Year: 2007 (Page 1 of 2)

Ten years ago tonight I made one of those seemingly insignificant decisions that changed my entire life.

I had gone out to dinner with my parents and godparents in New York City. When we returned to our house, I stood at the foot of the stairs, trying to decide if I should go to bed or get on the computer. Back then, there was only dial up, which tied up the phone lines. I liked to use the internet at off peak times. 11 p.m. seemed like off peak enough.

The internet was so painfully young then. I can remember searching for some basic words and coming up with nothing at all. I tried “sex club new york city” and got zip. Today? Over 23 million.

Chatting was somewhere between infancy and toddlerhood, having already gained a bad rap when some girl was lured to a guys house and he raped her. But there was only one of those cases that I had heard of at that time.

I hopped into a chat room as Velvet (ha!) and off I went. Mostly it was people who were new and thought it was so cool you could talk in real time. Some guy started talking to me. We moved around to a couple rooms and tortured some people. We went off to a private chat. We went back to torture some more unsuspecting souls. I found myself with a pretty perfect “chat buddy.” A trouble-making derelict like myself who enjoyed a bit of humor.

When the sun came up I realized I had to go to work. Where had the last seven hours gone? Anyway, we made plans to meet in the room again, not that evening as it was New Years Eve, but the following evening.

Three weeks later I was on a plane to Atlanta to meet him.

Nine months later he was in a truck to New York to help me move down to Atlanta.

At our second and fourth anniversaries, we faltered a bit. On our sixth anniversary, we had grown so far apart it seemed there would be no mending. On our seventh anniversary, no longer together, we weren’t even speaking. Nor would we speak for the eighth or ninth. But shortly after our ninth anniversary of the day we met, we got in contact again and remain, to this day, in communication.

While we are on different paths and there will not be another opportunity for us in a romantic capacity, that man was my first love. We went through hell and back together. He was such an amazing and powerful first love that three years after our breakup, a series of dreams starring the two of us forced me to admit that my then-relationship, which was headed toward marriage, was seriously wrong. Even when he wasn’t in my life, he was still saving my ass from disaster. We remain friends and to this day don’t hang up the phone without saying, “I love you.”

For K… ten years. You set the bar high. I will always love you.

I always knew that the Ross Elementary School here in Dupont Circle had very low test scores. I wonder though, if the Ross “Elemtary” School is faring any better.

How on earth did that sign make it through all those hands and not one person spell checked it? Jesus. Someone wrote in the missing letters. For those of you who know me, the answer is no. It was not me wielding that Sharpie. (If it was, mine would have been in blue.)

Anyway, Sammy pissed on it for you all. Merry Christmas!

It’s been about a month or more since an update on the Cookie Dough. We were cruising along quite nicely. As a matter of fact, we were on track to see the bottom of this container by spring thaw as originally estimated. However, there have been a few setbacks.

1) Tired of just the dough, I decided to cook a half dozen cookies, gasp, in the oven. I felt that my promise of eating the dough was compromised because cooking the dough is not what I said I was going to do. I was going to run it by you all to see if this was cheating. While I was composing that post…

2) I had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner with a bunch of lovely friends. I decided to be ambitious and eat the Turkey Gravy. I know, it is made from the Turkey and I’m a vegetarian. But, I wanted to branch out. Half way during the night after Thanksgiving dinner, I got sick. Wayyyy sick. I was quickly reminded why I gave up meat all those years ago. It was 11 days before my stomach recovered. But just in time for the recovery, I went to another Holiday Party where I discussed my ailments with the Vegan host, who then promptly steered me in the direction of her chips and dips and sauces – all vegan. My stomach blew up like an Ethiopian and again, I had another few days of intestinal drama. Oh, suck it. You know you all keep coming back for my discussions of all things intestines.

Those are my excuses for the cookie dough campaign being at a halt. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to see this one through. I curse that day at Costco. Curse it!

In other news, Sixes and Sevens is leaving this week for a three week trip around Italy. I am very jealous, as Italy is really the only European Country I’ve seen that I would ever visit again. I thought about meeting her in Rome, but the day she’s there is the day I’m watching her dog. So there goes that plan. Anyway, I’m on pins and needles in anticipation of her trip, not for all the fun she’s going to have but because of the text messages she’s been receiving from my hot neighbor, indicating activities to come, hopefully before her trip. From a recent email exchange:

Sixes & Sevens: I just got a dirty text that Hot Neighbor shaved his balls for me.
Velvet: My dirty text of the day was about licking me after I pee.
Sixes & Sevens: You win.
Sixes & Sevens (10 minutes later:) No, you lose. I just got one that he wants me to fuck him with a strap on.
Velvet: You can’t see me, but I’m bowing down to you right now. You are THE WOMAN!
Sixes & Sevens: I’m gonna fuck him so hard he’s gonna cry to his mommy.

Finally, I spent a couple days in NYC last week and something bad happened:

December 8th, 1980: “One Night”

The man I would write an Economic Theory paper on in grad school, 23 years later, was shot dead. Proof he was smarter than most and that this loss was utterly a waste? “Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try. No hell below us, above us only sky. Imagine all the people, living for today. Imagine there’s no countries, it isn’t hard to do. Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too. Imagine all the people, living life in peace.” If we all lived in John Lennon’s world, without religion, without things to segregate us from others, we would have nothing to fight over.

December 8th, 2006: “That Night”

That night there was a blogger Happy Hour – the last Blogger Happy Hour I would ever attend. The theatrics, the drama, the immaturity, the crap. It got old, fast.

That night I set Sixes&Sevens up to meet another blogger she fancied. She promptly gave him several more reasons to hate D.C.

That night I met a new friend through Sixes&Sevens who I then saw four more times over the next year – bachelorette party, wedding and two stopovers in Texas on my trek cross country and back, this summer. Despite her being happily married to a wonderful man, Ninja still refers to her as “his cutie,” and denounces her pregnancy by saying, “That should be MY baby.” You may have had a chance if you weren’t wearing such a gay turtleneck and if G-man wasn’t such a fun World of Warcraft playing mo-fo!

(That night was the birth of the gay turtleneck, by the way.)

That night I broke up with (rhymes with “fur lock,” nod to I66, because I can’t even say the fake blog name) for like the 130th time. This particular breakup parade was spurred by a record-breaking, even for him, 18 consecutive phone calls (no lie.) Because my phone was in my coat pocket, he had the nerve to declare me, over voicemail, me!, a “shitty girlfriend.”

December 8, 2007: “The Other Night”

The other night was thankfully much more peaceful than December 8th of last year. I went to a tree trimming party with 25 gay men. I was the only female there, but I did bring my own heterosexual male companion.

The other night was the first time said “male companion” and I made it out in public, in months.

The other night, we didn’t stay out in public for very long, scrambling back across town to my apartment where we promptly ripped each other’s clothes off.

The other night was one of those nights where I couldn’t stop. I never wanted it to end. It was perfect. It was the best I’ve had. A surprising first for us, in one particular capacity. Could not have been better…truly.

The other night I left my sliding glass door open and it was cold outside. The wind blew through the living room, around the corner, and into the bedroom where I slept while he watched, keeping me incredibly warm in his arms.

The other night was one of those kind of nights where I didn’t mind walking the dogs at 5 a.m., in the pouring rain.

The other night I was more comfortable in my own bed and in my own skin and in my own mind than I have ever been.

It started several months ago. The King of the Dog Park and I were leaving my building and I exchanged a few pleasantries with my painfully Hot Neighbor in the lobby. The King’s jaw was agape, and when the neighbor was out of earshot:

King: Who was that?
Velvet: My neighbor. I know, I know.
King: Ohmygod the things I would do to him.
Velvet: Yeah. I was thinking that I really need to set him up with Sixes&Sevens so she can ruin his life.
King: He’s straight? DAMN!

A likeness of Hot Neighbor:

Later when we saw Sixes&Sevens, she screamed, “Well? SET IT UP!” So we did.

And for months, we watched the painful dance of awkward hellos, texts gone awry, each out of town every time the other wanted to get together. It seemed these two would never be on the same page.

Until the other night. Sixes&Sevens came over and we cracked through a bottle of wine before grabbing the King and heading off to a holiday soiree. At the elevator, we simultaneously heard the door of one Hot-Neighbor’s close and Sixes&Seven’s audible gasp/moan. The King shouted, “Well hello Hot-Neighbor! This time you’ve caught Sixes&Sevens after her shower!” We dragged Hot-Neighbor to our party, but he bailed in favor of some “play” he was supposed to see. It didn’t stop those naughty kids from sending juicy texts to each other. From play to party, party to play, the texts a veritable foreplay for the long overdue tryst.

I walked into the kitchen to grab a drink at one point. I saw Sixes and Sevens standing there, striking a pose for no one in particular but looking massively sexy in her skin tight black sweater and tweed 40’s style skirt, tapered to the knee then flared out, ending at the calf, her eyes buried behind little librarian black rimmed specs and her mischievous little brain working overtime, while the evidence of her plot formed into a smirk on her face.

Sort of like this:

The host’s boyfriend walked in and said, “What are you two doing? You look like you are plotting something really bad, only you are communicating without words. I can’t figure out what you two are up to. This is scary. I’m leaving.”

Sixes and Sevens: Do you have a key for his place?
Velvet: Actually, I have access to the lockbox, so yes, technically I have a key.
Sixes and Sevens: How awesome would it be for him to come home and find me in his bed?
Velvet: I’ll get our coats.

We bid our farewells and ran through Dupont giggling like two schoolgirls on a mission of sexual terrorism. He beat us home though, so there was no reason for breaking into his house, sooooo, all was finally right with the world. I retreated to my cave to watch Forensic Files. (I made up for it the next night…)

At one a.m. I got this text:

“I’m 3/4 naked, half baked, and he just came on my face.”

Well done, my girl. Very well done.

I love those Bush twins. Since the attempted passing off of a fake ID with Secret Service in tow, I’ve been smitten. Now, I don’t often mention the following, well, because, I just don’t. Cue soap opera style flashback to the year 2000.

Mom: So honey, who are you voting for?
Me: I dunno. I’ll never forgive Tipper Gore for that whole PMRC label on Hair Bands in the late 80’s. So, I guess I’m voting for Bush because his redeeming quality is that he looks like Daddy.
Mom: Jesus Christ, he does. I was just telling your father that the other day.

(Of course this resemblance wasn’t as funny by the 2004 election. We all voted for Kerry because drunken Boston Irishmen with bad hair and exaggerated hand gestures are something we Connecticutters can relate to, more than a family resemblance at least.)

To this day, I find it hard to malign GW because he reminds me of my dad. My younger, longer-grudge-bearing, Iraqi-hating, misplaced-war-declaring, dad. The GW similarities to my Dad don’t stop at physical.

I love when Jenna says bye to her mom, and GW tries to hang up on her too, not understanding that he’s supposed to stay on the phone. (No no dude, you’re the President. They want to talk to you!) Or at the end where Ellen says, “Do you want to say Merry Christmas to the audience?” to which he says, “Of course I do! Tell my little girl that I love her!” Um, what? Technically that wasn’t a Merry Christmas to the audience. Totally my dad. Certifiably “out of it” 24/7. (Cue Will Ferrell as GW: That’s 24 hours a week, 7 months a year…)

Let’s recap a recent conversation. Sadly, this reveals our family weakness and makes me look stupid in the process, but I’m not sure what you expected from someone who admittedly votes for Presidents based on their patriarchal likeness. My family has a thing for coupons and rebates. We enjoy them. We love coming up with hundreds of addresses to maximize returns on the mail-in rebate. See, the mail-in-rebate is designed as a “perceived” savings to the consumer, but in the long run (hello Econ 101) really only benefits the seller because most people wouldn’t take the time to fill it out and jump through the hoops required to satisfy the condition for that extra dollar to be mailed in 12-97 weeks. But we’re not “most people.” We like a challenge. And free money! I can practically smell the cash!

Me: Hey, Mom? Is Dad there?
Mom (to the house:) PICK UP THE PHONE IT’S THE BABY!!!!!
(Shut up. I’ll always be the baby.)
Dad (picking up the phone:) Yeah?
Me: Hey, I got this coupon you sent for $10. But those were cash rebates we filled out. Did you run out of addresses or something? Why are they sending a coupon?
Dad: I’ll check.
Me: No, there’s nothing to check. You sent this to me. I got the coupon from you. It came from you with all these newspaper clippings, which, by the way, please stop sending me. I know what herpes looks like.
Dad: That’s not me, that’s your mother.
Me: Dad! The coupon. Where did it come from?
Dad: I deposited the rebate. Your brother told me to.
(This comment accurately implies a massive family plot. I can’t deny this. We all have roles in rebate-gate.)
Me: No. I’m talking about the one you just sent me. I just got it in the mail. From you. They should have sent a check, but if you used your address twice, they might not. They might send a coupon instead.
Dad: Yes.
Me: It wasn’t a yes or no question Dad.
Dad: I don’t know.
Me: Are you talking to me or someone else? Is Mom still on?
Mom: I’m here.
Me: Is he okay? What the hell is he saying?
Mom: He’s like this all day honey. No one ever knows what he’s saying.
Me: Dad, is someone toying with your medicine?
Dad: Who?
Mom: The train is coming honey. We’re going into the city. We’ll call you back.
Me: No. Please don’t.
Mom: I can’t hear you. We’ll call you back.

I wanted to let it go to voicemail when they called back. But my mother will sit there talking to the voicemail going, “Hello? Are you there? Pick up if you are,” not realizing of course, that it’s all inside that itty bitty computer and there’s no answering machine connected to my cell phone that I just carry around with me. Perhaps that’s better than Jenna and her dad though, I think I heard her tell Ellen that her parents don’t have an answering machine.

Excellent. Mine have one, though they don’t believe in call waiting. Maybe if it came with a rebate…

“T’is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.” ~ Alfred Tennyson

Is it? I’m not so sure. I feel for people who fall in love, then fall out and never find it again. I think it’s much worse to know what you’re missing, than it is to never know. Those who have been in love seem like they are on the eternal quest to find something they lost. Someone who can equal or emulate that feeling…like an addict chasing their first high.

I know people in both camps, and those who have never been in love seem so much happier, generally speaking, than those who have. The ones I know of share a startlingly similar quality – they are the Jerry Seinfeld’s of the world – the jokesters, the ones who make you laugh, the ones always cracking jokes. The only redeeming quality to finding, and losing love, that I can see, is that once you have it in your life, you can so easily see it when it hits you again.

I’ve always felt that falling in love is a way of being reminded that we’re not really in control of our lives, and falling out of love, or worse, experiencing a broken heart, is a way of reminding us that we’re alive and that things can touch us. Of course, I’m open to debate on all of my middle of the night ramblings.

This happened last year, but I just told the story last night for the first time. I’m recounting it for you here, so you can make fun of me too.

I’ve never understood the drink and dial. I’ve never done this to anyone, and when people do it to me, I’m usually sleeping or so incoherent from sleep that I don’t make any sense anyway and the drunk-dialer gets irritated and hangs up.

Last festive holiday season, Sixes and Sevens summoned me to her house.

Velvet: Oh. I’m feeling miserable. I don’t wanna.
Sixes and Sevens: I think you should. And, bring a bong.
Velvet: I’m perking up now…but I don’t have a bong.
Sixes and Sevens: A pipe?
Velvet: Sadly, no.
Sixes and Sevens: Forget it. Just come over.

I trotted my ass over with Sammy and Thora in tow. Patsy was there too. I asked what the reason was that she was asking for the aforementioned paraphernalia. She nodded to her coffee table where I saw this precious little baggie of Marra-joo-wanna. Good lord. It had been years since I’d done that.

We proceeded to do what one would do with Marra-joo-wanna. I threw a couple glasses of wine in there after it, and stumbled home. (I mean, stumbled. I remember slamming into the side of a building on my walk.) When I got home, I drunkenly checked email, read some blogs, then went to bed. I did notice that I went to bed 2 full hours after I left Sixes and Seven’s house. And I did wonder, since she lives only a block from me, where that time went.

I woke up in the morning, late for work, and scrambled off to a meeting. When I had a break, I checked my email. Remember on the Simpson’s when Bart and Millhouse find $20 and buy the super squishey with extra squish, and they go on a sugar high rampage through Springfield, and Bart joins the Junior Campers? That was me. Except my “Junior Campers” came in the form of an email saying, “Dear Velvet, Thank you for subscribing to Classmates.com.”

What. The. Fuck.

AND, it gets better. I wrote to people! The evidence was sitting in my sent folder. I am the lamest excuse for a drunk, ever. When I saw the email I was laughing so hard tears were coming out of my eyes. This girl said, “Are you okay?” I said, “Um, what do you do when you get drunk?” She said, “I call people.” I said, “Apparently I join Classmates.com.” Then she called me a geek.

Yep. I don’t drink like that anymore.

As I left our hellaciously long and hard class at the gym, sweet delicious but gay teacher said, “Do you know what you have to be thankful for this year?” I said, “Um…no.” He said, “These muscles,” as he grabbed my poor aching bicep.

What I wanted to say was, “How does your ego fit in this gym with us?”

What I should have said though was, “Yeah, and my non-stop workouts the rest of the week have nothing to do with it, right?”

For many years, I was a morning gym-goer. I loved getting it out of the way. I would bring my book and workout among the other hardcore morning types. The problem became twofold: First, I am nothing near a morning type, and second, I wasn’t getting as tough a workout as I should be. Mindlessly climbing the stairmaster for many years and I had hit the wall. (The problem is threefold if you count the 6 a.m. guy who tried unsuccessfully for months to talk to me, then finally came up with this gem: He rolled his wedding ring over to where I was lifting, it hit my shoe, so I technically had to talk to him. “Sir, I think you dropped something…”)

Two years ago, I decided it was time to kick it up not just a notch, but several. I started going with the Queen of Quantity to a weightlifting class. As a hardcore weightlifter for the past 7 years, I didn’t understand the concept of lifting lighter weights for more reps. (“The weights aren’t pink and purple are they??”) I was used to cranking out 6 or 8 reps on a really heavy weight and plowing through a workout in an hour. But adding this class to my routine twice a week proved to be a killer. One additional day in the week, I still go in and do my old faithful weight workout. I lift much heavier weight that day though. Cable Row 90 lbs. Bicep curls 20 lbs. Squats 100 some odd lbs. I know, what about the cardio Velvet? Yes. What about the cardio.

Twice a week, I run 3 1/2 miles on the treadmill at a 3% incline. Yes, it IS like running up hill the entire time, but, the things it does to my ass are incredible. Well, that and squats. Okay, the remaining 2-3 days I do half hour to 45 minutes of some other type of cardio – elliptical, stairmaster, something like that. The trainers at my gym say, “If you can read a magazine, you’re not working hard or smart enough.” Point taken. It doesn’t stop me from flipping through Harper’s Bazaar though. Fuck it. I’m there 7 days a week.

All this working out isn’t easy. It takes motivation to get to that gym every day. It takes incredible strength to leave work to make it to the classes. It isn’t easy staying awake some nights so I can go to the gym at 9:30 so I can run for longer than the stupid time allotment on the treadmill. But it is doable. Most people could exercise a third of what I do and still see incredible benefits.

Every man who has entered my life in a serious fashion usually very suddenly takes up some sort of workout. I remarked recently to a friend, after receiving a text pic of an ex at a Little League game with his kid, that once the men leave my life, they gain a ton of weight. And yet, I never do. Probably because for me it’s a lifestyle and for them, the working out was just to impress me or for a quick fix. Not sure. Jury still out on that.

Last night, after a four day run of television, more television than I’ve viewed all year, I watched the “half ton man” be lifted out of his house and hospitalized. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me! He kept saying he didn’t eat more than anyone else, but you know what? His stomach was stretched to the size of 12 normal stomachs and stomachs only stretch by overeating! UGH. I was grossed out. Cue stomach stapling RANT.

I’m not a fan of the quick fix. You will never learn to eat right if you just pay someone to staple your stomach shut. You will go right back to how you ate and drank before your elective surgery. Besides the fact that those procedures are downright risky, they seem to be yet another sign of our decaying American culture: It’s okay to eat fried chicken and wash it down with some crisco and a few bottles of wine because you can just staple your stomach and problem solved. But don’t these people realize the problem is not in their genes, it is in their head? I knew someone who gorged on all sorts of fattening junk at lunch (meatloaf and gravy, chicken fried steak, nachos,) then popped some cholesterol meds after the meal. The bottle sat on his desk as a reminder. Are you fucking kidding me? Seriously!

Please, spare me the bullshit about genetics or thyroids. Ugh. You want to see genetics? I’m 100% Greek. I have two grandmothers and four great-grandmothers who lived their lives rounder than they were tall. I’m fighting those genetics every time I step into the gym, everytime I pick a salad over lasagna, everytime I pass on dessert. Sign me up for a lifetime membership at the gym and don’t ever expect to see me getting my stomach stapled. Silly Americans. Only here. I swear.

Rant over. I’ll be nicer later. Or tomorrow.

I am the first to admit, I’m a bitch. At the risk of jinxing myself, I have NO IDEA how I have such incredibly good luck. I think it’s some sort of ploy on the part of the universe to get me to reverse my non-God believing ways and embrace Christianity or some other such nonsense.

Yes yes, what the hell am I rambling about…

Good things happen in threes.

Yes yes, last post, happy happy joy joy. There’s that.

Then, there’s the fact that someone actually showed up at my condo and actually handed me cash for the Harley which I am so happy to have off my plate of burdens right now. (This is part of my plan. Yes. I have a plan! I made a list of priorities and Thora and Sammy ranked number one – higher than the Harley. So I sold the Harley to pay for Thora and Sammy’s operations. Thora’s needs new knees. Sammy already had his lump of fat removed.)

Then, yesterday, the same day I got that check in hand, I trotted off to the dog park to announce that I had the cash to get dog operations for all! When the peeps dispersed, I was walking home and this happens:

Lady: Uh…
Velvet: Oh my…
Lady: Is this?
Velvet: IT’S YOU! OHMYGOD!!!
Lady: Is this Zoe? Did you adopt her? I thought she would be back in Georgia now.
Velvet: No! NO!!!! SHE’S HERE!!! I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FIND YOU.

(My friend pipes in with, “She really has, you should hear how she’s been trying to find you.”)

The lady. The LADY! The LADY WHO WANTED ZOE! The lady from the adoption in Alexandria! She tried to get in touch with us. We posted online for her. And yet, we meet, in the middle of Dupont Circle, her thinking that Zoe was either adopted out to another family or back in Georgia, me thinking the lady could live anywhere in the metro area and we’d never find her. And she lives two blocks from me! On the same street!
Zoe went home with her yesterday and they are going on a vacation for one month to Florida, starting today. I told her I’d foster Zoe until she got back but she said, “Nope! I want my dog!”

I called Holly on speaker and said, “Guess who I just bumped into?”

We were screaming (it’s a NY thing) to each other SHUTTHEFUCKUP SHUTTHEFUCKUP SHUTTHEFUCKUP!

I’ve got plenty to be Thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving!

You are the same person now that you were 10 years ago, 20 years ago, 30 years ago. I guarantee it.

Are you yet having those surreal experiences where you are thrown back into your past with such intensity that you can’t believe you forgot what you are now, somehow remembering? Maybe you heard a song from 20 years ago and the memories came rushing back, or you smelled something and suddenly you are five years old again? I love these glimmers of memories because I think they tell us so much about ourselves.

The other day, my friend and I were walking our dogs and discussing the weekend plans. He said, “Well, it’s not like you get up before noon ever, so I’ll get started without you.” My response was, “I’ve always been a late sleeper. Always. There was a very good reason my mom finagled with my elementary school to enroll me in afternoon kindergarten for both halves of the school year.” I still love the hours from 11 p.m. till 3 a.m. It’s when I’m most creative.

Some things never change.

About five years ago, my brain started cycling through bits of my childhood that I had long forgotten. Some thoughts were jarred by modern day events. The disgusting gingko trees in Dupont reminded me of the smell of the rotting crabapples on my elementary school playground. The smell of a new perfume in a magazine reminded me of fake little girl perfume I had as part of a dressing table set. The feta cheese I recently found at Costco was packed in water. Any good Greek knows that any good feta is always sold in water and you don’t really find it like that anymore. I was instantly tossed back to six years old and spending our Saturdays going to the Greek butcher to buy all our meats and cheeses – something I had long forgotten. Mmm. Feta Cheese in water.

Some things never change.

Other thoughts come out of nowhere but start a domino effect. One day I just remembered my mom used to feed me cream cheese and jelly sandwiches after I got home from play group at the YWCA, which then reminded me of swimming lessons, the smell of the over-chlorinated pool and walking on the trampoline they put in the water so it would be shallow enough for the little kids. Then I remembered playing with this other girl and she ended up slamming into a cement pillar in the Y and her mom yelled at me, accusing me of doing it on purpose. My mom defended me. I honestly have no idea if I did. I might have. But mommy still defended me.

Some things never change.

My brother is going through it too. The last time we were all at my parents house, he said, “Do you remember the old Caldor’s smell?” (Caldor’s was a discount store in our hometown and when you entered, it had a very distinct smell that I can only describe as, Caldor’s.) My parents, brother and I tried to recall what it was – something they cleaned the floor with? I don’t know. I can only tell you everyone in my family remembers it.

When the family gets together, we stimulate each other’s memories. My mom told us about a babysitter I couldn’t remember who shockingly never came back. She was lamenting how she and my dad could never go anywhere because we were so bad no babysitter would ever come back. She asked me what we used to do to the babysitters.

Shit I had long forgot came pouring out of my mouth. “Well, I used to be able to scream at a pitch loud enough to change channels on the old RCA TV we had, so Older Brother and Oldest Brother would encourage me to do that. Whenever the babysitter was watching TV, I could change the channel on her. So I’m screaming, she’s freaking out and the channels are changing. And we used to play Alligator, where you could only walk around the house without stepping on the floor, so we were jumping on all the chairs and the couch. And I think one night we shoved a whole box of tissues in our mouth, one by one. I think that babysitter actually left before you got home.”

My mom said, “Do you know you burned through every girl in the neighborhood, all their friends, all the checkout girls at the Food Mart and everyone at church?”

Quite impressed with myself, I said, “Yeah? And?”

“Well your father and I never got to go anywhere!”

Yeah. And I’m sorry about that. I am. Really. But they are making up for it now with all these vacations. Though I didn’t say that. I just laughed.

“By the time your Oldest Brother was 13, he was babysitting so we could go out and get some peace and quiet.”

“So if he was 13, I would have been 6 at that time. By 6 years old, I had in effect, ruined all the babysitters in town?”

“Yes!”

Damn. I’m good. Some things never change.

Anyway, the other day I was realizing that, despite my best efforts, I find it very difficult to not be in physical contact with my “friend,” when we are together. This is truly uncharacteristic of me since I classically prefer to be on one couch and the resident “friend” in my life to be on the other couch in another city. We always have follow up conversation about the fact that we can’t keep our hands off each other when we are together, even if to just hold hands while we sleep. I was thinking the other day, “Wow, it is so weird of me to want to touch him all the time. I usually don’t even like to spend more than a few hours with someone. The only time I can remember doing this before was…

with my ex in Atlanta…

…when I was madly in…”

Uh oh. Shit.

God. Damned. It.

We are who we are and those things about us – the things that define us, never ever change.

Truth be told, historically, I’ve been a pretty nice and accommodating person. Ask the friends. Recently, something finally switched over in my brain and I stopped tolerating the rudeness of acquaintances and strangers. My pet peeve is the ever rampant in Washington D.C. “I’m going to bud into your life because I can” attitude. An inordinate number of people here like to interject their two cents when I am not asking for it. I don’t recall this in any other place I’ve lived. But it really pisses me off.

The King of the Dogpark and I were walking our dogs down the street. I had my two dogs, plus the foster, Zoe, and he has his dog. We were passing a dead strip of grass that has recently become home to a brand spanking new sign “Please take your dog to the designated dog area.” Let’s pause for the irony – there IS NO designated dog area in D.C. And all the fucking yuppies have decided to plant flowers in the treeboxes and fence them in, which, last time I checked, was CITY property, not personal property. Since we have no formal allowed dog parks, I’m sorry, but where are they supposed to go? Any strip of grass, weeds, or leaves is prime pickings. I pick up after my dog, and that grass has been dead for YEARS. If they really don’t want dogs in there, screw the sign; build a fence.

So the four dogs are walking in various directions all across the sidewalk and I became aware of a woman approaching from behind who might want to get past us. I was being nice when I asked her, “Oh, sorry, are our dogs preventing you from getting by?” And she said, “No, I was just curious why there are signs that say they don’t want dogs here but the dogs are all over the grass.” I was trying to be nice in collecting dogs out of her way so her ass could get by and she has to be a bitch? Fine bitchy, have it your way.

So I said, “Oh, because the dogs can’t read.”

The King and I kept walking and he said, “I actually can’t believe you said that.” I said, “Yeah, neither can I.”

Usually I’m not that quick on the uptake. My comeback hits me anywhere from 4 hours to 48 days after an “incident.” I usually start apologizing and scrambling to comply with whatever crap a stranger shoots in my direction, but nope. Not anymore.

Velvet vs. Vehicle-Like-Machinery

The Harley
My precious motorcycle recently had a date for service. The dealer called said I had to sign some paperwork. I wasn’t in town, so I asked them to fax it to me. First I tried for my friend’s fax, where my friend would forge my signature on this useless piece of paper so work could commence.

Harley Dude: I tried to fax it and got no answer.
Velvet: Let me check.

After confirming that their fax machine had not, in fact, rung, I relayed this information to the guy.

Velvet: Phone never rang. Are you sure?
Harley Dude: Yes, I tried it three times.
Velvet: Okay, well, it is long distance you know. The area code is 203, not to be confused with D.C.’s 202.
Harley Dude: I know. I dialed 203. It says it right here next to the words ‘no answer.’ We’ll need another fax number or we can’t work on your bike.

Fuck me to tears.

Next day.

Velvet: Hi, I’ve got another fax number I would like to give you. I’m at my brother’s office.
Harley Dude: We tried and tried yesterday, you are going to have to come in and sign this.
Velvet: I am in New York. So it is not possible for me to come in. You have to fax it.
Harley Dude: Fine, what’s the number?
Velvet: 212…….

20 Minutes later.

Velvet: Hey, did you fax it? I’m trying to get out of here.
Harley Dude: I did, but I got no answer.
Velvet: Okay, see, now I know that is not possible. I’ve traveled to another state, it is clearly a problem on your end. This time it is 212, not 202. I know these area codes are similar to D.C., are you definitely dialing the right area code?
Harley Dude: No, I really can’t get it to work. I’ll try again. See? No answer.
Velvet: The phone is NOT RINGING over here. Try again.
Harley Dude: I will, but if it doesn’t work, you will have to come in and sign this or we won’t work on your bike.
Velvet: Again, NOT IN TOWN. You have to make this work.
Harley Dude: Well, I’ll try again.

20 minutes later I called again to ask where the stupid paper was. Someone else answered thankfully.

Harley Dude#2: He said he faxed it. He’s faxed it close to 10 times and there’s never an answer.
Velvet: Are you understanding that this is not possible? I’ve given you two separate fax numbers in two separate states. Try it again.
Harley Dude #2: Here we go.
Velvet: Great. The phone is ringing. Okay. The paper is coming through.
Harley Dude #2: I wonder what he did wrong. Let me look at the printout.

Are you ready?

Harley Dude #2: Oh, he’s new here. He didn’t know he had to dial 1 before the area code.
Velvet: Listen to me. No matter how new you are, you should know how to dial 1 first, especially when I remind you that you are calling long distance, and more importantly – DO NOT LET THAT GUY NEAR MY BIKE!

Speedracer
At every oil change that doesn’t occur at the dealer, I go to the 10 minute place because, well, they take 10 minutes. But that’s the only thing I like. There is nothing about paying $40 for an oil change worth $15 or dealing with the bullshit sales pressures that I enjoy. My dealer services Speedracer and I trust that whatever they do is right and that nothing recommended by a 10 minute oil change place is valid.

I went to the garage on Saturday and rolled down the window.

Grease Monkey #1: Hi Ma’am. What can I help you with?
Velvet: I need an oil change.
GM#1: Okay, you know this is a high performance automo….
Velvet: Yes. I really just want the cheap oil though.
GM#1: Well, ma’am, I need to tell you that…
Velvet: I know. You guys try to sell me the $100 oil every time I come here, I really just want the basic. Last time I was here the tech looked at my service records and said even my dealer uses the basic oil.
GM#1: Okay well I’m telling you you should…
Velvet: I really just want the regular oil.
GM#1: Okay, fine. It should just be a couple minutes.

He filled out some paperwork, stuck it in my windshield wipers and told me to drive into the bay when they opened the garage door. Satisfied that I warded off their attempt to sell me extra crap I don’t need, I smiled smugly to myself and pulled into the garage.

GM#2: Hello ma’am, I’ll be doing your oil change today…I see from the paperwork here that you only want the regular oil. With a car like this you really need the synthetic…
Velvet: I know this. I told the guy outside. You guys always try to sell me the expensive oil and even my dealer doesn’t use that.
GM#2: Okay ma’am, but I’m obligated to tell you that you need to have that synthetic oil for this car because you don’t want to run the regular oil through the engine, it is bad for the engine.
Velvet: Regular oil. That’s what I want.
GM#2: Okay. It will just be a few minutes.

At this point, I grabbed my driver’s manual and the last service records from the dealer in my glove compartment. I confirmed that the dealer used 5W-30 oil, which means nothing to me, but I was charged $18 for the oil. Okay…that sounds like cheap oil to me. Then I flipped to the driver’s manual to the “recommended oil” page. And whoa, what do I find there? “This car should be using 5W-30 oil.” 5W-30, as in, oil that costs $18.

I waited for the inevitable, the time where the tech comes over and tells you how your oil looked, and then how they try to tell you either need new brakes like yesterday or there’s a gremlin under your hood who is going to gangrape you by Wednesday and only they can remedy this problem for “10 minutes and a grand total of X.” Sure enough, GM#2 comes over to the car window.

GM#2: We do a 36 point check of the car and your brakes look great (because they’re new!) fluids look good (yes they do!) battery is charged (that’s new too bitch!) tires are in great shape (also new!) but your engine oil is getting some sludge on the cap. Engine sludge can hinder the performance…blah blah blah.

I tuned out. He wanted to do some $129 engine flush. Hells the fuck no. I presented him with my findings on the oil and he sort of smirked in that “I know that you know that I’m trying to get one over on you because our profit margin on these extra services we convince you that you need is incredible and my boss is watching and I also know that you’ve totally dumped about $2000 into this car in the last 6 months so everything is new and this is all I can legitimately come up with and since I am trying to prove you need the expensive oil it just works for my pitch.”

So what did I learn from all this? Well, in lesson number one with the Harley, I learned that men are very stupid. That’s really all I can say about not knowing you have to dial 1 before making a long distance call. In lesson number two with the car, I learned that men will try to sell women anything by scaring them about the future performance of their vehicle.

In both cases, it helps to be smarter than the person with whom you are dealing.

Well, it was a great day. I ran 3 1/2 miles, then came home, showered, and took some stabs at it with a fork. Thora just watched and cheered me on. And no, before someone calls Animal Control, I am definitely NOT feeding my dog chocolate. In fact, I’ve just learned Thora needs (and will get) a $7000 operation, so don’t tell me I ain’t a good mama!

We’ll report back with regularity.

I’ve stockpiled food for winter. I expect this tub of cookie dough to be finished by spring thaw…if it ever gets cold.

I’m hoping Thora will help me.

There is a whole conglomeration of people who have finally made the “dog park” come to fruition in D.C. That is, in a legal, Department of Public Works approved manner.

Let me state my case now. Sammy and Thora hate the dog park. They have no interest in the dog park. I only go there to chit chat with my friends before submitting to a walk around the neighborhood because those little shits won’t shit at the park. This is very annoying. But that said, I don’t care if there are dog parks or not.

The anti-dog people KILL me. They are so funny. They will take something simple like a dog park and turn it into some argument about how dog owners hate children (yes, because having a dog and a child are mutually exclusive – no one on earth has both!) and that dog owners are unruly yuppies. (Well, okay, some are I suppose.) No one ever remembers the fact that dog owners are out in the neighborhoods often and are the eyes and ears of the crime, in some cases, helping the police when they couldn’t find their perp inside that jelly donut they were investigating, or that having a dog virtually drops your chances of being robbed down to 1%. There have been none of the daytime home break-ins to homes with dogs. But I digress.

Now, there’s always someone who decides to just rant about being anti-dog for some stupid reason or another. Bah. Like this article in the Examiner. (Examiner circulation: 11.) Read the comments though. Well not all of them. It gets pretty boring and follows the same themes. This is yet again a black vs. white issue and a kids vs. non-kids issue. Jesus christ on a stick can we please, PLEASE have something in this city not become a racial issue? I am so sick of it. The first few comments on this article, some of which I believe were deleted said things like, “Go back to your side of the Anacostia,” and “What do you want next, for us to free the slaves?” Jesus. Like I used to say when I lived in Atlanta, “The war is over people!”

Anyway, this writer is supposed to be a journalist. I don’t really care what she endorses and what she opposes, but my friends care and I like my friends. I’m all in favor of backing them up to get this dog park approved so my dogs can sit around miserably while I gossip with the best of them. I can’t hate her for her opinion. But I CAN make fun of her poorly written Examiner article “For the record: I dont hate dogs. Someone is making such a declaration right now. But get that out of your mind.” Who writes like that? “But get that out of your mind?” Did she just change from third person to first person, then second person – the ‘you’ being implied, all in stream of three related sentences? CHRIST! Where was the editor when she turned that in – in the potty? I decided to take a look at the writer’s website for a minute.

I went to her “about” page. The first sentence tells us she has 20 years experience in journalism and was rated one of the top 50 journalists in D.C. by Washingtonian Mag. Ok. From the 2nd to last paragraph in her bio: “She is a highly sought speaker who has given talks throughout the United States–state correctional facilities in Pennsylvania, the University of Wisconsin, Maryland University, Duke University, The Arizona Fatherhood Conference, and the National Fatherhood Summit 2000 and in Paris, France.”

Um…if I spoke at all those places, I would list them in order of prestige. I wouldn’t put the correctional facilities first. Just saying.

Anyway, back to the comments and the article. If you read them all, they are a true testament to everything that is wrong in this city. People who oppose anything decide to bitch about their tax dollars having to pay for a dog park they won’t use, but neglect to mention all the money the people with no children pay in taxes as well for schools and playgrounds, and then, hold on, because it won’t be long before it turns quickly into black vs. white; natives vs. new in town; non-gentrified neighborhoods vs. gentrified. Fight fight fight. That’s all that goes on here.

This goes back to my original impression of D.C. People here need lives. We have plenty of other things to worry about (lackluster police force, high crime, racial tensions, traffic, terrorism) besides spending $1200 on a few dog parks in the city.

You are lucky you are married…

I thought about posting something similar this weekend, but he beat me to it!

This one is pulled from the files of “Don’t Ya Hate it When Karma Bites You in Your FAT ASS!”

All of this is hypothetical. Of course. Of course! I always write hypothetically-speaking right?

Have you ever had something happen and someone who was “supposed” to be your friend decided to jump on the “anti-you” bandwagon and malign your name along with some other medicated tri-polar delusional “my life is so wonderful” hermit? And all the while these things are happening, legitimately happening, this “supposed friend” is possibly egging them on? So the issue gets swept under the mat, everyone goes their separate ways and no one hears a peep from the other side for a long time. But then, the “supposed friend” just happens to pop out of the woodwork and publicly malign your name again, for no reason, calling you many many names most of which really just apply to his or herself?

You, being of sound mind and better judgment than a year ago, a month ago, even a day ago, just laugh, and shake your head, and wonder, “Gee, what could still be bothering this person after all this time has gone by? Have they nothing else in their life?”

Then, during this new round of public maligning, the “supposed friend” has some sort of awakening and emails you. You – who they have said nothing but bad things about as recently as yesterday. What if you got this email and had to read skim an entire dissertation on how the “now ex-supposed friend” was in danger and “since the same thing had happened to you could you please help me even though I didn’t believe you and now I realize I should have and even though I just said a bunch of nasty things about you yesterday and the day before and the day before that, I have no where else to turn and I’m so sorry I was such a bitch and so so so wish it could have played out differently especially because I think you are the only one who can helllllllp me!!!”

Silly, pathetic little loser. She should have added, “there’s not enough medication in the world to fix my crazy and I’m just an anorexic psycho who has no real friends.”

To say that you would laugh hysterically at this letter and say, “Thank you, since I don’t believe in God or whatever, thank you to whatever fates aligned to make this person’s life a miserable piece of shit,” would be an understatement. Really! It couldn’t have happened to a nicer, more deserving person!

Every dog gets their day in court.

There is a French Film Festival in town. In case anyone cares. Actually, I care, that’s why I bring you this news. The festival goes through November 1, so get your ass out there!

Sunday, I went with an old friend who I wish would blog again to the National Gallery to see a collection of shorts. I love the short. LOVE it. I think that it takes an incredible amount of genius to pour a story into a 10 or 20 minute clip. Increasingly used by aspiring filmmakers, the short is a way to showcase talents in a manner that may actually be viewed by financial backers.

We saw nine movies over the course of two hours. Three were really good from an artistic standpoint (Be Quiet, Les Volets & Ming d’or.) Two were really funny (The Danse Lesson & Premier Voyage.) One went over my head (Waiting for Yesterday.) One was so cute and such a feel good movie (Ousmane.) One was totally boring (Bonsoir Monsieur Chu.) And one was really really disturbing. That would be “Even If She Had Been a Criminal.” Silent and in black and white, several French women are publicly humiliated and have their head shaved for partaking in extracurriculars with German Soldiers.

The shorts are gone, but there are still several days left to view other full length feature films in town. Check Cest Chic! for more info.

(Look, you have to admit…the French Film Festival news is way better than “there’s a rat loose in CVS or “the Greeks want their marbles back,” right?)

Location: 17th and P.

So…one Sixes and Sevens and I just meandered into CVS after lunch. We were immediately confronted with this:

The candy aisle is closed in the week preceeding Halloween? Really? We asked the cashier what was going on and she got “that look.” You know, the one where their mouth is saying they don’t know but their eyes and face are telling another story, like, “RUN!”

Someone didn’t spellcheck before printing the sign that says, “Sorry we can’t sale these itemes.”

We moved through the store, hearing the cashier tell someone that no food and beverage was allowed to be sold according to the manager. At the prescription desk, we asked them if they knew what was going on. They too got “the look,” and said with a smirk on their face, “Oh, I don’t know. No, really, I don’t know.”

Then, we spotted this:

In case you never had a rodent (hamster, gerbil, mouse) like myself, and in case you never had mice invade your house in the Great Mice vs. Velvet and Velvet’s brother debacle of 1997, you may not recognize the above pellets as rodent poop.

More specifically: rats.

So the rat, or rats, tore through CVS last night or this morning eating their way through the cheese puffs. AWESOME! Check out the nibble bites!

Anyway, other than it being hilarious that the CVS is basically incapacitated, rats amuse me. The other night, Thora and Sammy and I were walking down the street and a rat jumped out, ran right in front of us and took off into the bushes. None of us even flinched. Thankfully, I don’t scream bloody murder like the people from the ‘burbs do when they come here and a rat jumps out in their path.

Psst. Hey you! Rat! Everyone learned on Supermarket Sweep that you go for the high dollar items first! Step away from the cheese puffs!

Thank you, and thank you to you too.

And of course, now I know how the Post found my last, err, post.

Well, I’m going through an “I should be involved in more things” breakthrough, so I’m trying to actually leave Dupont Circle. It doesn’t happen often, but today, I ventured out. Um. To the Greek Embassy.

They were having a lecture and unveiling of the new Acropolis museum. Since I was just in Athens and the museum was closed – even though I breathed really hard on the glass doors and whined, “But I paid and it says on my ticket that the museum is included,” I decided to check it out. Truth be told, I’d much rather walk the 7 or so blocks to the Embassy than fly 10 hours back to Athens.

I mistakenly and naively thought I would be one of three people there. I was wrong. Holy Baklava Batman, it was standing room only, seriously. I told my parents earlier in the day that I was going over there and they were like, “DRESS NICE!” which translates into, “MAYBE YOU’LL FIND A GREEK HUSBAND.” I, of course, was late, and ended up taking a seat close to the back. From where I was sitting, it was less an exhibit on the Acropolis (which I couldn’t see quite well) and more an exhibit on really bad fashion (which I could see…all too well.) I also wanted to pose a question to the group: Am I the only one here who has washed my hair today? Just curious! I later discovered that it was because I was sitting near the archeological student contingent from the nearby universities. Whoo. Thank goodness they weren’t Greeks or I would have been running my own exhibit next week at the Embassy on personal grooming.

Anyway, the undercurrent of the evening was not that that this beautiful museum is now open in Athens, but that they are holding spaces open in the exhibit areas for the marbles that the Brits stole. In the very early 1800’s, Lord Elgin made it his business to dismantle parts of the Parthenon and take them back to London, where they now sit in the British Museum. (Someone even drew an interpretation of a guy climbing the Parthenon and chipping away at the stone.)

The Brits refuse to return them, stating stupid reasons like, “They belong here where all the world can enjoy them.” Part of the exhibit showed how they have half of the frescoes, and need the other halves which are, again, in FUCKING LONDON! God damned Brits! Give us back our MARBLES!!! (That was the cry of the evening and I quickly jumped on that bandwagon.) How would the Brits like it if we stole some of their non-rotten teeth and took them off to Athens? Huh? Oh, wait, maybe teeth was a bad example. Brits don’t have those.

Anyway, I joined their bandwagon. There’s nothing I love more than Greeks who hold a grudge.

Many of you got the little email from WaPo, right? Asking us to “join their blogroll,” right? I actually didn’t answer it. Something just didn’t pass the sniff test. A week and two days later, I finally replied with a polite “no.” Why are they doing this NOW? Blogging has clearly jumped the shark. It makes no sense to be on the tail end of a phenomenon so mediocre. Of course, we’re speaking of the Post though. They aren’t really a “forefront of the operation” kind of media. I looked at the website. I quickly got discouraged with the in-your-face popups and the inability to scroll beyond the first page in any category. Hello? Tech support? You don’t make a site live until the code and links work. Duh.

It should have occurred to me that theirs wasn’t a gesture of goodwill and creating a community, but rather, a plight for their own interests.

Click here and read this.

What? You don’t want to? Why? Because you remember that time I had you click a link and it brought you to a sex site? Sorry about that. Okay, here’s an excerpt in case you still haven’t forgiven me:

Once upon a time, newspapers wanted nothing to do with bloggers, those amateurs who opined on anything that caught their fancy, whether it was interesting, or accurate, or not. That was then. Now newspaper websites, desperate for readers and revenue, are increasingly in cahoots with bloggers, posting and plugging them and even sharing advertising revenue.

Purists may sniff at these online liaisons but, as the print newspaper industry shrinks, they may be inevitable.

This year, the Washington Post added a sponsored blog roll to its website, a directory of links to blogs that specialize in travel, technology, health and more. If the Post sells an ad on the blog roll’s main page, the bloggers split the money with the newspaper. So far, about 100 bloggers have signed up.

To Caroline Little, the chief executive of Washingtonpost Newsweek Interactive, the ad network is good business. Most ad buyers don’t want to take the time to buy space on dozens of different blogs, she said, and the staff-driven side of the website often doesn’t have enough stories about technology, business or health for advertisers looking to place ads near that content. With the blog roll, the Post can grab ad revenue that might have gone elsewhere.

“It’s about figuring out how to monetize other people’s content,” Little said.

Of course it is, you silly whore. Why bother being creative when you appealed to a whole group of people who want exposure? It’s a convenient arrangement, isn’t it? Though you don’t tell these people that your readership has been down and this will do nothing for individual blogger exposure.

So, is it that the WaPo writers are not good enough to attract visitors? Or are they too stupid to, oh, I dunno, hire a real ad agency and come up with an aggressive marketing plan? (Hmm…maybe…how about the Great URL Expiration of ’04, anyone?)

Using us for lost ad dollars? WaPo just elevated their position on my list of D.C.’s most self-serving, and we have a lot of politicians here with whom to compete! Try working for your ad dollars WaPo. Velvet in Dupont subsidizes only those who subsidize her back. And right now, that list is empty.*

*Okay, maybe I got a little toll money from my daddy a couple weeks ago when I went to visit. I protested, but he wanted me to have that $20 and with the George Washington Bridge costing a bank-breaking $6 these days, and that fucking Jersey Turnpike is outrageous too, and shit, you have to pay tolls to get into and out of Delaware and god damned it, the state is only 10 miles long!!! I took the money. Then I hung my head in shame, and drove off in my overpriced Speedracer that breaks a lot. It makes no sense. I admit this. In the spirit of total honesty and full disclosure, I admit this.

A tiny bit of my soul was sucked out of me when I realized I may have become the person I never thought I would. Because I just totally, like ohmygod, gag me with a spoon, betrayed the 13 year old in me. You know, the one who I promised I would never become “one of them.”

I remain vehemently opposed to things like myspace. I just don’t get it. I’m sorry. I can’t understand its purpose beyond a ridiculous time-vortex. I maintain a basic profile for the sole purpose of chatting with (read: keeping tabs on) my best friend’s teenage girls. Very specifically, one of them. My friend told me one night on the phone that they had recent pictures on their myspace, so I logged on, created a quickie profile and they added me as a friend. We exchanged comments and I (again! Where does this come from? Sometimes I make myself sick!) told them things like “Get the best grades you can.” They respond that they are trying but…blah blah…boys…blah blah and I’m like, “Trust me, get the best grades you can. Plenty of people will want to tell you that ‘You can’t.’ Don’t let them have another reason to weed you out of whatever it is you want. Get good grades!” I check up on them every now and again to make sure they are behaving. The girls are ridiculously beautiful for 12 and 13. Seriously. I’m not just saying that. Like people say how cute their own babies are. No. No. No. These girls are fucking mega hot.

So, one of them is not behaving. She is not even close to behaving. She is 13 going on 24 with full makeup and dressing like Christina Aguilera in that brief but horrifying time between the innocent “Genie in a Bottle” and the classy “Ain’t No Other Man.” For someone whose theme song is “Girls Girls Girls,” the half naked female doesn’t shock me. But when the half naked female is my friend’s daughter? Oh. Oh. Not good.

Here’s the email I sent:

Dear Friend,

Hey. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but “13 year old’s” myspace profile seems to include pictures of her in a bra and undies. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? You will need to log in to see because she blocks non friends. Here’s my id and password. Call me if you need me to walk you through it.

She replied with: “FUCK! I’m having A LOT of problems with her.”

I replied with, “Oh my god I’m a tattletale.”

Within minutes the entire myspace profile came down. What have I become? I know I did the right thing. I know I did. But that 13 year old inside of me who is spinning the Cutting Crew’s “I Just Died In Your Arms” on a 45 record, passing time until Friday night so she can drool over Don Johnson in Miami Vice is pissed off. Real pissed off. And I don’t know if she will ever forgive me.

In my attempt to get my mind off Thora, who goes to a specialist tomorrow, how about something light hearted. Clearly this post is just for the girls.

Dear Lucky Magazine,

The only reason I have had a subscription to you since the very beginning of your life is because I love a magazine about clothes and makeup without any articles about how to get your man in bed or how to check yourself for breast cancer every 4 minutes. That said, uh, what the fuck is up with your November issue? I have two problems: Paris Hilton and everything else. Yes. That’s correct.

Paris Hilton. A four page spread (pun intended) with her ugly face hawking yet another perfume? Four pages? Are you so desperate for ad money that you have to give her four pages? And didn’t you notice that she looks dead or just very mannequin like in the picture? I’m sorry, but the last time I checked, you sell media to advertisers who cater to your demographic. I just don’t see the woman reading Lucky as the same woman who wants to smell like Paris Hilton. But, then perhaps my next complaint explains this issue.

The First Annual Shopping Awards. When you are polling your readers to ask them about their favorites, try not to poll people in unfashionable parts of the country, okay? Because, I promise you, promise promise promise, that there is indeed a better beauty counter than Macy’s. Macy’s? Really? How about Nordstrom? Bergdorfs? Bloomingdales? (It’s like no other store in the world!) I also bet you that the best selection of Emerging Designers is definitely not contained inside Nordstrom. Again, I am partial to Bergdorf’s but what can I say? I’m a New Yorker at heart.

I had to hold my breath for the next round of crap – Chain Stores.

Best Shoes – Nine West. (Someone kill me. Please. Stab me with a stiletto. I worked for Nine West. These shoes are horribly made.)

Best Lingerie – Victoria’s Secret. (You know, earlier today I was wearing Victoria’s Secret underwear, but then they disintregated right off my body and now I’m going commando.)

Best Denim – The Gap. (I just threw up in my mouth, on the floor and on the guy next to me. Sorry dude. Then I passed out when I realized that Lucky’s fashion editor said, “Express has brilliant jeans.” Am I the only one here? What is going on here? Am I in some twisted episode of The Twilight Zone?)

Best Party Clothes – Forever 21. (Well, here we go. Here’s the contingency of voters who also want to smell like Paris Hilton.)

Best denim website – The Gap. (Oh. My. God. Do they not have anything other than the motherfucking Gap online? Are you people the same assholes who picked “c” for every question you didn’t know on your SAT’s?)

Everyone has a bad couple days Lucky. Okay? But you shouldn’t go to press when you do. I want to hear what YOU fashion-whores think are the best stores – not what the rest of the country thinks. The only peep I want to hear from readers in other places are about their local boutiques that might be great places to shop. And yes, I AM sitting here in Lucky Jean Brand Sweatpant shorts and a wifebeater that says LUCKY as I type – not to be confused with your Lucky. Now, about my attire. So?

Love,

Velvet
a.k.a. No longer in Fashion, but still the Fashion Police!

Sometimes I just don’t believe the shit that happens.

My precious Thora turns 8 years old in one month. I’ve had her since she was 3 months old. My then-boyfriend found her running around Savannah looking for someone to play with. He was working on a movie, The Gift, in which Thora appears in the opening credits. My ex called me and asked me to come from Atlanta, where we were living, to Savannah to get our new dog who had disrupted the filming schedule one too many times with her barking.

Thora didn’t have a name for the first couple of weeks. But “thoro” means “gift” in Greek. Since she was our gift, and also in “The Gift,” there you go. Having only had hamsters and a chinchilla, I never felt connected to a pet in my life. That first night I got to Savannah in February of 2000, Thora lay in bed with me in some horrifying fleabag motel while my ex was filming overnight. She rolled over on her back and slept with all four legs spread out like a starfish. I thought, “Holy shit. She spreads her legs like me!” No, wait. That’s not what I thought. I thought, “I’m actually someone’s quasi-mom now. WHAT HAVE I DONE?”

Other than the time when she ate an inkjet cartridge on Christmas morning, other than the time when she grabbed the fabric skirt on the couch and went running across the room tearing it with her as she went, other than the time when she tried to dig out of our apartment and pulled up the rug and padding down to the concrete, other than the time she jumped out of the car on Buford Highway in Atlanta to chase a squirrel, other than the time she rolled in a septic field and smelled like shit for weeks, other than the time she killed my ex’s mom’s chickens (OMG don’t ask, please don’t ask,) I have loved this dog.

When she ran away from my ex’s house, I went on an all out rampage to get her back. I was living in Maryland at the time. I made a spreadsheet called Thora Come Home. I sat at work and made phone calls all day and placed ads in newspapers. The 3rd day the ad dropped, someone called to say “I think my neighbor has your dog.” I drove all night with my friend to go get her. No one was going to stop me.

When we pulled up in front of the lesbian’s house (look, that’s who rescued her, ok? and yesssss they have lesbians in red states) Thora walked outside, looked at me as if to say “Where have you been, bitch” jumped in the original Velvet, crawled in the backseat and went to sleep. I had brought all sorts of pictures to prove Thora was mine and I wasn’t just some lunatic driving from Maryland to Macon, Georgia to get a dog. But when they saw that they said, “Thas yer dog a’ight.”

So, present day. Thora has been having trouble walking all of a sudden. I took her to the vet for x-rays. I expected a torn ligament. I expected arthritis. I did not expect this.

“Did you know your dog has been shot?”

I actually said to the doctor, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

“Yes, quite a few times.”

I saw the x-ray. I saw 11 bullets. I brought the King of the Dog Park. He also saw the 11 bullets. We were stunned. I swear, I felt like fainting. Like everything just changed. In an instant. Who the fuck would shoot a dog? I called my ex, and we reconstructed a timeline of the last 8 years, and we have no idea. How does your dog get 11 wounds and you don’t notice blood? So did it happen before we got her? And if so, why didn’t she ever show any signs of injury before now? Did she get it in that time she was on the run, when she ended up at the lesbian’s house? I don’t know. I’ll never know. I’m just honestly – stunned. For years, I have wondered what Sammy and Thora’s lives were like before they came into mine. But in my wildest dreams, I never imagined they were abused or, worse, shot.

So now, my dear sweet Thora, I get it. I get why thunder scares you. I get why the slamming of the UPS truck door makes you jump. I get why the popping of the bubble wrap petrifies you so much you hide under the bed. Now it all makes sense. I often wish my dogs could talk. There’s so much I want to know that only they can tell me. Though, thoughts of gunshots and bullets…maybe I don’t want to know it all.

Loves you Thora Bean. You’ll always be my first baby. I’ll spend all my money and jack up my credit cards to make sure you get well.

I have a confession to make. I used to be one of those chicks in fashion. Ha. That still makes me laugh. Anyone who has seen me in my ulta-fave sweatpant shorts and witnessed the still-in-progress unpainted fingernail marathon of 2006-7 is probably laughing as well. Yes, I had a subscription to Women’s Wear Daily. I had the newest and latest stuff all the time. I sat in runway shows and worked in the business. For five years.

My first job after college was working at a corporate office of a retail company everyone knows – Nine West. Essentially, I was a buyer. But it was wholesale buying – so you are not making a selection. You are taking what needs to be produced and scheduling it on lines and making sure it gets done.

Nine West entered into a license agreement to make Calvin Klein shoes for the now defunct cK brand of footwear. I commuted my ass to Seventh Avenue in New York City and quickly learned that the sun never rises in the Garment District. Something about crossing Sixth Avenue, and everything went dark.

License agreements are screwy at best. Calvin Klein, the man and the company, are masters at licensing the name and slapping it all over everything. Technically, nothing except the Calvin Klein Women’s Collection is actually done in house anymore. I learned that anything with the Calvin Klein name on it was made by some company who specialized in that particular product line. The prestige of wearing Calvin Klein underwear dissipates quickly when you learn that Vanity Fair or Fruit of the Loom were really the ones making it. If you wonder why sometimes things look so similar among designers, that’s a major reason. If you work for Fruit of the Loom and in addition to making your own boxers you have to do Calvin’s – what do you think happens? You slap that puppy on the same production line with your own and there is very little difference in product quality or appearance. It is always more cost effective to run the same styles on the same lines.

I remember the day I rode the elevator with Calvin Klein and Christy Turlington. I was not as awe struck as my co-worker, who was practically in tears at sharing the same 4 by 6 space with them. Bah. I was more excited to tear into my Eggplant Parm.

After several grueling years, and making it to a buying office, I learned the industry had too many sordid back corners for me to permanently call it home. This is how it works:

A company has designers who spend time in Europe checking out the latest fashions. They come back and “re-interpret” that for America. (Groan. Have you seen the rest of America?) They may show 100 pieces in a collection, but after the Sales Managers come in, a lot of what they don’t think they can sell gets cut. Then after the trade and runway shows, whatever else lacks interest also gets cut. The final collection you take to production is about 30% of what you originally started with. The best pieces always get cut and never make it out to the world. Up against rising production costs and factory workers who weren’t very competent, Nine West moved all their production from the States and Brazil out to China. They didn’t have a choice. As a manufacturer, you just can’t win.

The other side of the business, being a buyer, is really not much better. You are given a set budget and you have only that money to spend for the season. But there are many levels of management above you who determine on what they want you to spend your budget. This is usually due to “exclusive deals” with manufacturers. While this sounds like a fantastic deal, it’s a load of crap. The real reason the seller is offering a discount on volume is because they got a break on price from their factory. They are trying to max their profit out on something that isn’t necessarily what people want, just easy to make. The buyers plan to heavily promote it, because many subscribe to the belief that at the right price, anything will sell. The promise of exclusivity is also not that at all – you will almost always see a very similar piece of merchandise at a competitor. The vendor will contest this though. This is my favorite lie: “Oh, it’s a totally different shoe! It’s one millimeter of one millimeter higher in the heel! That speaks to a completely different woman!”

So this item above “exclusive” probably ate 20% of the buyer’s budget. Then there are “basics” that every buyer has to have, as well as continuing sellers from prior seasons. Finally, there would be about 15% to 20% of the budget left at the end for “fashion” items. These are the things that are more interesting, more outrageous, that not everyone will want. The trick to these is that if you are a buyer and only spending a few dollars on these fashion items, so are the other buyers of the world. This means the seller has to go to production with a very limited run. Changing a shoe mid production is costly. You have to produce a minimum of 5000 pairs just to break even. Your price may go up. Then it busts your budget. See now why everything you buy is made in a country you haven’t heard of?

My days at Calvin Klein yielded one superstar. Several years after the place closed up shop, my old co-worker and one of the only nice people at “cK Shoes and Bags,” John Truex, hit it big with Lambertson Truex. The rest of those assholes are probably still sauntering around Manhattan in head to toe black, coming in at 11:00 for their jobs, eating ice cubes for lunch, snorting coke, and leaving at 9:00, where they promptly hit the party scene. No thanks.

My days at Nine West yielded one casualty, Laura Southwick. You can see from that picture, taken at the latest in 2000, she was a definite fashionista. People didn’t start wearing those glasses until the past couple years. That chick was ON IT. Laura and I worked in the same office and she came with me the day I bought my first car – the original VELVET. After Nine West, I moved to Atlanta and Laura went on to work for Kenneth Cole. As everyone in fashion learned in the late 90’s, the only place for production cheap enough to ensure any profit was China. Laura traveled endlessly. The “glamorous life” she had envisioned wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Just four months after September 11th, she went on what she told friends would be her “last trip to China.” As she wrote in her journal, she realized she no longer wanted to be at the mercy of a company who couldn’t guarantee her personal safety. She wrote her resignation letter on the flight as well, but would never return home to deliver it. And no, no one knows what happened, other than that she died overnight in a rural Chinese hospital and the doctors didn’t even know until the morning when they went in to review her test results with her. Um, no thanks on the travel by the way.

At my grad school graduation, I gave the speech. I spoke about Laura and how we learn, sometimes through the hard lessons of friends, that some things are just too important to sacrifice. A final sidenote about how pathetic the industry is – at Laura’s funeral service, Kenneth Cole, the man, approached her parents and asked her for a leather coat back that he had given their daughter as a present. Can. You. Fucking. Believe. It. Fuck you Kenneth Cole and there’s the reason why I don’t buy any of your shit.

So what brings this up? I received an email from someone who heard I had the buying experience they wanted and blah blah blah. Nope. No way. Ultimately I made the decision to leave the business for good. The hours were long. The pay was low. The politics were heavy. The potential cost…astronomical.

Welcome back to Tool Time everyone. Tim and Al can’t be your hosts today, so you will have to settle for myself, six lovely co-hosts and a special guest star.

Cast of Characters:

FreckledK, a.k.a. “Houdini” – Pulls guys out of her hat like a magician doing a rabbit trick.
Suicide Blonde, a.k.a. “URL Junkie” – Sometime bail arranger, victim of drink theft.
Mystery Girl!, a.k.a. “Mrs. Mystery” – The Original Whorebucket, lover of line, “Did you see that fight outside?”
Momentary Academic, a.k.a “The Eye of the Storm” – Master trademarker, part time voice of reason, part time instigator, full time giggler.
Jordan Baker, a.k.a. “The Devil in Fishnets” – Index card hoarder, all around mastermind of escape plans.
“Jemma” – a.k.a. “I was the last stop before Skanksville” – Featured in FreckledK’s recent post, the quiet one laughing at the stupidity which surrounds her.
Arjewtino – a.k.a. “Justin Time” – Special Guest Star and reinforcement called at the 11th hour.

In this segment, a tool is going to hold court in front of seven women. The women, who chose their seats at the bar for its space to spread out and vantage point for spotting game were quickly saddened to learn that the arrival of one tool and the placement of one load-bearing pillar would render their entire night cockblocked. Now, what would you do if you wanted to get rid of him? I was piss rotten mean to him, threatened to punch him in the face, stuck my stiletto heel in his crotch and then, doubled those efforts when he said, “I can’t believe anyone would actually have sex with you.” That had me firing off a text message across town which garnered the return response, “I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t have MORE sex with you.” Ego duly satisfied. Back to the show.

Girls? A little help? How would you get rid of him? What are your best methods for pest removal?

FreckledK: “I called for help. Then I turned my back on him and started talking to some other guy.”
MysteryGirl!: “I asked him if he saw the fight outside.”
Jemma: “I used my most evil psychological tactics. I waited until he delivered a line he thought was funny, then I would lean over and whisper in FreckledK’s ear, ‘He is a tool,’ loud enough for him to hear, and obvious enough for him to know I didn’t like him.”
Suicide Blonde: “I outwitted him when he pulled out his blackberry. In a bar. On a Saturday. No one was going to steal that URL name from my hot little hands.”
Momentary Academic: “I tried to be cordial, but then encouraged him to hit on another girl across the room just to get him away from us.”
Jordan Baker: “I appealed to the masses. Since none of us could get him to leave, I wrote a note on an index card that said, ‘Are you of sound mind? Can you get this guy away from us?'”

Luckily Jordan Baker had several index cards, because that exercise took a few tries. Arjewtino even came with his friend who looks like the guy from Sideways and STILL this guy would not leave. He was like a leper.

But finally. Imagine the relief we felt when, after hours of pleading with him to get lost, a cute boy walked up to us with an index card in his hand.

“Hey. Someone passed me this note.”

There was so much clapping and cheering, you would have thought we were front row at a gay piano bar with Liza Minnelli doing an encore. Half the bar turned around to look at seven girls who just spent five hours held hostage by some guy whose proud accomplishment was locking up a URL about dudecheckoutmyblog.

Brilliant. The line by crafty Jordan Baker was brilliant. I thought my great line of Summer 2006 was brilliant, “Are you with the band?” But, no. This one takes the cake. If you can’t get the guy to get away from you, write someone an S.O.S. note. When the Titanic is sinking, these are the girls you want with you. These are the girls who will MacGyver their way out of any situation with their skill and wit.

For some reason, when I think of that guy, the words from “You’re So Vain” plow through my head.

This was the last episode of Tool Time from the basement. We’re taking our act on the road. You’ve been warned. This sleepy little town is ripe for some damage. Hide the booze and your underage sons. Whorebuckets unveiling, coming soon.

My book reports from Greece. I know you were waiting with bated breath for these.

Women in Love, D.H. Lawrence. I read Sons and Lovers and absolutely loved this book. I couldn’t get enough, didn’t want it to be over, wanted more after it was finished. So, I chose another Lawrence classic, Women in Love. Uh…ick. I didn’t like it. What I loved about Sons and Lovers was that it was so timeless – I know of many cases where that situation (boy who is plucked as favorite of the mother can’t seem to find a woman who is good enough and ends up alone) happens today. I suppose that Women in Love is timeless as well with its theme of women who just are never fucking happy no matter who the man and what they do for them, but it just wasn’t as interesting or well written to me. Call me nuts.

D.C. Noir was my non-classic. Reading this on the middle of a practically deserted island still annoyed me because, let’s face it. I hate D.C. Why I chose to read a book about a place I don’t care for, only served to annoy me more. If that was even possible. There were a few good stories in there though. But not the one about the yuppie mom who took the doll she found in the alley behind her house in a “transitional neighborhood.” The doll belonged to a crazy lady living in the halfway house across the street from the Yuppie Compound, and the drugs inside belonged to a dealer who then put a hit out on the crazy lady. See, there is a such thing as being “too liberal” you assholes. That yuppie bitch should have minded her own business and left the doll where she found it instead of trying to give the crazy lady a “better doll.” Silly liberals think helping others is a game to make themselves feel better and to assuage their guilt. Thankfully the next book was better.

One of my favorite songs of all time is For Whom the Bell Tolls by Metallica. One of my favorite authors of all time is Hemingway. So Hemingway has a book called For Whom the Bell Tolls and I finally read that puppy in Greece. Typical of Hemingway (and Metallica,) it didn’t disappoint.

What I was most curious about was – knowing that both were about war, in what capacity were they linked. That is a horrid sentence I just wrote and I can’t figure out how to fix it. Anyway, it seems that the song is about the portion of the book that contains El Sordo’s last stand. “Men of five, still alive, through the raging glow, gone insane from the pain that they surely know.”

This one is a must read. And the song, a must listen. True to Hemingway’s style, you think you are there and you are left with your jaw open because you just have no idea where he is going. If I ever had a conventional church wedding (cough cough cough!) I would most definitely walk down the aisle to Metallica by the way.

The last in my pile was Ulysses. I have already made this confession to my friends, family and “friend,” so I may as well tell you all. I need the Cliffs Notes, or something. Momentary Academic soothed my ego by telling me there are whole grad classes on the book by itself. One Jordan Baker recommended I buy a certain companion to Ulysses to help my understanding, however, I sort of want to quit. Look, I read 200 pages of the highly touted “greatest novel of all time” or whatever. Can’t I quit? It’s just about a bunch of drunk Irishmen, and I’ve dated several of those so that has to count for something.

This whole Cliff’s Notes thing is really wearing me out. I stare at Ulysses every night and choose something else to read, usually Bazaar or Lucky, and coo over the clothes I’ll never buy, in anticipation of the day when I finally crack and just go buy something to help me finish this thing. And the day I buy it is the day I solidify my place in Loserville. Population: 1. Unless anyone else wants to fess up to not getting Ulysses either…

All my bitching about Greece and yet, I’m number one on Google Greece for the search term “Velvet.” Aww shucks. I think you all still love me even though you tried to arrest me at the end.

Though, sadly, I’m still rocking the number 2 position for “ways to get a girl exited.” (Exited?) On that search term, I’m trailing behind number 1, How do I get my girl squirting?

Well, it certainly beats the long time span last year where I was number one for “velvet ass sex.” (Currently holding the number 19 position on that one…)

So, it’s no secret that I didn’t love Greece. I felt bad for not loving it, but then I asked my mom if she would go back again and she choked, then said something like, “HA! NO FUCKING WAY!” (Obviously, I didn’t learn to swear like a sailor by hanging out at bars.) I won’t, and can’t, get into the details of our last 24 hours in Greece but I will tell you that they involved the words, “Call Security,” and that upon our return to the states, everyone’s response on hearing the details were, “You are lucky to be alive.”

Honestly. We are. Had you told me this prior to our trip, I would have assumed it would have been something the Velvet Family would have done. But, I promise, none of this was our fault. And I think my parents are effectively not answering their phone or front door for a while at the Velvet Family Compound.

Anyway, there was one good part of the trip in all of the mess.

The island my grandfather came from is a place no one has heard of, is on no cruise line route, and frankly, I want to go back there. And I don’t want to be hearing no stinking English when I do, so I will not be naming said island. You can find your own island anyway.

We stayed at our cousin’s house. I knew it was primitive when they said, “The bathroom is outside.” Shit. The first morning, I was woken by roosters. They wouldn’t let me sleep, cock-a-doodle-doo-ing each other from every side of the island, so I got up to take a walk. I went up the hill to the main road and scared the shit out of a bunch of goats. Look how cute they are. I want one!!!

You can’t see it in this picture, but they tie the goat’s front foot to its corresponding back foot. I know goats can kick some ass climbing mountains, but I didn’t understand why they tie their hands to their feet. Our cousins said it was because they will run away. My mom was threatening to do that to my dad if he didn’t behave. Anyway, that was when I realized just how far in the middle of nowhere we really were. No. Wait. When I was reading D.C. Noir and a Donkey walked by…THAT’S when I realized just how in the middle of nowhere we were. And it was awesome. This is him, later on, being led by his owner.

The cousins are trying to get me to come back and spend a month next summer. I said, “Bitch, ain’t you heard of no job and shit?” But they are Greeks, and Greeks take plenty of time off without worrying about a job and two weeks vacation.

We went to see the house where my grandfather was born and lived until he illegally came to the U.S. My great grandparents raised seven children in a hut the same size as my shoebox in D.C. Because I’m not a materialistic, I actually never complain about the size of my condo. I could pack everything I own and move in probably less than 5 hours. But with a man and seven kids? Shit. Anyway here is my living proof of how POOR my family was.

Now, of course the house wasn’t originally trashed on the inside. But, according to the Greeks, “that’s what happens when Albanians buy it.”

My grandparents up and left Greece and came here to live out their arranged marriages, sling hash in diners, work at Bethlehem Steel, and sew garments in a sweatshop. They did it for my parents, who then became the first generation on both sides of the family to choose their own spouse and to attend college. And my parents did it for my brothers and I, who then went on to grad school, got good jobs, and don’t have to worry about money. There is a fallacy in the American Dream for my grandparents. It existed – but not for them. For their kids and grandkids.

Because my grandparents were born in Greece, I can actually get dual citizenship. My brother and I thought that was pretty cool the first few days of our trip and vowed to look into it. But by the end? All I could think was how our grandparents wanted so badly to get out of there, and how, 80 years later, we wanted to leave after only being there a few weeks, and I’m not so sure.

Capitalism. Democracy. Being an American. We may not be perfect, but we’re a whole lot better than a lot of other places.

When we finally left Athens and got to the islands, I was much more of a happy camper. The cruise ship islands were wretchedly overcrowded with tourists. Mykonos was awful. Proof positive once a place makes it to something like E!’s “Wild On,” or the ill-fated Tara Reid show, “Taradise,” it’s ruined.

On our cruise, we went the coast of Turkey and to five islands. I thought being in Athens sucked, I was crying to go back after the day in Turkey. CRY-YEENG. I thought I loved Patmos until I heard some bitch from Long Island in her track suit say to the guy at a kiosk, “How much is da wadda?” Oy. When you fly 12 hours, take a bus for an hour, and a cruise ship for 2 more days and still hear English? No! We then went to Rhodes, which was pretty built up and not like an island at all. We tried to leave my dad in Crete, where he is from, but he was wise to our game and refused to be distracted by “Hey, is that a 5 Euro bill flying down the street?”

The final island was Santorini. That was the only island where we had to take a tender boat because our cruise ship was unable to get through the shallow waters to the port. Getting on the tender boat, I should have known. They were pulling people from the cruise ship and literally throwing them on the tender and yelling in Greek “ELLA ELLA ELLA!” I ended up with several people in my lap, including someone’s baby. We parked so damn far out in the ocean it was at least 25 minute tender ride, where I once I exited, promptly wanted to yak everywhere. Add insult to injury, once you are “on the island,” you are still not on the island. Santorini is a huge mountain. See?

The reason the water is so shallow is because that part of the harbor used to be above ground, but there was a volcano and the Atlantis theory. When I got there, I was informed that the only ways up the mountain were by donkey or cable car, both costing you money, of course. I have to say, I HATE the fact that we did nothing but pay money to get to this damn island – airfare, public transportation, cruise, and they drop us off and we still have to pay more? ARRGH! The alternative for stupid (and vengefully cheap tourists) is to walk the 566 steps. I looked at my brother and he said, “Let’s go.” In Athens, we ran up Likavitos, so why not.

Navigating a hill simultaneously being used by the donkeys was an accomplishment. My mom called out, “Watch out for the donkey shit” as they got into a cable car and jetted up the mountain. There they go!

And, here was what our route looked like.

As we passed all the tubby Americans riding the poor donkeys, they made comments about how nuts we were. Yes, look at my brother’s washboard abs and my cellulite free ass earlobes and tell me we don’t know what we’re doing. Thank you, come again.

There’s our cruiseship by the way. Yup. It was out there all right. Not the first one, by the way, the other one way the hell out there.

Anyway, all that kaka has a point, otherwise I wouldn’t have told you. Later that night I am in line to retrieve our passports that the cruiseline held hostage for the week. I overheard something about how these people were supposed to be “on the ship that sunk.” I asked them what they were talking about. Then I reported back to the Greeks with, “Did you know this cruiseline had a ship sink a few months ago?” My mom said, “Um, NO. The travel agent didn’t tell us that.”

Some googling indicates that in April, 2007, Louis Hellenic cruises lost a boat because they RAN AGROUND IN SANTORINI. So now I get why we parked our asses over by Egypt and tendered in. Our boat was actually the “replacement” boat for the one that sunk. You have to wonder at what point we tendered over the sad remains of the lost ship. These links are fun:

Cruise Ship Sinking

Definitely watch this video

Anyway, the final 24 hours in Greece were so disastrous that I actually can’t even tell that part because it still gives me the shakes. Just know, my mom was handing out valium, I threatened to shred my passport, my dad told several people to fuck off in both English and Greek and we all vowed to never go back again.

One more installment of this trip, then I’m going to go back and check on what the cops have been doing…which reminds me…in Turkey, I saw cops getting their shoes shined outside the police station. Since the Greek-Turk rivalry is vicious at best and violent at worst, I refrained from taking a picture. But, I did get this picture of the Greek cops standing around doing absolutely nothing in front of the U.S. Embassy in Athens!

The beaches in Athens are rocky and filled with cigarette butts. It’s a widely known fact, but this was just a temporary stay on the beach before we boarded a ship. We ran out of things to do in about 4 minutes. My brother took to calling me Blackie, for my ability to walk outside and instantly become three shades darker in 10 seconds. After giving up on the sun worship, he and I found ourselves surfing the internet in a hotel conference room. I kept asking him to hand over his PDA but he kept pushing me off. After several tries with the standard, “Hold on, I’m not done,” and “Your dogs are fine, you don’t need to check your email, you psycho,” he said, “Go look at that flip chart over there on the stand.”

I have been his sister for enough years to know what that means. I flashed back to visions of Erasa-board menus in restaurants with prices changed to 99 cents and leftover rice in chinese restaurants molded into a penis and balls and I said, “Oh no. What have you done?”

I walked over to the flip chart, and I saw this:

All right. So it seems that he’s drawn a penis next to “personal rapport” on what appears to be a presentation for salesmen. But what are they selling? I flipped the page and saw this:

DING DING DING DING DING!!! What do we have here? A SEMINAR for PICK UP ARTIST WANNABES? I’ve truly waited my whole life for a day like this! Yay!!!!! Ladies, we’ve heard enough from the boys. It’s time for an alternative take, isn’t it?

Because I wanted to help these poor sad little fuckers, I really did, I decided to add a few slides of my own. First, we have this one, which I placed between their introduction pages:

I left after this slide. But then I told my mom about it. I filled her in on the totally absurd “PUA” society, how guys spend money and time perfecting ways to get into girls pants – the blogs, the books, the seminars, the t.v. shows, and then I decided another slide was in order. I’ve learned that I just can’t leave the scene of a crime until I’m almost caught. So, I made my mom be the lookout while I crafted the next slide:

Who are these losers at life whose seminar I hopefully destroyed? I read that stupid book by Neil Strauss – The Game. Retarrrrrrded. And that book was about 400 pages too long. True to form, he’s a total geek who tries his hand at being a PUA, nails a few skanks, then falls hard for some girl in Courtney Love’s crew. (Oooh, bet that one was a winner. She promptly left him for Robbie Williams by the way, and he sits at home painting his “game goggles” with a racing stripe.) I wanted to see if I had ever “fallen” for any of these tricks. Unsurprisingly, I hadn’t. Why?

Because the girls who fall for these tricks are insecure and competitive and not worth having. My girls and I are not competitive with each other. That is probably key to this entire shindig. If we were out and some guy said something insulting to me like, “You don’t seem as smart/cute/skinny as your friend,” I would just agree. She’s my friend. Why would I take his insult and then turn it into an insult on her to “prove” him wrong? And so the plan is foiled and he doesn’t get in my pants – then what – I don’t get laid? Oooh, how awful. I just got another get-out-of-jail-free card on not getting herpes. How terrible for me. You should all feel so sorry for me.

The rule is universal – if you spend all your time talking about “it,” you aren’t getting “it,” whatever “it” may be. It applies to money, sex, status. The person who talks about how important they are at their job is the one who is insecure. The one who is constantly coming up with the new “million dollar idea” will spend their life as a poor man. The guy who spends 23 hours a day strategizing how to get in a woman’s pants most likely fits the following personality profile:

1. Was a loser in high school.
2. Still thinks life now is high school.
3. Insecure at work. If he even has a job – which many of these guys don’t, the job is something menial in the lower ranks of the corporation.
4. Talks about getting laid all the time.
5. In reality, has very little sex.
6. Gets very little attention from women.
7. When his advances are rebuffed by a woman, he goes on all out rampage to malign her. He thinks calling her names will hurt her feelings, but the fact that she was smart enough to reject him speaks volumes for her confidence.
8. Has “Mommy” issues or had one parent totally absent from their upbringing.
9. Once (or twice) had his heart broken by a woman so badly that he now wants to get back at the rest of the female population by fucking his way through them for the perceived injustice.
10. Spends a lot of time planning revenge on others who go against him.
11. Has not matured into adulthood.
12. When he is constantly rebuffed by the same classification of women (i.e. an age group or certain ethnicity) he will publicly renounce them as targets, citing a litany of reasons why he will “no longer date American girls,” or why “women over 24 are over the hill.”
13. Owns no property; usually lives in group home or with parents.

If all you are looking to do, legitimately, is get your dick wet, fine. But what do all these losers have in common? They study and train, train and study, fuck hundreds a few women, then ultimately find a girl they fall in love with and renounce their former ways.

I like to think I helped maybe just one guy who came back to the seminar say, “Hey, she’s right! I do have a small cock.” Wait, that’s not what I meant to say. I meant to say that hopefully, just one guy learned that using a success rate formula for measuring “notches” is a pretty sad way to live. Try being genuine. Try making yourself a better person instead of using insults to bring others down to in turn elevate your own perceived worth. Spend your money on an education boys, a real education, in an accredited institution and the girls will come, pun intended. I promise. I learned more about human nature and life in general in grad school and from work than I did hanging out in bars and assessing body language.

If you have to trick her into bed, and she’s dumb enough to be tricked, is she really worth it?

I’m not one of those day by day, recap of every excruciating detail of my travels kind of girl. I hate that as much as I hate looking at someone else’s vacation photos where they tell you every single detail from over your shoulder (“Cousin Bob was just outside this shot, it was so funny, he was tying his shoe!”) God damn is that boring. So this will be a bit unconventional.

First. Borf is alive and well in Athens.

That sign behind shows how you would spell “Athens” or as it is known in Greece, “Athina.” The letter after the “A” is the Theta, so that stands in for the “th” part. And the “H” is really an “I.” Fucking confusing. Just use the regular alphabet you damn Greeks. Turkey does. (Oops. My grandparents just rolled over in their graves.) Anyway, here’s another:

Borf made it to the Plaka district of Athens. Well done.

Second, look at this kid. It was very hard to get these pictures. We were in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens. My brother and I saw him and had this conversation about how people predispose their kids to being gay when they dress them like this.

It’s a boy by the way. In a sleeveless nipple shirt, short shorts and sandals. Jesus Christ.

Sorry they are so blurry, but when you are stalking a kid through a museum in a foreign country to take a picture of him, you sort of feel like a pedophile and you just want to get the hell out of dodge as fast as you can. Trust me. You don’t want to find yourself in a Greek jail having to explain yourself, because there is just no translation for “I have a blog in the United States and I want to post his picture on it so we can play gay or European!”

Third, here’s the Acropolis. Sorry about the scaffolding. They’re trying to save it or some crap.

That’s Athens. I was told it was a two-day city. I was told correctly. After five days there, we were ready to leave. I was thinking in my head, “If the islands don’t shape up any better, I’ll renounce my heritage and become Italian and somehow investigate changing the big old honking Greek Flag tattoo on my back.” The next morning, my brother announces at breakfast:

“If the islands aren’t nicer than this shit pit, I’m going to become Italian.” I wondered if I said that out loud or if we had just spent too much time in a hotel room together at this point.

Finally, I learned that in Athens, picking your nose in public is not disgusting. I saw shopkeepers, moped riders, pedestrians, cabbies – all with finger jammed in nose, digging for gold. I’m going to give this a test run in Dupont. I’ll let you know how it works out for me.

Translation:

Despite the fact that Greece is currently on fire, I am flying in to Athens tomorrow. Spending two weeks with my family is painful enough. But two weeks on islands sans internet connections and cell phones and avec women with mustaches? Oh boy. I’m bringing books with me to keep me from going stir crazy, and a bottle of Klonopin to keep me from killing someone.

James Joyce – Ulysses; Hemingway – For Whom the Bell Tolls; D.H. Lawrence – Women in Love; D.C. Noir – Various. Those are the books. If I finish all four, then you’ll know that I spent a lot of time away from the family, but more importantly, away from the Baklava. Christ, I doubled up on the running just in anticipation of all the fucking Baklava that will be shoved down my throat.

Besides not being funny, David Sedaris doesn’t do it justice. Greeks are fucking crazy. The Greeks have this phrase they say when a baby is born or christened. Na Sas Zisi! It means “May he/she live for you.” The irony here is that most Greek parents not only expect their children to live for them, they demand it. You all saw the movie. It’s sort of like that. It’s exactly like that. I remember the day my brother re-worded something my mother had said to him during an argument (an argument that spanned several years by the way and continues to this day) and he came back with, “So I owe you? For raising me?” My mom said yes. She doesn’t see anything wrong with that.

Growing up in Connecticut, everyone was either Italian or Irish. It was weird to have a background that is so rare. You don’t bump into Greeks every day. But when someone does, you will most definitely hear about it. “Oh, my doctor’s wife is Greek! She’s a nice girl!” Or, “Oh, there was a Greek guy down at the Dupont Market last weekend. What was his name? He had a funny name. Spiropolous? Do you know him?” No, you asshole. We don’t all know each other. But to a non-Greek, knowing a Greek is apparently as elusive but as claim-to-fameish as holding the winning Powerball ticket.

When I moved to the south, no one was Greek. No one was Italian or Irish either. No one was anything as a matter of fact. The south is where you find the people who have been in this country for so many generations that they can’t even trace their history back to one European country. Blasphemous! You mean to tell me that people intermarried? Savages! TI KRIMA! The Greeks didn’t even marry anyone from the next village. In church, my grandmother used to poke my father and his sisters (who I call Patty and Selma, not to their faces,) point at some other family and say “Don’t talk to them. They are from the next village!” My grandparent’s marriage was arranged. I think my grandfather was like 20 years older than her too. Score! Oh, wait, I guess that was scandalous. My grandmother was 17 when they got married.

I have never known anything other than that my grandparents all emigrated (cough, if you call jumping ship “emigration,”) from Crete and Andros. I am hoping now it will come full circle exactly why my grandparents chose to come to America. Though, I’m sure the stories have done it justice. I get it. We were poor. I don’t have to dine alongside rats and shit in a hole in someone’s backyard to understand how poor we were.

Life here was not a huge improvement over life on the islands in Greece. But here, there was opportunity – something lacking in a country historically torn by war and poverty; a country so geographically vulnerable that one day you may wake up to find your country was now occupied by the Turks. TI KRIMA! I love my family’s and ancestor’s relationship with money. They never had it, now they do and they stuff it in the bank when they get it and won’t part with it for anything. I’m the same way. It’s comical to me that there are so many people in this country who “came from money,” yet, they don’t have any. The American way. Spend spend spend. Why save? I mean really. You can file bankruptcy and someone will bail you out. That someone will probably be me by the way, and the rest of the immigrants who pay cash for everything and don’t incur any debt. Shit, my grandfather paid cash for his house. In 1930!!!

Greece is close to the Middle East. It holds its place in Europe only because Yugoslavia hasn’t let go yet. It is a couple hundred miles from Egypt. With hundreds of islands out there exposed in the Mediterranean, Greece has had to fight for everything. More irony, considering that most Greeks who come to the states end up fighting and hating each other. Just the other day my father started the story again about how the Greek Priest. Yessssss dad……..I already heard this story…….. like 100 times…….

Anyway, the quirks of my ancestry that I used to take for granted I am hoping to finally appreciate. Another tattoo will be in order upon my return. That is, if the fires don’t kill us first.

Someone keep an eye on the cops while I’m gone…okay?

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I had another typical old-school Velvet style weekend. The “old-school” weekends are a serious reminder of how fun life can be. I got reacquainted with an old friend who was not available to me for the better part of a year because someone borrowed said friend and held her hostage! Okay, he didn’t so much hold her hostage as I just didn’t ask for her back. My precious autographed copy of And the Winner is…Brianna Banks is back in the house! Much like the old Velvet, that link is not safe for work.

Brianna Banks is hands down the best sucker of cocks in the business. Spit. Stroke. Suck. Spit. Stroke. Suck. Pay attention to the balls. Back to spit, stroke, suck. Deep throat. Her cock sucking repertoire is so unbelievably phenomenal that you really can’t look away. Sniff. She taught me everything I know and there is no reason she can’t teach you too. Err. If you’re a girl.

Aversion to, or poor execution of oral sex on either partner is just a shame. Watch a movie, write it down, practice, practice, practice. It’s important, and those who don’t do it probably don’t because they aren’t good at it. And they probably aren’t good at it because they don’t value their partner’s enjoyment in the sex act. And they probably don’t value their partner’s enjoyment in the sex act because they are selfish immature “I don’t suck cock/munch carpet” protestors. You know you’ve done well when you hear, “Wow, you’re really good at that.” We girls like compliments.

Anyway, so a few years ago, Brianna was stripping in Baltimore. I hate leaving the city, but I hauled my ass out to witness this event. My friend and I ended up being the only two girls there – surprise. We waited in line to get a picture and so I could just coo over her and inspect her boob job up close. Coming from someone with zero bi tendencies, she is every bit as hot in person as she is on camera.

Brianna is stripping and camera flashes are going off everywhere, so my friend and I decide we could probably sneak a few pictures. I snap some, get away with it, and snap some more. Next thing you know, there is some meathead bouncer on top of me and a bunch of guys who were formerly hanging out with us, now on top of the bouncer. I’m at the bottom of a man-pile and not in a good way.

My friend later said that when I walked out of that melee holding the camera still, she was thoroughly impressed. I had the choice to delete the pictures or be kicked out. They eventually demanded both. What the fuck ever. I pretended to delete a few, and we left. I love that when we’re walking out the door the bouncer says, “You can come back another night.” I’m like, “Dude. Look around you. You are in BALTIMORE. And I would come back because why?” We left. After a few minutes with photo rescue software, I recovered the precious pics, much to the delight of all the boys at work.

So back to present day. Friday night I only got three hours sleep because of that stupid movie and something important I had to attend to. I cruised through 18th Street in Dupont around 3:30 a.m. Much like I would never go to Baltimore again, I’m so sick of the bridge and tunnel people (nod to Steve Rubell for that term, may he rest in peace,) who think the D.C. is “soooo cool.”

The only reason the city is cool is because the people who live in the city make it cool. Write that down, burbies.

Speedracer and I mowed down some overly dressed ‘burbans in their sunglasses, blazers and cocktail dresses. I shook my head in disgust at all the drunks getting into cabs, stumbling for cars, littering the streets with whatever loot they smuggled out of the place. Christ, can’t you go back to your group house in Herndon and litter the streets there? Or do the soccer moms report you?

Saturday, I had early plans with some friends. I would have liked to revise the start time based on my delayed bedtime, but I wasn’t allowed. I was rewarded with the most hilarious sight though. One FreckledK, with a zero tolerance for taking bullshit (cough, in most cases,) manhandled a thief. She pulled the perp, a yellow labrador, about 3 feet tall and 65 lbs., by its collar and yanked a ball out of his mouth. I would forfeit sleep any day to witness that again. I’m no longer the only asshole at the dog park! Yay!

The moral of the weekend has something to do with balls in the mouth, but I just can’t come full circle with it yet. Let me watch the Simpsons and maybe it will come to me.

I’ve never been one of the music snobs, scouring the net for the “next big thing,” talking about it on message boards and driving ridiculous distances to see some band no one has heard of. Most often the next big thing to me is boring. Give me some Metallica, Offspring, and The Cult and I’m good. When something new that everyone is talking about hits mainstream, I never jump on the bandwagon. (Harry Potter anyone?) But, I do want to know, why this person? Why did they make it big? So then I investigate.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my newest case study: Amy Winehouse – The ugliest chick ever created by the music industry. Why is she famous? I know some of you like her (well, you did throw her CD at a metrobus driver) but still. Why is she famous? Didn’t this disaster prove that this chick fucking sucks? Gee, maybe if I sing like a drunken sailor on morphine who just got run over by a truck, twice, people will think I’m dark, edgy and cool.

She didn’t used to be so ugly. By genes alone, she isn’t cute, but still. There was a time where she wasn’t the poster child for anorexics who hide bird nests in their hair. I wonder if she looked in the mirror and said, “Gee, how can I make myself uglier? Here we go. I’ll put some various household items in my bouffant to hold it up higher, then seal it off with a birds nest. When the birds come looking for a new home, I’ll let them hover around me. People will think I’m all dark, edgy and cool.”

I suppose this whole image thing had to penetrate into the rest of her life too. A typical photo shoot for Amy Winehouse:

Photog: Amy, sing like you have a cock in your mouth.
Amy: I do have a cock in my mouth!
Photog: Then, pretend the cock is bigger. Yeah…that’s right. Now, pretend his balls are in there too. No, no, hairy balls! There! THAT’S THE EXPRESSION I WANT!”

CLICK!

She looks dirty to me. Not good dirty. Dirty as in, “I haven’t washed my hair in two weeks, I’m wearing the same underwear from last Monday and I’m pretty overdue for some waxing” dirty. Now this chick says she just wants to quit her career and get married and have babies? Christ. First, she is really a role model, huh? Work a couple years, then get knocked up. Even Britney Spears worked longer before she let the spawn of the devil enter her coochie. Second, ugly people should not have children. (See: Nancy Grace.) But, okay, if your reproduction means that we get no more “music” from you, then, I’ll take this one for the team.

“When I get pregnant, I’m going to carry the baby here in my head!”

You all are probably familiar with the I heart NY shirts. There was even a song that went along with this slogan. A very, very bad song on all the New York television stations in the 70’s. IIIIIIIIIII love New Yorrrrrrrrrrrrk. Oh hell. Now I have several commercials from the 70’s going through my head like that stupid Flemington Furs in NJ where they follow the lady down the street and the Pocono’s commercial…”winter spring summer or fall!” Okay, off topic.

So here it is. The logo we all know.

I assumed that New York was the first to make this slogan. New York is always the first to do anything. Anyway, seems I was right.

Recently, I started seeing the same shirts for D.C. I find it hard to love D.C. so it is comical to me that someone would actually put this on a t-shirt. It’s like putting “I love a swampy shithole filled with lying politicians and a sub-par public transportation system” on a t-shirt, but whatever. There’s a guy with a Ben’s Chili Bowl tattoo in my neighborhood, I suppose everyone has their vice. Anyway, suddenly I am seeing people all over town wearing these shirts. Not just any people though.

You would expect to see this on a tourist, right? A tourist walking next to another tourist wearing the FBI (Female Body Inspector) shirt. Hardy har har. But there are very few tourists in my ‘hood or any of the ‘hoods in which I hang.

Here’s the offending apparel by the way:

So who is wearing them? Homeless people. HOMELESS PEOPLE!

Okay, what is going on? Seriously. Are they being handed out at the area shelters? Does anyone see how this might be a cruel twist of philanthropy – having a homeless person wear a shirt announcing their “love” of a city they are ill equipped to leave; declaring love for a city that has disappointed them in so many ways; proclaiming their supposed attachment to a city that has chewed them up and spit them out, into the gutters of the soon to be unplowed snowy streets. Thanks Fenty! You’re a real workhorse! Sorry, off topic again.

Whoever handed these shirts out is either an idiot or has a sense of humor more fucked than mine. Can you imagine that meeting where this gem of an idea was hatched?

Douchebag Number 1: Gee, let’s make a bunch of ‘I love D.C.’ shirts and give them to the most captive audience we know have – the homeless.

Douchebag Number 2: Oh, Douchebag 1, you are so smart. There certainly are a lot of homeless people here. They will be happy to have a clean, new shirt. The swamp city simultaneously gets some free advertising during peak tourist time. Ingenious!

Douchebag Number 3: Yes! Using people who wander the streets all day instead of paying for advertising. Walking billboards! It’s like subliminal advertising, soon everyone will be wearing the shirts!

Douchebag’s Boss: You’re getting a payraise Douchebag 1! For the millions you saved us in advertising I’m going to give you 1/10 of 1 pay grade raise.

Douchebag 1: That’s four dollars a year! Thank you! I might be able to move closer to the city now. My commute from West Vagina is hard!

I personally want to make a shirt that says “I heart D.C. Cops.” Then I want to wipe my ass with it. Oh. Sorry. Off topic again.

Most cities, err, most normal cities try to minimize the undesirables by pretending they don’t exist. Here? Oh, hell no. We’re just pompous enough to not only use our undesirables, but to put them in the brightest yellow shirts anyone can find. I think that is a much better tourist draw anyway. Now we just need a new slogan.

“The District of Columbia, we’re so wonderful even the bums won’t leave!”

*I am still trying to get the lady who was accosted at the dog park to come out of her house and give me the names of D.C.’s worst cops. I have not forgotten.*

So, I had a typical “old-school” Velvet kind of week and weekend. But in the spirit of not venturing down the personal lane ever again, I’ll leave it at this handy recap:

Punches thrown: 2

Vacations Planned: 3

Vacations Booked: 1

Number of dogs in my condo: 6

People who told me I was their soulmate: 1

Times 911 was called: 1

Times 911 asked me to repeat my story: 2

Times 911 called back and asked me to repeat story again: 1

Number of colors the witnesses reported the perp’s shirt as being: 4

Number of times my stuff has been demanded back from the hostage taker: 3

Number of times hostage taker has refused, using the same excuse used in all other situations where stuff is being held hostage: 3

Times I thought about putting hostage taker’s balls in a vice grip: 114

Time in the sun: 6 hours

Time at the bar: 5 hours

Possible gunshots fired: 2

Times jaw dropped to floor: 2. Once when I learned I was the subject of a rumor so delicious that even I don’t care to deny it and once I bumped into someone who I thought I might never see again.

Hours spent embroiled in newest brewing scandal: 6

Obnoxious strangers who disrespected me and then felt my wrath: 2. One picked up her dog and completely left the dog beach, the other took his strollers and multiple children and hopefully went back to the suburbs. There is a third if you count the bitch from the week before who I called a “dumb cunt” when she accosted me in front of 20 people to accuse me of abusing my dogs. I didn’t know that tying them outside the post office while I went in to mail a package qualified for abuse. Thankfully she invaded both my space and didn’t mind her business to tell me.

Times my life came 359 degrees, shocking me so much I landed in a cab, flying across town to complete the final degree: 1. And it was worth every minute.

I admit it. I’m not reading blogs anymore. I haven’t been reading for six months to be quite honest. I’m reading Dostoevsky with some more Hemingway on deck. But. There’s a but. Isn’t there always a but?

The man who taught Economics classes that changed my life has a blog. And I’m reading that. And you should too. He’s also writing a book that I can’t wait to buy.

http://givingupcontrol.wordpress.com/