No no no, it wasn’t a hurricane. It was just my mom and dad who came to town this last week. Well, blew through town is more appropriate, on their annual mecca from Connecticut to Florida. Last year, I detailed their stay here in D.C., which you can find here. This visit, while significantly shorter than the 48 hour disasters of past, provided me about the same amount of fodder.
Time elapsed from the moment they stepped into my condo to the time the first fighting words were spat? 1 hour, 14 minutes. Better than usual. I don’t think that broke any records. Phew.
When they got to my neighborhood they called from the street. I could hear my dad in the background saying something. I said, “Who is he talking to?” My mom said, “Oh, he’s just telling the cop that we are unloading and that’s why we are in the loading zone.” I said, “HA! They don’t give a fuck. You could shoot Dad dead right now and they wouldn’t care.” My parents are used to New York City cops who give you a ticket for hesitating in front of a building. When they pick my brother up at his apartment they slow to 15 mph a la Little Miss Sunshine, and my brother has to run and jump in, otherwise they get a ticket for “standing.”
Anyway, my mom and I had a conversation on the phone in December which went like this:
Mom: When are you going to come up here and go through all your childhood memorabilia?
Velvet: I’m not.
Well, she really showed me. After I buzzed them in, I went to my front door to let the dogs in the hall to greet them and went back to drying my hair. I waited. And waited. And waited. They never came upstairs.Twenty minutes passed. I opened the door, fearful they were stuck in my ghetto ass elevator and I saw my neighbor out there. Standing there in my robe, I was a bit caught off guard. I said, “Oh, sorry, thought you might be my parents.” She said, “They are downstairs unloading boxes. They brought you a lot of stuff!”
Oh no. OH NO! FUCK! Whatever is in those boxes will NOT fit in la Casa de Velvet! I’m at the point where I may have to throw out my tampons so I have room for Sammy and Thora’s heartworm pills! Space is not something I just have around that I can find room for more crap.
I went downstairs and my mom was guarding seven, yes, SEVEN boxes in the lobby. My dad was circling looking for parking. I called him. He was lost. I tried to navigate him back but I heard sirens through the phone. He threw the phone on the seat but never hung up. I heard the cop pull him over (who knew they did this in D.C.?) and say he ran a stop sign, or a stop light or something. My dad said he was totally lost. She asked where he was going. He told her. And she told him how to find me. Then she followed him and I got in the car with him and we parked. He said, “Hey, that’s the cop who pulled me over going to talk to her friends. I thought she was going to give me a ticket.” I was laughing so hard I couldn’t contain myself. I said, “Dad, they don’t give anyone a ticket here. She’s trying to see if they have any donuts. She doesn’t care about you and your law-breaking.”
We go inside. Dad started feeding Sammy and Thora various treats. I started opening the boxes. Um. Oh boy. Let’s say that there were some old love letters in there from my high school boyfriend as well as a saucy picture of me in some whorish Halloween get-up that I sent him when I was in college. Fucking great. I’m sure my parents saw that. Groan.
A journey through my childhood, if you will:
A jar of my baby teeth. Aww. Who knew the next set of teeth to come through there would be home to the biggest mouth in all of D.C.
I’m not sure what this is, or was supposed to be, but I made it in Kindergarten. 1978 baby!! Anyway, it seems like a wood cylinder with a face painted on it, and some cotton on top and at the beard. I guess it is the wooden Santa? No clue. I’m still an artist though, bitches.
To the untrained eye, this is a papermache baby I made in art class when I was in 4th or 5th grade. The baby is supposed to be holding a bottle. But I dare you to look closer. It seems the baby is holding an erect penis. I remember my friend Amy bit off the top of a yellow crayon so we could make it the “nipple” of the bottle, but yeah, it just looks like a dick.
Look. It was not only a book on the Middle Ages, but my FIRST – implying that there was going to be a much sought after follow up. I’m afraid I have failed my readers. I’m very sorry about that.
Finally. I got to dig into the other bag that was a mix of gifts not collected at Christmas because I boycotted going home. The bag contains the usual take of gifts, except for one item I pulled out of an envelope. It was this:
Yes. Blue Thong Undies that say “OH” just above the ass crack. Note I said “the” ass crack, and not “my” ass crack, because I will NOT be wearing these. I know, I know, you want to know why my parents got me thong underwear. They didn’t. In the last Velvet Family post, I explained how the parents and brothers can’t resist something that is “free.” Where it says “take one” they go back and take definitely more than one. And they send whatever loot they have collected around to the rest of us. My family doesn’t understand that these things are free because NO ONE ELSE wants them. My brother is perhaps the worst, he cannot resist this lure. He has sent me the “CVS” Commemorative (read: free) Christmas ornament every year since 1997. I keep throwing them away but they keep coming back. Anyway, the origin of the thong undies is unknown, but from some offer online that he answered.
I can only hope that is ALL he answered. I really don’t want to have a free Nuva Ring arrive tomorrow and coupons for a free pap smear next week at some doctor whose license was probably revoked. Ugh.
Merry Fucking Christmas. See why I didn’t go home?
In final parental love, the best and most consistent of all their gifts is the rotting food they left behind. After they were gone I smelled the milk they left. Curdled. Made me yack.