Cupcake's mother had called a while back to invite Velvet to Graduation at the Convent which was this past Tuesday. Velvet was flattered and gloating, but it turned out that Cupcake knew nothing about her mother's phone call. She told Velvet not to come because it would be a big, fat drag and nobody but the Convent Girls and a few poor saps would be there. She was right, of course. Turns out the event was four hours long and included a mass. That did not stop her mother from calling twice on Tuesday to convince Velvet to attend.
Clearly, the woman has issues. Cupcake was mortified and has been avoiding Velvet which has confused the poor boy given the fine time they had on Prom night. That's the night a tipsy Velvet called from a hotel to say he, Cupcake and some other kids would be staying there that night.
At least he called.
It must have been very glamorous to stay out all night - in a suite paid for by somebody's dad - then go to brunch and walk a lovely girl home nearly three miles up Madison Avenue in your evening attire. He got home around 3:00 in the afternoon.
I'm not pissed about that anymore - and Velvet knows it - but he's still grounded from smoking weed in the house on general principle. He has gone over to a friend's place now with the crew which includes Cupcake. This particular friend has diplomatic immunity on account of his dad's job. A few of Velvet's friends fall into that category. It's my belief that they can smoke weed where at least one of them has diplomatic immunity.
As JD pointed out the other day, Velvet's antics are not dissimilar to many an 18 year old in generations past. True enough. Actually, my friends were substantially worse, and nobody had diplomatic immunity.
Long ago in a suburb far, far away, two of the guys in our gang jumped the fence into a cow pasture to gather psilocybin mushrooms. That was an easy trick out by the blimp base north of Houston in a land called Spring. They then proceeded to bake the mushrooms into a pizza before one of them's mother's very eyes.
Velvet was still trying to talk his way out of being grounded on Friday night when he went out to dinner with Gigi and me. Occasionally, we like to say that if I had scandalized our Texas neighborhood by coming home from college with a black baby, Gigi might have been that baby. Velvet loves her through and through, and they refer to each other as brother and sister. Fortunately, Gigi never calls me "mom" or I'd have to snatch her bald.
Gigi stayed with us a lot before she moved back to New York last summer (Are These Your Panties? or What is it with Underwear in This House? Stonerdate 10.15.08). She also happens to be a pole dancer. Not a professional pole dancer - but an accomplished pole dancer nevertheless. As it happens, Gigi's thesis for the Masters in Psychology had to do with Women's Sexuality, and her research focused on pole dancing. I forget why - but she did an outstanding job with it and was invited to present the paper somewhere prestigious. To my knowledge, she did not interview any exotic dancers (at least not in New York. She could have spent plenty of time in strip clubs in Chicago for all I know). These days, some gyms offer pole dancing as an exercise alternative. She took a class several times a week, and talked to the girlfriends she made at the gym.
Velvet likes the idea of being semi-related to a pole dancer. He thinks she's completely hot, and given the way men turn stupid in her presence, I suppose she is. She looks a lot like Angelina Jolie, especially when she's spent an extended period of time under the hair dryer in what, for many black women, is a weekly ritual. Gigi is lighter skinned than me, but as she has explained clearly Black is a Race, not a Color.
At dinner, Gigi said she thinks I should write a Shiksa's Guide to Dating Jews since I seem to find myself involved with Jewish men every time I turn around. I categorically refused because it can only lead to trouble. Velvet thinks I should do it because even though it might be trouble for me, it would be fun for everyone else to watch.