As a single mom, nothing is more irritating than Valentine’s Day. Actually, I take that back. Valentine’s Day was much more annoying when I was married because it was the one day when my ex and I could both count on disappointing each other. Valentine’s Day has never meant much to me, ever. So every February 14th when my dear hubby handed me a box of waxy chocolates that he frantically bought at Rite Aid at 5:00 p.m. on Valentine’s Day (and only because he noticed some chick getting verklempt over a VD card at the PO), I had to pretend like he’d just presented me with a straight version of Anderson Cooper, along with a card that said, “Go ahead and have sex with Anderson. Really. It’s fine with me.”
Unfortunately, I’m not that good of an actor when it comes to the people I care about disappointing me. And in turn he would feel hurt and resentful because I didn’t do cheetah flips over his heroic attempt to get me something I didn’t want for a holiday that exists only to profit on the manipulation of couples’ emotions.
Um. Not exactly a recipe for romance, right?
The St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Over the years I’ve taken a lot of heat (from a variety of people) for poo-poo-ing Valentine’s Day. I’ve been called cranky, bitchy, bitter, grumpy, and even un-American. Which makes sense I guess, because the practice of exchanging Valentine’s Day cards originated in the U.S. in the 19th Century, when everyone in the Industrial Age was trying to figure out new and inventive ways to make a buck. However, once Hallmark and American Greetings got their hooks into Valentine’s Day, I’m guessing marriage counseling suddenly became a lucrative profession.
Don’t get me wrong, I love chocolate (well, dark chocolate anyway), and I love receiving gifts (as long as they’re thoughtful). And I certainly adore honoring that one special someone in my life that I love the most. However, I don’t understand why we don’t do that year round. Why do I need the pressure of a manufactured holiday to show a guy how much I love him? Can’t I just give him a BJ on a random Tuesday night and call it good? (I’m talking about a bottle of Beaujolais, but the way. So just settle down.)
But since the people who dictate these things never check with me first, I’ve decided to embrace Cupid this year as enthusiastically as if I were taking an antibiotic to get rid of VD (Valentine’s Day). Which means if I care about you, you just might get something from me on February 14th, but it will be on my terms, catering to my sensibilities. So your gift will probably look something like this:
I’m sure you men out there have been wondering for years what IS the best way to carry condoms when you leave the house? Because stashing them in your wallet is just so Fast Times at Ridgemont High. And how frustrating is it to realize right in the middle of your best horizontal cha-cha that you left your root suit in the glove box of your car? Well, thanks to me, now you can just reach down and pull that prophylactic right out of your Safe Sock. However, you may have to explain to your lady friend why the hell you’re wearing these dorky socks during sex in the first place. #moodkiller
Valentine’s Day Orgasms in a Can
I can’t think of anything better that I’d rather take on a red-eye flight from Salt Lake to New Jersey than canned orgasms. Seriously. Not only does it beat reading the in-flight magazine 12 zillion times, it also softens the blow of having to go to New Jersey. And no worries if you run out while on the road. Orgasms in a Can are All Natural, which means you can pick up a six-pack at any Whole Foods. Even though the label doesn’t indicate if these are male or female orgasms, I think it’s obvious that they’re female. I mean, come on. There are six per can. If they were male there’d only be one and it’d be over as soon as you opened the can.
You’re My Favorite Ex
Nothing says “I’m so glad I booted your ass out of my life” quite like this sincere, little greeting card. The sentiment also comes embroidered on a silk pillow for the metro-sexual you dated last summer after you broke up with that Neanderthal lumberjack who breeds Pit Bulls. (In retrospect auditioning for a community theatre production of the musical Hair that summer was NOT a good idea on many levels. Just check Facebook.) Of course, I’m speaking hypothetically. Any man I give this card to had great taste in women. At least while he dated me.
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Stacy Dymalski is an award winning keynote speaker and stand-up comic who gave up the glamorous life of coach travel, smokey comedy clubs, and heckling drunks for the glamourous life of raising kids (who happen to be bigger hecklers than the drunks). This blog is her new stage. For more of Stacy’s comedy check out her book Confessions of a Band Geek Mom available in bookstores and on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.