How To Turn a Blog Comment Into A Very Long Blog Post

Two days before Valentine's Day. The moaning has hit full tilt.

Everyone hates Valentine's Day. I don't hate it; I just don't celebrate it, and I really never have. The Donor and I, I don't think, have ever once really 'celebrated' it. I mean, he'll run out on Sunday morning and buy me the obligatory Bunch of Asparagus, and I'll give him the obligatory Redacted.  But we'd do that because it's Sunday. We'd do that because we are wasted. These things work for us.

Besides, I think mothers day is way more fun.
Mother's Day, 2008.  Yum.
But a few weeks ago, my friend Earnest Girl wrote a post about Valentine's Day, and I left her a little comment, and this morning while I was asking Twitter to decide for me whether to bitch about getting kicked out of Canada 90 days before the reason we moved there in the first place, or bitch about explain Google Buzz, my other friend Deb Rox asked me to post about that old comment instead.


Why I Love Valentine's Day; A Tale of Love in the Time of Awkward Adolescence

Do you remember that kid in school? You know who I'm talking about...the one that always smelled bad, or the one who has some weird gastroenterological disorder that made them poop 8 times every day, or the one who's parents forced them to dress like Puritans, or the one who always wore clothes that were 4 years out of style, or the one who got free breakfast and lunch at school, and never once had a dime to their name? You remember that kid. I was that kid.

For the record, I always smelled good.

But I wore my brother's hand-me-down underwear, and the girl at church's hand me down clothes, and school breakfast and lunch were, on most days, the only food we saw, and I was being raised as a good little subservient cult member, and I was either getting the shit beat out of me mentally or physically, depending on the amount of coffee brewed on any given day, at home, or watching it happen to my brother. I had the self-esteem of your common household ant-trap. And I had, like, one friend. Maybe.

I was not a popular child.  I was the elementary school's class graduating class of 1985's whipping post. I still have nightmares about elementary school, not kidding.

Part of the thing with being raised all culty is that we didn't celebrate holidays. Any of them. Ever. So I got to spend an extra super fabulous day at home every time Christmas parties or Halloween parties or Valentine's Day parties rolled around. And I didn't really care so much. I was so thoroughly brainwashed that I pitied the fools who were damning themselves for eternity with their cotton ball Christmas trees and their Berry Berry Kix garland strings. But still, none of it helped my feeling that I was standing outside of my childhood, looking in. I could see what being a kid was, I just could never touch it. I was never a part of the world I lived in, and that is a hard way to be a kid.

My teachers were always respectful enough of my mother's my beliefs that they never made me a Jack O' Lantern for the wall, and I never had a picture on a construction paper bulb hanging on the foam core Christmas tree. They always excused me to the library with a smile and a nod when there were Evil Pagan Holiday things to be done in class. At least I had an out....Ash, the kid next to me who didn't stop farting for 4 years straight, he just had to sit there and take it over glitter glue festivities.

It could have been worse, that's all I'm saying.

Sometimes, my teachers would try. In 4th grade, my teacher bought me a Clifford the Big Red Dog book for my birthday, and held on to it for an extra week, and wrapped it in regular paper with a very birthdayish ribbon that could be easily disposed of before I got home, and told me as much. "I'm giving you this because I chose to celebrate your birthday, because I think you're neat, but your mom doesn't need to know. Tell her it's for homework," she said to me after the whole class was dismissed one day. I kept that book, hidden under a mattress, until high school.  It's the little things.

But there is a difference between some Big Sneaky Adult Authority Figure acknowledging your presence on the planet and your peer group doing it. There was one of her and 30 of them, all day, every day. Thirty of them with rocks, thirty of them with new clothes and shoes every January, thirty of them to remind me that I would never, ever belong in their tribe. They were just kids; they didn't know any better. In the days of 67.39% Tolerance, the runt of the litter took it hard, and me with my old clothes and stringy hair, and poor little Ash who always smelled like half-digested curried goat, we were the runts.

But for each of those 30 kids, there was at least one parent behind them with the legible handwriting and the purse strings. Enter Valentine's Day.

Maybe the teachers knew better, and maybe the kids knew better, but the moms and dads who bought the Valentine's sure didn't. You never really know beyond your kid in elementary school, especially in the 1980's.  So every year, I would return to school on the 15th of February and be greeted by a desk overflowing with cards. Cards that had my name scribbled on them in dried-up marker or stubby crayon, cards with a piece of gum lovingly taped to Scooby Doo's buttcrack or Jem's Truly Outrageous Star, cards with sugar coated chalk hearts attached that said U R Cool or I <3 U, cards from every single kid I ever prayed would be my friend late at night, once the world slept and I was left with own, private black isolation.

On February 15th, I belonged where I was. I was a normal kid who got normal cheap cardboard inclusion in the world. I was a kid in a class and everyone knew my name, they'd all acknowledged that I existed. I stayed late every year on the day after Valentine's; I ate every piece of candy and traced my name on every card with my fingers before I threw them all out so my mother wouldn't see, and for one lousy day in my lousy school year, I smiled.

So maybe obligatory redacted is kind of lame, and maybe blowing $2.99 on stupid cards your kids will hand out at school and promptly forget about is wasteful, but every year my kids and I sit together and we carefully write every name on every card, and the names we don't know so well get an extra heart scribbled in crayon on them, because maybe that's the kid who needs a Valentine to show up in their desk just so they can remember that they exist. And if it takes one really annoyingly Pepto-pink day on my calender to make that happen for some kid, I'll deal. And I'll smile.

Karmic Retribution

My husband has told me numerous times that the best part of my blog is the comments, and I really can't argue him that fact.  You people?  You're funny. You're clever.  You're vindictive as all get-out.  Sci Fi Dad will almost always leave a comment that is funnier that anything I've ever hoped to say, and that's just one example.  The Donor and I both love reading the comments and even though I am the suckiest blog comment responder in the whole entire world, don't think I don't read them all with my husband every night when he comes home.  It's sort of our thing.

That Valentine's Day post?  The comments were not his favorite.  He says I have to vindicate him.  He pays for the internet connection, and so I oblidge.  Also, I only folded half the laundry today.  Penance is a bitch.

(I will add, in my defense, that since I totally threw him under this bus on this post, he's teased me incessantly with the threat of a Valentine's Day bouquet of broccoli.  If I was especially good, maybe he'd throw some asparagus in there for good measure.  And I've secretly hoped for that, because really?  Hilarious.  So worth it.  All I wanted was some damn BROCCOLI.)

Three hours after the idiot email, he emailed again and said, "Oh, and you looked really hot."  Many, many hours later he came home from his 14 hour day at work and collapsed.  Several hours later I awoke and totally taunted him with the fact that I'd taken a weed-whacker to the more delicate areas of my body after, oh, months of neglect, and then left him high and dry.  He actually sat up in bed and mustered a "What. The. Fuck?" before he passed back out.
I came downstairs, feeling quite smug, to this:

valentines day oopsie

Yes, he'd managed to squeeze 5 minutes in his very busy fourteen hour workday to go get me something.  I am a jerk.

Inside that bag were all the candies I shouldn't have because I'm trying to be on a diet, because he loves me just the way I am, all squishy and floppy.  I am an asshole.  And when I looked deep into the bag, I found this, way at the bottom, under everything else.

Pocket Full of Kryptonite

Twizzlers.  My all-time favorite candy.  Raise your hands if you're already laughing.

The rest of you can take one guess as to what my kryptonite is, the one substance that will knock my on my ass with migranes so bad I go blind and my whole body twitches like I'm having a seizure and the nails, they get hammered into my skull through both eye sockets, all the temples and in the back of my neck.  That's right, red food coloring. Twizzlers are my favorite candy in the whole world, and I can have them about as much as I can drink a nice, tall glass of bleach.

I laughed so hard, I cried a little.  He got his little dig in.  Either he was an asshole because he forgot, or he was just an asshole.  It was comic GOLD.  And that was the best Valentine's Day present I ever could have asked for.

I Also Said I Didn't Care If He Got Me An Engagement Ring Or Not.

This morning, my husband rolled over and on his nightstand sat a bag with a sweet little card and his favorite chocolates.  We came downstairs to find the children reading the valentine's I'd left them out on the table, eating the chocolates and dousing themselves in the little pocket-tubes of Axe bodyspray I gave them.

Note to self: Axe?  Not a great idea unsupervised.

There wasn't anything for me, and I didn't really care.  The smiling faces of my gorgeous little family were all I was hoping for, and I was happy.

We were out of coffee, and I said I'd go get another bag.  10 minutes after waiting for him to say, "No, honey, it's Valentine's Day.  Let me," I headed out the door.  I decided to splurge on a big, fancy latte, the kind I refuse to waste the money on normally, and I was happy.

The Donor got ready for work and with a kiss to everyone's cheek was out the door.  A few hours later, having not heard from him, I decided to email him a picture of myself in, um, a Valentinesy sort of position on the bedroom floor with a caption that simply read, "Hurry home, baby."  No, I will not show you the picture.  I was nervous, that sort of thing being really out of character for me, but I was happy.

A little while later, he replied.  I opened his email which read, and I quote:
"Holy Shit!  Did you clean the bedroom?"

I was not happy anymore.

And so my new Valentine and I wish you all a very happy Valentine's Day weekend.


Too harsh? Yeah, I should at least find one that looks like him, huh?


That works out much better.