend my trip. The return flight is sufficiently delayed, extra time at this resort cost more a day than my motorcycle payment and condo fees, and I’m driving a rental car that is three times the size of my own vehicle at home. But still, life seems simpler here.

I feel like sending for the dogs and staying here for good. I could change the name of the blog to “Velvet in the Valley” or “Velvet in Phoenix.” It might not be as juicy, but it would sure be easier on me. I could start over. New life. New friends. New blog. Leaving all the old mistakes behind. I love my job, but my company does have a divison here. Sigh. It’s fun to dream. I haven’t called my boss yet to tell him not to expect me back for a while. I should really go do that.

I woke up this morning realizing that my act of checking out without an explanation isn’t fair to you. You guys have followed me through the past year and I have been nothing but an open book. I shouldn’t clam up now. I owe you an explanation.

I’ve made a couple huge mistakes in the recent past that I don’t know how to fix. I’m not sure they can be fixed, which is why I checked out the way I did.

First, I started a relationship with someone who always knew about the blog. It started as a friendship, but then it escalated and I couldn’t take back the fact that he knew the blog address. He professed that he was fine with me posting whatever I posted. He didn’t want to read it first, he was fine with my continuing as usual, posting when I had something to say. However, once I had a less than positive feeling about something that happened, and I posted it, it put him on the defensive – rightfully so I suppose. I feel it changed the nature of our communication. Normally I could vent, and “the guy” wouldn’t know, and we would all banter about it in the comments and I’d get over it. Once he knew, however, it was always out there, and he could alter his behavior because of it. Or I could perceive he was altering his behavior. In any case, I violated my own rule. I cannot present to you, my dating life, if the person I am dating is reading and responding in the comments. Colossal Mistake.

Second, allowing a guest post from him, while it seemed funny at the time, was probably another mistake. That was never the point of this blog, it’s my perspective, not someone else’s, and despite the fact that it was mostly humor and obvious embellishment, a mistake nonetheless. Immense Mistake.

Third, since this person is also an online persona, my friends and I actively participated in email exchanges with him. Of course it is all very innocent, but it is always a bad idea to be simultaneously building a relationship with your friends in the front row. I take the full blame for this, as I initiated this communication. (Interestingly enough, not only did this happen to me, but it happened with the two friends mentioned in a prior post. One person was building a relationship with the email target while others were emailing as friends.) Primo Mistake.

Couple all these problems with my panic attacks that seem to be increasing in frequency. I was at the gym last night and got the crushing chest pain and lost my breath for about 10 minutes. I had to lay down for a few minutes before I could get the energy to walk home. Nice. This morning, same problem. Woke up, rubbed my eyes, realized that my Tim McGraw sex dream was really in fact, just a dream, got up, turned on the shower and the panic set in. If I wasn’t living in “meeting hell” at work, I could probably go to the doctor and get something to fix this…anti-anxiety…morphine. Whatever.

Anyway, I’ve made these mistakes, and I don’t know how to fix them, other than stepping back for a while and letting it all settle down. I’m out of town next week, so I know I’m at least looking through a week and a half of no posting, but beyond that, I can’t make any promises. I have to figure out how to extricate myself from this mess.

Last night I had yet another plane crashing dream. This time I was on one of the planes hijacked on September 11th. The hijacker couldn’t manage to fly the plane upright and he was flying upside down through the grass and everyone was yelling to not look down. But, of course, I looked down and my eyelashes grazed the grass. I swear I could feel this in my sleep. I’m like those damn kids in Nightmare on Elm Street. Afraid to go to bed for fear of what will happen while I’m sleeping. It’s bad enough this panic and anxiety grips me during my waking hours. But now there’s no rest. I can’t escape it while I sleep either.

For the first time I have all these little problems and none of them are family or dog related. Well, that’s a change for the better.

I’m wrestling with other things as well. Obviously. And I don’t know what else to say because I’m mulling it all over in my head. I have a lot going on and I’m not sure where to focus my energy. I just know that I have all these little problems and I seem incapable of solving any of them. Blogging hasn’t suffered from receiving my attention thus far, but I’m afraid that it might soon.

I’ve got that “I’m going to bed and putting the covers over my head for three weeks” feeling.

Bless me bloggers, for I have sinned. It’s been four days since my last entry.

It has been a good weekend. I met a blogger friend who came to town for a visit. The power of the internet is truly incredible, for it has brought to me, many things in my life that I may have never found. Both cars I’ve owned, many friends, many boyfriends, places to live, jobs, the grad school I attended, all came about through a dalliance with the internet. I wouldn’t trade my life with the internet for a life without. However, buyer beware. Sometimes online people don’t let the truth get in the way of creating a good “persona.”

Some of you have asked me about the “character” that is Velvet. Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a character. This is my life. I am an open book. I divulge 99% of what happens in my life, and it is 100% truth. Many of you are so supportive, and every so often I get an email from someone who has read this blog for a long time but feels intimidated to comment. Please comment away. I love to hear from you. But, the few of you telling me things like “it was a good blog while it lasted,” or “I can’t wait until you screw this up so you can get back to some bad dates” is hurtful. And selfish. We’re not here for you, we’re here for me. Me me me. (Now who’s being selfish? Ha, I know.) Seriously, it makes me think that you don’t see there is a person behind these words. A real, living, breathing person.

Speaking of, right now I’ve never felt more alive. It was nice to have a day sans clouds after the rain, literally and figuratively.

Laying in the grass holding hands, your head on my arm, talking about everything that came to mind, telling you things, making plans for things beyond tomorrow. I’m so excited to discover what’s around the corner, but I’m so content and at peace to just let it happen. Wednesday I truly had a panic attack. I didn’t want to sabotage this, but I seriously thought about it. Not because of you…never because of you. But because I don’t know anything other than bad situations. A couple readers sent emails and slapped me around a little. A couple friends called and slapped me harder. Unlike many in my past, everyone is on your side. Damn that is a good feeling.

I’m looking forward to this. Every time I’m with you I feel more and more alive.

I absolutely think the world of you.

Ed. Note 5/25/06: Reading it now just grosses me out.

Right on time. I’ve been expecting you.

I was talking to my eye twitch.

I’m starting to panic. I’m having massive anxiety, which is nothing new. Crushing my chest. Can’t breathe. Lost my breath on the drive home from work yesterday and couldn’t breathe in anymore. Have barely had anything to eat because my stomach is in knots.

I don’t stay over. I don’t stay over. I don’t know what else to say, but I don’t stay over. Call it another of my PostSecrets along with getting tattoo’s so that I will always remember who I once was, or that I despise being in people’s weddings. This secret? I don’t stay over.

I can feel it. The mental shutting down. The “I haven’t been wrapped up with anyone in so long that I don’t know how to do this” feeling. The “I really do like being alone” feeling. The “Am I going to mess this up on purpose feeling.” Panic. Sheer panic. More like terror.

When I panic, I’m like a caged rabid animal. A bull in a China Shop. I freak out, completely. And I must take to my bed. Trying to take deep breaths, but it’s not helping.

A few years ago, someone asked me why I never stayed over with him. It’s a question I couldn’t answer right away. But about a year after I was asked, and after he was gone from my life, I figured out the answer.

I don’t stay over because I don’t want to fall in love.

Last night I returned home with my bra stuck into the top of my jeans. I thought it was well hidden, but the combination of low rise jeans and a baby tee (Kitty’s Diner, Open 24 hours) created the perfect bra evacuation route. How embarrassing. It’s a bad idea for the bra to come home in a different place from where it originally exited the house.

The bra, a Victoria’s Secret number, almost fell into a puddle. That would have been a fabulous waste of $45…which leads me to think, Why do I pay $45 to hold my boobs up when plenty of men would do it for free?

Dear BH,

You are crawling inside my heart. I have absolutely no idea how this is happening. After the last one who got inside, ever so briefly, I fired the guards, hired new ones, built a moat and added several man-eating alligators and crocodiles. I have a whole new security system in place, guarding all points of entry into the heart, and yet, there you are.

Friday, after the arrival of the crazy Velvet family was complete, you called while I was walking the loves of my life. I called back, got voicemail, and left a message assuming you were doing some heavy drinking after the week you just endured. You called back while I was in the hotel dropping Gloom and Doom Mom and Dad off for the first night of their two night stay. I answered your call – in front of my parents!!! I never do shit like that. I prefer to keep my life secret from them, and you know, just write it here on the blog for the rest of the world to see I suppose. Anyway, I told you I would call you back when I got home. And my brother said, “Nice smile on your face. Who was that? A boy?” I said, “Maybe.” My mom said, “Of course it was, look at her face.”

I could hardly contain myself waiting to be alone so I could call you back. I was jumping out of my skin.

Having a conversation with you when you were tipsy and I was painfully sober was soooooo fun. Do you remember asking me to go over to your house? I said, “I can’t, my brother is here.” You said that you were jealous of my brother for getting to spend time with me, and that you wanted me all for yourself. We talked about spending the upcoming weekend together, and you said, “Next Friday, and the Friday after that.” Damn. Damn damn damn.

Last night you said that cooking me dinner is on your list of things to do. You are too sweet. This just feels so good, and yet, I can’t help but think that the other shoe has to drop. It’s too good. You’re too good. I’ve had so many bad dates over the years. I’ve had so many crazy experiences with men. I’m not yet convinced that you won’t become yet another of those in a long list of failures, but I have hope. I have hope because you couldn’t possibly be this good at being someone I could see sticking around for a while.

Kisses and throwing caution to the wind,
Velvet

A visit from my parents is unlike any other experience in the world. The event, which I liken to any of your favorite natural disasters – tsunami, hurricane, tornado, is preceeded by several (hundred) phone calls clarifying directions, and asking if I want any of the old broken down things they just found in the attic. This particular visit occured during their Spring migration north, from Florida back to Connecticut. If you felt the rumbling of the entire Eastern Seaboard all last week, well, that was them. Feel my pain. Feel their wrath.

Over the years, I’ve developed a very sophisticated formula to determine when it is time to leave my parents house or when it is time for them to leave mine. The formula is: 48 hours minus the time in their presence equals hours left to go.

After the intial hug and kiss are exchanged, their SUV starts exploding. First to come out is the cooler, contents of which include tiny bits of salsa in the bottom of an oversized jar, leftover restaurant food from four nights earlier and milk. Other things that jump out of the cooler resemble their once, fresh, former self. When no one is looking, I toss the rotting produce into the garbage. It’s very difficult to do this in front of parents who routinely said to me growing up, “No, Velvet. Eat around the mold.” If they catch me, my pleas of “You don’t have to live like you are in the Great Depression anymore” fall on deaf ears and they threaten to strip me of my, our, last name. “You are not one of us” my father seethes through a mouthful of rotting banana. 47 1/2 hours to go.

The next thing to come out of their SUV is usually a bag with my name on it. It has a plethora of free marketing items pilfered from various businesses during their winter in Florida. I am now the proud owner of 18 letter openers that say “Bob’s Insurance” as well as three cup holders from “Palm Beach Nissan,” four of those gripping jar openers from “A-1 Title Services,” two first aid kits from “Palm Beach Medical Center,” and several travel size tubes of KY from “Asian Nights Massage Parlor.” It’s interesting that my parents will constantly tell you that they are “so busy” and they “don’t have time” to do something, yet, the collection of all these items from various businesses must really be a job in itself. Now I know exactly what they are so busy with. “Honey, today Bob’s Insurance is having a grand re-opening. We should go down there and get some stuff.” 47 hours to go.

Now, since my brother was already here this weekend, my parents booked a hotel. They stayed at the Omni Shoreham on Rock Creek Park. Please let me tell you something: This is not an Omni Shoreham kind of crowd. We are talking a Comfort Inn, Motel 6, free gooey donut breakfast in the lobby before 10 a.m. type of family. But my brother found a fabulously cheap rate on the internet which rivaled any other option, and they decided to stay there for two nights. 46 hours 54 minutes to go.

Since their SUV was so overpacked for this, well, all of their trips, there was no room for my brother and I to accompany them to the hotel to check in. (My entire family suffers from a disease called “Packus Rattis Itis” and they are physically incapable of throwing anything away – it causes them to break out in hives and hospitalization becomes inevitable.) So, I supplied the directions and we stayed at my place awaiting their return. When they did make it back to Dupont Circle, we parked their car in front of my building where I was told it would stay for the weekend. Why, you ask? Because it costs money to park at the Omni, and well, we can’t be having any of that. So Mom and Dad made friends with the metro this weekend. 45 hours to go.

When we all came back upstairs to my place, Dad asked for a bag of ice. I gave it to him without really thinking to ask why or what happened. Sometimes you just learn that the details aren’t really important. However, the story eventually came out later. As they were checking in to the Omni, the bellhop tried to grab for Dad’s bag (you know, the bag marked with the logo for “Connecticut HVAC; 24 hour service!”) Dad, not wanting to have to part with any additional dollars swung the bag in the opposite direction from the bellhop, lost his balance and fell down the stairs. How’s that for making a grand entrance into the Omni Grand Lobby? 44 hours, 58 minutes to go.

So we’re back at my place on Friday night and all goes relatively smoothly for a few hours. There’s t.v. watching, dinner eating, metro system explaining. My brother and I decided to just take them back on the metro so they didn’t end up in Anacostia. We got back into the hotel, reenacted dad’s falling down the stairs incident, and made our way to their room. We found the keycards wouldn’t work. Mom speculated if they were at the right room. Dad wasn’t sure. My brother called the front desk and asked. They confirmed (after I stuck the card into most of the doors in the hall) that we were in fact, at the right room, and they would send someone up right away. I asked, “Is it possible that after the lobby incident, they just don’t want you here and they are trying to tell you to get out?” 41 hours to go.

Security arrived to let us into the room. He said, “Oh here’s the problem, you left the do not disturb sign on the door. That’s why the keys don’t work.” My dad said, “Really?” Security man said, “Heh heh, no sir, I’m just kidding.” At this point you had to wonder how these people who could be fooled by that comment, can navigate their way up and down the east coast. Kind of makes you scared to drive on the same road with them, doesn’t it? 40 hours 48 minutes to go.

So we’re in the room now, checking things out. They have a great view of Rock Creek Park, as well as the not-yet-opened pool. Mom busts out of nowhere with, “Did they say that the minibar was complimentary?” We all looked at her and I said, “I don’t think the words ‘mini bar’ and ‘complimentary’ ever occur in the same sentence.” Again, see above comment. How is it that these two can navigate the east coast? 40 hours to go.

Saturday comes. Starts off humid, potential rain stays at bay. Mom and Dad come over and we all eat breakfast. They bring coffee, and 114 sugar packets marked “McDonalds.” (Thanks for that, next cake I make I’ll be tearing sugar packets for hours.) We eat, drink coffee, watch t.v., read the paper, and plan to go see the Cherry Blossoms. While I would prefer a cab, you just don’t do those things in the Velvet family, or again, you would be stripped of your last name. Metro it is and it’s basically a disaster from Metro Center. The crowds, the lines, the rednecks. It was all too much for me to bear. 24 hours to go.

An entire loop around the Tidal Basin later and we metroed our way back to civilization. Laying around my apartment, waiting until dinner time, we all watched t.v., surfed the internet and read more of the paper. We were eating dinner with my neighbor Abby and her parents. I think dinner went off without a hitch, we put Mom and Dad back on the metro and walked back to my place. Abby’s dad said, “I like them. I don’t know why you call them ‘Gloom and Doom.'” Sigh, it’s a nickname well earned. Trust me. 16 hours to go.

My brother stayed over with me. At some ridiculous hour, a bunch of guys started jackhammering the street. Gotta love Dupont. My brother got up to close the window and said, “Hey! Mom and Dad are down there already. Damn!” They came upstairs and it was only then that I realized the clocks jumped ahead overnight. Fucking awesome. 5 hours to go. 4 hours to go.

We were so close. SO CLOSE! The weekend was going to have been a breeze. Dad started packing the car with the things that they had strewn across my tiny apartment. When we went down, he couldn’t find a bag in the car and started bitching about my mother being a packrat. Uh, yeah. Not like he never goes to the store, finds a good sale, and buys enough of said sale item to last three lifetimes, but I digress. I yell up to the open window to ask mom where this alleged bag is that my dad is looking for. She says she’ll come down. Dad quickly slams the door to the SUV and we start to walk back to the front door of my building. 1 hour to go.

Mom comes out the front door. I said, “Forget it, you can find the bag when you unpack.” She says, “Why did you tell me to come down here?” I have NO IDEA what happened from this point forward, but there was screaming, there were F-words yelled at high decibals in the front of my building and it got ugly. I quickly buzzed the door and said, “Get in. Come on.” We got in the elevator. Fighting continues until Abby and David jump in the elevator too. Mom and Dad turn from screaming to that, “Oh, hi guys!” with the big happy face. Remember when you were little and your mom would be yelling at you, then the phone rang? And she would pick it up and say in a totally different and nice voice, “Hello?” Yeah, that. 45 minutes to go.

Back in my apartment, fighting resumes. Holy hell, the yelling was so loud the dogs were cowering under the coffee table. These units are pretty soundproof except for the front doors. Anything can be heard through the front door into the hallways. It’s ridiculous. So, my neighbors got hear the following. (20 minutes to go, by the way.)

Mom: “FUCK YOU YOU SON OF A BITCH! YOU ARE SUCH AN ASSHOLE!”

Dad: “SHUDDUP!”

Mom: “DON’T TELL ME TO SHUT UP YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! FUCK YOU!!!!”

Dad: (silence)

We walk them down to their car. Pack them up, shut the door, and they drive off. I look at my brother and say, “Is it too soon to high five you?” And he said, “They came, they destroyed, they left.”

Zero hours, zero minutes to go. Until the next time.