Dear Valentine's Day
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Dear Valentine’s Day:
Have I ever told you that you are my second-favourite pseudo-holiday of the year? Really, next to Halloween, you cause me such a feeling of joy, comfort and self-fulfillment that’s it’s hard not to get excited when February 14th comes rolling around every year. I don’t care if you were actually removed from the Roman Calendar of Saints by some curmudgeonly old Pope back in 1969; I still love you and your capitalist agenda. How ironic is that? You were demoted in ‘69 which, being the number of love, makes it all the more important that we celebrate your special day by performing the sexual position for which that year is named. You’re also my favourite uncle’s birthday! Yes he’s my only uncle, but I don’t see why that should matter. The fact that I could always count on him showing up on this grand day in a drunken stupor and ready to distribute beatings of love only reiterates the fact that yours is a day to be celebrated. I’m just so happy that you’ve given me the opportunity to express just how much I love those around me in a tangible form on one magnificent day of the year.
I realize that I’m going to have to spend thousands of dollars to express my fondness for those who are magnanimous enough to share this life with me and I’m fine with that. Given that TV and society in general has convinced me that those I hold dear won’t realize that I love them if I don’t present them with a gift, preferably of some expense, on this most special of occasions. As my parents always observed this tradition and the jewelry stores have demonstrated beyond doubt that it is necessary — the grandiose nature of my affection for my wife must directly be related to the amount of money spent on a large and glittering rock that serves no other purpose but to prove my devotion and look pretty. At least she’ll get to show it to her friends thus proving that I love her more than their husbands or boyfriends love them. I’m sorry, gentlemen, I didn’t mean to cause a screeching harpy to return home to you, but if you aren’t willing to take that second mortgage to put some sparkle on your special lady, well, perhaps you don’t love her enough. Haters to the left.
I suppose if I didn’t want to enter into indentured servitude to my financial institution for the rest of my natural life and a good portion of my children’s, we could always just go out to a nice restaurant for a delicious meal. If there’s anything that your day has taught me, Saint Valentine, it’s that nothing says love like getting all dressed up in our finest to wait in the greeting area of an elite eating establishment for an hour in order to dine on the most delicious of meals. It is the very definition of romance!
There’s something so endearingly amorous about listening to the conversations of the forty people within a ten-foot radius of our table. Ooooooh, baby-doll, that couple to your left is deeply in love. It sounds as if he was even willing to share his love-syphilis with her. I don’t know why she’s upset either. Don’t they make candy hearts for that? Ahhh; and that couple behind you, that fine gentleman just told his sultry lady that he could have taken any of his baby mommas to dinner, but he chose her. My heart is positively swelling with joy for this most impassioned of days.
How long have we been waiting? Really, that long? Well I’m sure they’re very busy with all the steaming hot piles of love that they’ve got to put onto plates. I wonder if we can grasp a waiter or bus-person on their way by? I would surely enjoy another seven-dollar highball and feel free to have another glass of wine, my sweet. Nothing says love like overpriced and sub-par house liquor.
Finally! Our odyssey into the masticatory arts arrives! Yes dear, it does appear to be thrown together quite haphazardly, but as this is a professionally run eating establishment, so I have to assume that it is supposed to look this way. What’s that? Your fifty-dollar steak is overcooked? Impossible! Valentine’s Day would never ever lead us wrong. The commercial says steak is done perfectly and I rest assured that it is, in fact, you who are overdone. Perhaps you shouldn’t have partaken of that last bottle of wine? I would complain, but Valentine’s Day assures me that this is a day meant for indulgence. Let’s just ask for the bill so that we can end this wondrous evening with the ultimate climax: a twenty percent tip for terrible service. It’s Valentine’s Day, heart of my hearts; I’m so filled with love I could positively explode. Don’t worry, I won’t do it all over your dress this time, but just think how happy we would be if our meals at home took five hours to complete and cost three hundred and fifty dollars!
Perhaps I should take an understated approach and just get a bunch of roses for my sweetest of sweets, good Valentine’s Day. The various ads in the papers and on the streets I drive have convinced me utterly and completely that a dozen roses will send any female into a state of teary disbelief at this bouquet of my enchantment. Some of them even suggest that I am verily guaranteed of engaging in some sort of pleasurable activity with a person that is not me. You are absolutely right, Valentine’s Day, nothing could express my deepest affection as well as a bunch of plants that will die in a week. We’ll always have these lovely memories of those flowers to carry us through the rough times. It’s amusing as to how these flowers perfectly represent your rapturous holiday: they’re so pretty on the top, but full of pricks underneath.
Actually, Valentine’s Day, you’ve assured me that a card from Hallmark will suffice as an expression of my undying devotion to my lovely wife. What could be a better example of my commitment than a mass-produced piece of cardboard with a quip penned by an adult with the personality and wit of a concussed ten-year-old? She’s sure to be swept off her feet by the cartoon of a heart hugging another heart and saying, “I heart your heart.” It’s awesome that text speak is invading the real word now, LOL. Soon we’ll just communicate by electronic medium and dispense with the icky physical interaction. Who needs the mess anyway? Yes, Saint Valentine’s Day, my lovely companion is sure to be impressed that I thought enough of her to take the time to pick out this one original card out of thousands just like it. Let’s high-five each other and grunt a hearty “well done!”
Can it be any wonder that you are my second favourite day of the year, Valentine’s Day? Each year you teach me so much about how to express my feelings and how much that expression should cost. It’s must just be luck that I don’t feel any love throughout the rest of the year and therefore need not buy gifts. I’m also glad that we don’t actually have an Anti-Valentine’s Day. I could only imagine what I would have to spend to tell someone I hate just how much disdain I have for their person. Mind you, if the corporations should decide that we needed this holiday, I’m sure the kids won’t mind not attending college. I really have to tell you, all these outpourings of sentiment sure beat the hell out of actually telling my wife that I love her and just sharing a quiet night at home together watching My Bloody Valentine. Fuck, if I did that, we probably would have split-up a long time ago.
Sincerely Yours,
Robert Sparkletits Admin Scott Esquire III
Robert Scott’s expressions of love are rarely expensive except in provinces or states where such acts are illegal. Judges are fucking greedy.
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Comments
Posted by: Jay at February 10, 2011 7:53 PM
Yeah? Well, fuck you.