Eh, Valentine’s Day. RANT TIME.
I don’t celebrate it — and not because I’m some anti-establishment, anti-greeting card company or anti-lovey-dovey holidays… um, person — but I guess I just don’t GET it. What’s to celebrate? Date Night. Blow jobs. Maybe a vase of flowers. All the stuff you should be experiencing as one-half (or one-third, I don’t judge) of a couple on a regular basis. Not just because February 14th told you so. And if you don’t like blow jobs, well maybe then you should reconsider your relationship. THAT GOES FOR BOTH OF YOU.
You probably should start by holding hands once in a while.
And yes, you’re also probably doing it wrong.
In Ohio, I was “blessed” with having two of these romantical holidays — each anchored both ends of the calendar year. Sweetest Day made my eyes roll much more than V-Day (VD Day has probably been done before, no? Desperate Single Girls Celebration, FTW). Perhaps because of the stupidity of couples (or is it just women?) relying on false hope that limo rides to fancy restaurants in October equate love in the fullest, for all eternity and in times of ultimatums. I have mentioned before how important it is for Pennsylvanians NOT to take ownership of this inane celebration. I mean, it’s not even on the same DAY every year! Friends and coworkers, it’s even worse when a woman is not even in a relationship and her entire day of work is focused on the lasting merits of Relationship With Mystery Man X because OMG YOU WEREN’T DELIVERED 18 BALLOONS ALONG WITH A SINGING BANANA!
Because THAT GUY is a stalker. Not a boyfriend.
AB is on the same page with me, thankfully. At least about the holiday stuff. Oh, I wish I could get him on board with skipping Christmas… I’m probably not the most romantic person in the world. But this year, I might cook dinner and fuck it up JUST BECAUSE I CARE. Because when I dated a guy that EXPECTED me to gift him something just because HE did something “special” for me, well, that’s a sure way to guilt trip somebody into buying you a shit-ton of easter candy — that you will never eat — to make up for “that time” your girlfriend didn’t reciprocate a slippers-and-chocolate combo. Oh, how in the world did I stretch that relationship out as far as it did?! No blow jobs. That’s how.
And where the fuck are those slipper socks? Because I’m going to burn them in my wood stove tonight in effigy…