And Back on the Funny Farm. . .
This morning, my husband of twenty-nine years surprised me with a can of roasted almonds in the only flavor I can’t stand for Valentine’s Day.
I thanked him nicely. I did not hit him.
You would’ve been so proud.
The rat probably remembered that particular flavor because an opened can sat in the pantry for months before getting tossed in the trashcan.
Despite all his wonderful qualities (which I’m having a hard time remembering at the moment) the man is a horrible nag. He’s been eating avocados straight up, handfuls of unsalted almonds along with all sorts of thoroughly revolting health foods while dropping hints in my general direction for weeks now. Just a wild guess, but I’m thinking (!) maybe he’d like me to improve my diet.
Me and my bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips are not amused.
The man will not get a single snuggle for those nuts.
Holidays stink sometimes.
Years back, our family assaulted a wheelchair-bound woman living in the neighborhood and forced Christmas down her eighty-something year old throat. She cried as we brought in the tree and stacked presents around its Charlie Brown perimeter. We punched each other in the ribs, grinning like banshees, so pleased with ourselves.
Hindsight of three decades says those were not tears of joy.
Mrs. Johnson outlived her husband and only child. She had no contact with extended family. She took in boarders to afford the electric bill and paid strangers to wipe her backside.
She wanted to pretend Christmas didn’t happen.
We should’a let her alone.
For the newly single on Valentines—
Tomorrow’s gonna hurt. You can’t change the facts.
And no, nothing will ever be the same again as long as you live, until you die a horrid death of horrid aloneness.
Someday, it may be better.
Someday, it definitely will not hurt so much.
Someday, it may be so much better you’re taunting the rest of us with your new-found mushy gooey-ness.
That won’t keep tomorrow’s love-fest from burning a hole through your chest cavity which probably serves you right.
Give me a call and we’ll share some chips.
For the chronically single on Valentines—
You are not alone.
The jaded everywhere will threaten to rip out their eyeballs by noon tomorrow.
Some are married and get almonds with ‘Happy V-day’ written on top in a highly romantic shade of sharpie marker.
Those who get dozens of red roses and post pictures of their couplehood all over the internet are just bragging.
They probably have lice.
Next year they may get almonds.
I’m just saying
A few practical suggestions for tomorrow.
Pretend it’s Saint Patrick’s Day and color your beer. Everyone loves the Irish. Besides, green teeth are extra sexy.
Call someone more miserable than you and commiserate. Chant poor baby at appropriate moments while filing your nails. (I’ve already got tomorrow’s victim on speed dial– Mom will never know what hit her.)
Remember: The urge to form pair-bonds runs strong within your genetically programmed genetics. It’s only human to throw good sense out the car door this time of year and make goo-goo eyes at the nearest Neanderthal in exchange for chocolates and an album of sappy Facebook photos.
Tomorrow, as you’re assaulted from all angles by the bastions of heart-shaped hell just remember—you could be holding hands with Carrot Top right now.
But you had better sense. You are one smart cookie.
Tomorrow, you will not itch.