Valentine's Day? - Bah!
by
February 6, 2009
I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day.
Even when I was a little girl and all the other little girls were
planning their weddings, I’d be off picking fights with the boys
somewhere. But how the other girls
would swoon when the 14th rolled around. I don’t remember ever doing that. Or planning a wedding, for that matter. My entire wedding – including dress and reception – cost
$300. None of this white dress nonsense: I got married in the courthouse, right
beside bail court.
At the time, the irony of that escaped me.
I don’t remember ever getting a valentine’s card either. To this day, my dad sends me one which he
signs (in his very distinctive handwriting) “with love from your secret
admirer”. It gave him such a pang to
see me left out all those years ago that he started this little tradition and
he’s been at it forever. (How sweet is
that though, eh?)
But bah, I still hate it. Not
because I still don’t get any valentines but because it’s contrived and
artificial (AND I don’t get any valentines).
Plus, more than any other day, it reminds me of the trolls and losers
that litter the landscape of my romantic past.
Before we begin, everybody check this out: http://sorry-mom.com/
It’s one of my new favourite sites.
And let’s be honest girls: we
could ALL post a few up there, couldn’t we?
Along with Ginger (author of the "Diary of a FreakMagnet" blog),
I am an absolute magnet for freaks and losers.
I never stoop to banging ‘em because there are depths to which I will not sink no matter how much
alcohol you pour down my throat, but they tend to fall in love with me. I don’t know what it is. My friend Christine calls it "my special
gift". And what a gift it is.
Where do I begin?
How about with the guy I was supposed to marry and was perfectly
prepared to do (while I was still in my teens) just to get out from under my mother’s
thumb? Yeah. Never laid a finger on me but it wasn’t until he ran off with the
best man two weeks before the wedding that I finally realized it wasn’t just
respect and Catholic boy restraint that was keeping him from mauling me.
As a consolation prize, he seems to have sprinkled me with fairy dust
before he flitted off, as I’ve been attracting closeted gay men ever
since. It’s astonishing.
Nearly my entire romantic history is FILLED with men who have absolutely
no interest whatsoever in having sex with me. I’m still not entirely convinced that this isn’t just a big
conspiracy cooked up by the nuns and my mother. I ain’t lyin’: I couldn’t
get laid in Millhaven.
OK, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration.
I attract straight men too, but they’ve all got wives, substance abuse
problems and/or mental health issues.
It’s a bit of a mixed bag. These
are not men with whom it would be wise to become carnally involved, lest I find
myself being throttled by a jealous wife or wake up with my hands duct taped
behind me in the trunk of some car.
It’s brutal. I don’t know what
it is, but if there’s a loser within 100 miles, he’ll hone in on me as if I
were emitting a GPS signal.
Liars like me too, probably because I’m so gullible. The obviously psychotic are similarly
besotted but likely only because they sense that I’m a kindred spirit.
Just in case you’re losing the thread, the following types appear to
populate my dating pool: (a) gay men (b) married men (c) losers (which in my
world includes anyone "recovering" from anything like alcoholism, drug
addiction or Catholicism) (d) hardened criminals (e) drunks (f) guys who look
like they may have fleas (g) liars (h) guys who aren’t even subtle about talking
to my breasts or (i) any combination of the above.
God, this is just depressing. I
may as well just officially call it quits right this second and go out and get
myself the biggest friggin’ vibrator I can find. One that plugs into the outlet for the dryer. Love has no pride, and I suppose that’s
doubly true for self-love and since that’s all I’ve been getting since Christ
was a cowboy, I might just splurge and get myself a back up generator in case I
incinerate the power grid.
I haven’t quite reached that point yet, but we’re getting close. Awfully close. The Marathon of Hope continues quite unabated and it’s been pretty grueling this time around. When you start hearing news reports of
inexplicable rolling brownouts throughout Ontario, you’ll know. Yeah.
That’ll be me, finally throwing in the towel and firing that sucker
up. And once you start down that path,
it’s a slippery slope. I’m already
risking my immortal soul as it is - I’m Catholic. Self abuse has all sorts of nasty consequences for us.
It should be entirely obvious by now why I write under a pseudonym but
if I bow to the inevitable and, say, respond to the spam I just got advertising
something called "the Jack Rabbit vibrator" ,
I’ll be easy enough to spot. I’ll be
the blind one with the really hairy palms.
And just as an aside, what is it with vibrator manufacturers and
bunnies? To whom are they marketing these devices? Surely to God you’d think they’d sell more of the things if they
stopped naming them after rodents.
Think about it: if you’re desperate enough to have to resort to a
machine, you’ve pretty much admitted to yourself that you’ve hit the wall. That being the case, who strikes you as
being more likely to show you an electronic good time - Peter Cottontail or
Secretariat?
Sadly, my budget will not stretch to a battery operated boyfriend but by
the same token, I’m not spending anything on manicures either.
Yes, it’s a sad, lonely pastime (especially when performed in your
mother’s house) but it’s all I’ve got.
Till next time,
M.
PS. Happy anti-valentine’s day!
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