Year: 2009 (Page 2 of 2)

I Was Born in a Small Town, and I Live in a Small Town, Probably Die in a Small Town

Thursday, March 12, 2009 / Velvet / 14 Comments

Mr. X and I have a beach house on the Eastern Shore in a new community. Since both Mr. X and I have worked for builders and developers, and since we’re no beginners when it comes to new homes, we were pretty sure we knew what we were signing up for.

Obviously, we were wrong.

The first time we saw a bunch of people outside in their yards we calculated the average age to be roughly 84. Surprisingly though, the residents of the community are tech-savvy enough to have started this message board on Yahoo. It wasn’t hard to find and register, and apparently they have not locked it down from the public. I foolishly signed up to receive every email message that posts to the message board and as any blogger knows full well, it is extremely hard to sit on one’s hands when a stupidity parade is on display.

The people who we share this community with, are, well, how shall I put this. Really. Fucking. Stupid. Mr. X has implored me to not respond. I am not to jump into the fights about the incompetence of the management company. I am not to reply that I worked for several developers. I am not to reply that I work for a management company. Nothing. He does not want me to end up on the Board out there like I am here in D.C.

So, the message board. I read probably three dozen replies to a post that started with someone stepping in dog crap and morphed to people wanting to put the dog crap on the offenders front door, to a fight about “poop stations” and I had to shut down by the time they were planning to stomp through the neighborhood en masse with white hoods and capes to lynch the offender. Oh, and I know what you’re thinking. It’s not me. I may rarely abide by the leash law, but I always pick up the poop. Always.

Suddenly this thought popped into my head: I live in fucking South Park. Except it’s Eastern Shore Park. Here’s the video interpretation of what our community message boards look like:

The other day someone posted about wanting to plan a bus trip to D.C. I politely replied saying I lived in downtown and would help them with anything they may need on this end. For me, that reply was really pre-damage control, as I’d rather make nice now so as to not get annoying notes on my front door about my dogs being off leash. I texted Mr. X that I had done this and conveyed my motives. At the same time, another thread was growing in replies debating the type of tree we should plant at the community entrance.

“I like Bradford Pear trees.”

“Oh no, I had those in my last community and the roots rip up the sidewalks.”

“Yes, my neighbor’s son’s bookie’s baby-mama had one out in Atlantic City and they didn’t like it. Wait. Maybe that was a Maple. Forget it.”

So Mr. X decided to reply to my email about helping them plan their D.C. old biddy bus trip and he pulled amateur hour 101.

Reply. All.

Even though he replied to my email it still copied to the entire message board. That shit landed in the inbox of 100 some odd retirees and busybodies with nothing better to do. Nice going Mr. X. Real nice going. If we get kicked out of Del Boca Vista Eastern Shore Park Sun City, I’ll kick your ass.

Eyes That Shine Burning Red

Tuesday, March 10, 2009 / Velvet / 11 Comments

Oh D.C. You are so predictable. If there’s anything I can count on you kids for, it’s consistency. I can practically write your very own personal ad. “Enjoys voting for Democrats, jumping on bandwagons and getting “bailed out.” I noticed a new little habit of yours though. “Also enjoys running through Georgetown only when it’s 65 degrees, wearing Black Dog apparel.”

I happen to have two black dogs, but neither of them is a tee-shirt. Mine crap outside. I also happen to run just as often when it’s 15 degrees outside as when it’s 65. So having to share what was formerly a deserted path with you amateurs really pisses me off. And that you all look and dress the same? Criminal. I had to see way too many Black Dog tee shirts last night. Way too many.

I’m currently on the company warpath. It seems that someone, I’m not sure who, invented this great idea that when it’s your birthday, you get a corporate wide email complete with graphics. It used to be that they would send the email out to everyone and put all the names in the “to” box. But then a couple things happened. First, the graphics would take up so much space on the server that the email system would crash. Then we’d get messages from I.T. telling us to hurry and delete the birthday message. The second would be that inevitably, people would hit “reply all” to say “Enjoy your day.” Reply f*cking all? Really? Ugh. Now, for the stupid people, they put all our names into the “BCC” box.

Anyway, it came on to my radar that with my birthday coming up, I was going to receive one of these emails. So I planned to take the whole god damned day off to avoid this exercise, especially since I HATE my birthday. It’s just the day I was evicted from my first rental. I cannot stand when adults make major deals of their birthdays. I’ve heard of people renting out clubs for birthdays. I’ve been witness to people saying, “Great, you’re being mean to me during my birthday week.” it’s a week now? Oh. My. GOD. I just think it’s so, juvenile. What’s next? The Tooth Fairy? Well, if I had to choose, I’d like the tooth fairy to leave me Percoset instead of a dollar. I’d be much better off. So would you.

Anyway, I digress. I can no longer take my birthday off because someone scheduled me for a very important beating meeting that day. I have to be at work. So, plan B. And I’m not talking about the morning after pill. I just spent the better part of yesterday (and today) ensuring that I will not be the recipient of that birthday email by accessing the corporate drive, and eliminating my birthday from any and every list I could find.

I am the company black sheep. But at least I ain’t the black dog.

I’ll let you know how it works out.

Please Tell Me Why the Car is in the Front Yard and I’m Sleeping With My Clothes On

Tuesday, March 3, 2009 / Velvet / 12 Comments

This past weekend was the Drunken Housewives of Connecticut Reunion part two, which required a drive through Tony Soprano-land. Crossing the George Washington Bridge which currently carries a totally absurd $8 toll, I wondered if I should apply for recessionary pricing. The tolls to Connecticut are a freaking killer. I now understand why no one ever leaves Connecticut. By the time you get through the GWB and the Jersey Turnpike, you’re fucking broke.

At the risk of being labeled a stalker because of my now third consecutive love letter to my new lover, Facebook, I just have to say: Thank you.

To say I miss these women would be an understatement. They just don’t make friends like the ones who you have known for 60% of your life. Exactly 21 of us showed up, as well as a few guys and a lone ex, a cop who heard from one of his coworkers that his high school girlfriend was in town and at the local watering hole. When he came in you could see him trying to plot exactly how he was going to get to his ex, my friend who was oh so cute in high school but bloomed to Supermodel Status as an adult. Watching him maneuver the room was like a game of Pac Man. He kept trying to get to the much coveted last dot, the Supermodel, but got detained by several other people in the bar who wanted to talk.

I turned to Supermodel and said, “This is just too good. Where’s my camera?” I managed to get several pictures of their encounter, my favorite of which is him staring at her boobs and her looking at me taking the picture. That had to feel good for her, and as she so aptly put it, “Yeah, I would guess he jerked it on his way home to his wife.” Awesome. Totally Awesome.

After we stumbled home around 2:00 a.m. (we’re too old to go to Port Chester anymore to take advantage of the 4 a.m. bar closings) I was instantly sobered up by reality:

I had smashed into a huge rock in my friend’s front yard and popped my tire. We took to task the idea of calling AAA. At 2:51 a.m. They arrived an hour later to tell me they couldn’t help me other than to tow me, but said, almost gleefully, “Nothing is open on Sunday.”

What? What kind of piss ass little town is this I grew up in? Nothing open on Sunday? We’ll see about that.

The next morning my friend texted me from her driveway to tell me to get out of bed so we could fix my car. We opened the phone book she had from 2004 and started calling all the tire places. It was true. No one was open. The one place we did find said they didn’t have the brand of tire I needed. We left on a mission. Costco, Sears, Mavis and a bunch of mom and pop shops. No tire, no workers, closed closed and closed. I then had the bright idea that would save my ass.

I called Daddy. What proceeds is the most absurd conversation I’ve had to date with them.

Me: Dad. Where do you get tires fixed?
Dad: Look in the phone book.
Me: I already did that. There aren’t that many places and they are all closed.
Dad: Did you call the place we went a couple years ago?
Me: Yes. Closed.
Dad: How about Sears?
Me: They don’t have the tire.
Dad: What about the spare?
Me: It’s flat.
Dad: Oh, well, call your brother and tell him to look in my third desk drawer and there’s a mechanic’s number there. I’ll call him and ask.
Mom, now on phone: That’s too hard! Don’t make her do that! Did you look in the phone book honey?
Me: Yes. Um. Let me call you back.
Dad: You’re supposed to bring your brother back to the city! I’ll call him and tell him to take the train.
Me: No don’t tell him anything yet. I’ll figure it out.

An hour later they called.

Mom: What are you doing?
Me: We’re looking for a tire place.
Mom: Well don’t waste all day, you need to get on the road.
Me: Mom! The tire is here in the car with me. How the fuck am I going to get on the road with only three wheels? It’s not a tricycle!
Mom: I know, but the snow is coming.
Me: Yes, this I know. I’m doing the best I can!

You see, I don’t call home for obvious advice. Calling home is what the natives refer to as a “last resort.” I will only call there when I’ve exhausted all my other options.

Finally we found a place that was open and I went in with the tire. The guy was taking my information and he asked for my address. I gave it to him and my friend K saw from the other side and said, “Your dad’s name just came up.”

Are you fucking kidding me?

I called back to my parents, sunning themselves in Florida and said, “I ended up at Firestone. They had you in the computer.”

My dad said, “Oh yea, I go there all the time.”

Jesus. Christ.

When You Come Close to Selling Out, Reconsider

Sunday, February 22, 2009 / Velvet / 13 Comments

I really mean to update more than once a month. And, yes, thank you, things are better than they were than when I last posted.

Last week at work, my partner-in-secret-but-plentiful-tattoos popped her head in my office to say, “Careful with Facebook. Our president is on there now.” I said, “Ohhhhh nooooooooo.” Our president is, oh, how can I explain. Classy with a side of perfect etiquette. She makes Jackie O look like an extra from a Jim Carrey movie. Just seeing her in the hall makes me stand up straighter and run to the mirror to check my lipstick. You just have to know her to understand.

Later, I saw a girl I’m linked to in the copy room and I said, “Why did you have to re-friend me? Did you get drunk this weekend and friend someone by accident and have to delete your whole profile?” She said, “No! Our president is on there! I had to make a work safe profile.” Jesus. Christ. I wondered if I should do that. It turns out all this started from my boss who accidentally sent a Facebook friend request to everyone in her personal email book. Though, my boss is cool. I wouldn’t care if she knew about this blog. Wait. Let me think about that while you keep reading.

I looked at my Facebook. Now, let me be clear on something, people. I have high school and college friends, and I have blog friends. And those two worlds rarely meet. Well, sometimes they meet, like with the Blonde, the PHD three and the Freckled one. But other than that? Yeah, if you think I’m letting pictures or personal information get out there after the whole last-name-gate of 2006, you are sorely mistaken. That’s why FreckledK, one of my dearest friends, is not my Facebook friend. Sorry FK. You are allowed to theive my newsboy hats, diet pepsi and harass my ex boyfriends to give me back my god damned lamps but you have scary bloggers on Facebook and I’m happy in my anonymity.

Magic 8 ball says, “Don’t do it! Damage Control is not in your future.”

That said, the reverse is also true. I don’t want my work-related real world on my blog or in my blog world, save a couple trustables. This is a very old story, we’ve all been around the block with this one several times over the years. However, it is still an issue. But did I put the Velvet link on my Facebook? Hell yeah. Because the people in my friend list are the people who scraped me off the floor of many a bar in the Harlem-Hudson-New Haven corridor; they are the people who helped my shellack my bangs straight up from my forehead in 1988; they are the people who called me in sick to school, from the school payphone. Cha-Ching! They are the friends of my youth, high school and college. And a few from after. But you get the point.

So now I have to worry that someone at work who I couldn’t trust with the material in this blog, will somehow see the link on my info page, the link I don’t care to remove, and then scroll through the archives.

This prompted me to tell a trusted coworker (who I have known from prior to this job) about the situation and she started reading some archives at her desk. Then she called me on the phone with two conclusions.

D: Wow. You had a crazy life. You were really bad!
Me: I used to be.
D: You are a really good writer.
Me: I used to be.

And so that is my long way of saying, I’ve had writers block for the better part of a year. I’m not good. I read back two years ago and I’m impressed at some of my own turns of phrase that I cannot comprehend where that talent went. When I lack that talent for whatever the reason, I just don’t feel like producing because it seems fake and contrived.

So, I apologize. I’m going to try harder. And I think if I get any Facebook requests from people at work who I would rather not know I was a dater of most of Northwest, I’ll just delete and block. Because that’s mature, right?

But Come the Wee Wee Hours, Maybe, Baby, The Gypsy Lied

Tuesday, January 27, 2009 / Velvet / 17 Comments

I know. I’ve really sucked it for the last month. I promised and I left without delivering. I’ve been busy. Way busy. I have a lot of work and little concept of a recession outside the doors of my office. The blog even crashed on the server for a little while and I didn’t even flinch.

I bought a beach house. It was a mostly miserable settlement process. I had the usual fights with the family around the holidays and a fight with the man. I have refrained from living my life online because it just doesn’t seem worth it. My life was relatively boring anyway for quite some time there. The other night I found myself wanting to vent and when I thought of grabbing my cell phone and venting to someone, there just wasn’t anyone I could come up with who deserved to hear my venting because it just sucks so bad and so when some poor unsuspecting girl at work asked me in the bathroom how my weekend was, I bust out in a sea of crap that she probably didn’t see coming. Shit. And I only told her half of it.

As hard as I try, I’m never without drama. Sometimes in a good way. Sometimes in a bad way. And you know what they say, when it rains, it pours. Twenty four hours can change someone’s whole world. It did mine. I’m not sure that’s a good thing though. I’ll get through it. Sammy, Thora and I will get through it. We always do.