Valentine’s Day: Happy or “Humbug?”

I’ve been seeing about a fifty/fifty split on Facebook posts between

“Happy Valentines Day, [so-and-so]! I love you, (blah blah blah…)”  and

“Screw Valentine’s Day! It’s just a Hallmark holiday anyway!”

Personally, I can’t think of a reason to complain about a day where there is an abundance of chocolate and flowers around, and an increased chance of sex!  Saying those things are bad is like saying you like to kick puppies.  Also, the nay-sayers are fooling themselves if they don’t think every other holiday has become a “Hallmark holiday” as well.

Like I told my friends, via my own status, even Christmas is commercial now.  I highly doubt the twelves disciples gave one another expensive electronics or fancy jewelry to celebrate Jesus’ birthday.  Anytime a holiday results in almost as much stress (or more) as it does joy, the holiday has likely become too commercial, or strayed too far from its original meaning.

I was thinking to myself today, the point of Valentine’s Day, or any holiday, is that its significance is what you make it.  What you put into it is what you get out of it.  So, if you want to celebrate V-day, great! If not, more power to ya!  But then this day took an interesting sort of turn which left me feeling a little confused, disappointed, silly, and finally, pissy…

In the spirit of this post, I was originally going to do a Valentine’s Day photo shoot (incognito, of course!)

By the time I got done exercising, I was feeling confident and inspired.  I knew hubby was coming home for lunch (he usually does,) and I wanted to wash the funk off before he got home, but I was going to wait until after he left to go back to work to get all fixed up, and I’d also have a nice deer steak ready for dinner.  But I had some extra time when  got out of the shower, so I got dressed up in a cute little vintage strapless number that’s been gathering dust in my closet, shaved my legs, put on some make-up… I even crammed myself into those pain in the ass spanx so I’d look extra svelte in my dress.

Granted, hubby says I always look beautiful…bleh.  But when I dress up, dammit, I feel pretty…only, when hubby walked through the door, his face hanging cuz he had a headache (again,) and… nothing.  Not only was there not a “you look great,” or “Happy Valentine’s Day,” there was no change in facial expression whatsoever.  

Already feeling embarrassed, I mumbled something about wanting to look cute for Valentine’s.  And then I said, in my daughter’s direction, “But now Mommy’s going to go change cuz she just feels silly.”

~sigh~  So for about 20 minutes I kind of wanted to cry, and then hubby left to go back to work and he kissed me twice and told me he loved me…

Hubby is a bit short on romance, but he’s a good guy and he does love me.  Last night when we got back from a couple of errands, he whipped out a bag of Andes Candies he had managed to sneak by me  (I heart Andes Candies) and he said, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Well, it’s the little things that count, right?  So I made myself some “Valentine’s Day comfort coffee” with Hershey’s syrup, and dropped a couple of Andes in it to make it extra minty-chocolatey.  And now I’m going to go smoke a “Valentine’s Day cigarette.”

Yay, me.

I guess I’m still a little bummed, so… dammit, I better get some extra Valentine’s Day sex tonight, or someone’s gonna be in trouble!

Related articles

• Prevent the Valentine’s Day Blues (tylatimes.com)
• Valentine’s Day (emsontheroad.com)

The Senile Stalker Gets Scared Straight?

Could this be the end of the Senile Stalker Saga?  Today things came to a head- sort of.   I mean, I’m starting to think the only thing that will really end it is if one of us dies (preferably not me, as I’m kind of attached to myself.)

I went next door to visit my neighbor, as I often do.  Some of her family, also friends of mine, were over and I wanted to hang out a bit before they went back home.  I’d already been over there once for my morning coffee (no coffeemaker at the mo’,) but this time the Old Man was sitting on the love seat.

…and maybe it was too late for me to turn around;  I had momentum…or a brief leave of my common sense… and went into my neighbor’s apartment anyway.

And damned if the first thing he said to me wasn’t, “What did you tell your old man about me?”

He must have hit a nerve with me today…either that or my bullshit meter is red-lining, cuz I snapped back something like, “R****, I am not in the mood for your bullshit today.”

But the few things I said to him today in response to his passive-aggressive routine, he acted like he didn’t hear.  I told him Hubs was mad and asked him what he expected.  He said he didn’t expect anything.  Deliberate obtuseness.  Great.

About that time Marie’s sister-in-law called to me from the bedroom.  Saved by the bell.  She knows how I feel about the Old Geezer.  About that time, her little girl, who had been taking an extra long time in the bathroom, slipped into the room, also trying to evade the Old Man.  I offered them safe haven in my apartment until the Old Man left and I went back to my apartment, and the little girl came over shortly after.  She said that R**** had told them all he didn’t like that I told my husband everything he says to me.

Hubby heard that and then he went outside to smoke…and apparently to go next door.

“Put ’em up!”

I guess he’d hit his bullshit quota for the year too.  He told the Old Man not to ever talk to him, me, or the baby again, that he didn’t want to see his face again.   And all the Old Man said was “Okay.”  I wonder if he pissed himself a little.

That still didn’t stop him from asking my friend and her little girl if we were over here talking about him at my place, and what all we said.  But I doubt he’ll be speaking to me anytime soon.  He gets all indignant and pissy when you’ve had enough of his shit and you tell him off.  Then he gets over it.  But hopefully he’s smart enough to know better.  If he starts coming around us again, I have a feeling the cops will be called…hopefully before Hubs stomps him into Old Man compost.

 

MacGyver’s Got Nothin’ On You!

Now I will disable this bomb with a grapefruit and a paper towel roll, while my hair maintains its manageability and shine...

Last night, as I was starting my truck up to leave volleyball, the cap on a vaccum line (or, whatever) came off.  I knew the sound, a dry PFFFTTT! sound, and I knew pretty much what happened, but my husband was always the one who fixed it.  I am not ashamed to admit I don’t know my way around an engine (but I can write the shit out of a college essay, so NYAH!)  But hubby wasn’t there, having stayed home with the baby and nursing his gums after oral surgery (not that he ever comes out to volleyball much.) The drive home is only about 25 miles, mostly on the parkway, but my truck is kind of old [’94 Ford Explorer] and hubs and I have been slowly fixing it up with tax money, rather than get a new car with a new car payment.  The point is, I didn’t want to risk trying to drive it home by myself, at night, on the parkway with the motor hiccuping like it was.

Luckily, my best friend and her hubby were there (her hubby being my substitute husband…HUBStitute?)  I pulled the truck up under the lamps on the basketball court, the truck sputtering desultorily.  HUBStitute saw the problem right away… but none of us could find the hose I thought went there.  I tried to call my real hubby, but he must have forgot/neglected to load minutes on his phone (shocker, I know, but damn inconvenient,) so I couldn’t ask him what normally went on that tiny metal nozzle.  HUBStitute thought it was maybe a small rubber stopper or cap.

So, to make a short story shorter, he rummaged around in his truck and found a few things to rig it until I got home.  This is what we ended up with.

Yes…that’s a drinking straw with a plastic toy dinosaur shoved into it and medical tape to hold it on.  I haven’t been so impressed since my early college days when a friend made a bong out of a flashlight.  It just defies common sense…and yet it worked.

So thank you, HUBStitute!  Hats off to you.  I will be nominating you for the Nobel Peace Prize in the category of Fixing Shit with Duct Tape (it’s a broad category.)