Month: November 2007

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.