While you are out buying all kinds of yummy Valentine's candy on sale, do me a little favor? Take a look at all those little cute cuddly faces staring out from the sale bins, and, maybe, rescue one.
This is something my papaw started a very long time ago; it's a tradition my mom, dad, and I have kept going. My papaw was like Santa Claus, minus the beard and belly like a bowl full of jelly. His blue eyes twinkled with pure goodness, and his heart was beautifully big.
When I was little, he always said that the little leftover Valentine's, Christmas, Easter, and/or Halloween animals were those most in need of a home. First thing the day after a holiday, he went over to the local drugstore and picked up a little fella. He felt they would hold an extra special place in the heart of the person receiving them.
So, while you're rescuing the chocolate from going into a garbage bin, think about one of those little faces staring at you--you never know when it might be just what you need. After all, we're never too old for a hug and smiling face.
We've carried on my papaw's tradition. Maybe you will too. :)
And, um, I know I sound like a total dork, but...I'm okay with dork.
Showing posts with label Valentine's Vomit Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Valentine's Vomit Day. Show all posts
Vomit Day #3: Driveway Roadkill, Part Two
Aside from the occasional raspberry when I would forget to lift before moving, dinner went quite smoothly. No food drops, food flings, or gags...that is until Mr. Leaver made me try to eat something, knowing I thought they looked like little bits of mushy cow's brain.
Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."
Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."
Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."
So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.
It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.
To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.
Yeah.
Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?
You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.
His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.
I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair, and tried to assure him that his meal was delicious.
Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.
Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.
After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?
I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**
NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.
As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."
Uh-oh.
He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.
I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.
He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand. He hasn't kissed me. Yet, he wants to go have sex??
Seriously?
I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.
I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.
So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.
Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight. I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.
It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.
After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.
We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).
Whatever. It didn't take.
Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss?? Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either.
He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.
Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.
Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.
I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:
What happened to "taking it slow?"
Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?
Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?
Am I totally wrong, here?
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.
After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.
So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.
To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}
To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}
Mr. Leaver: "Just try one for me."
Me: "Oh, all right, but I won't like it."
Mr. Leaver: "You'll like this one."
So, I tried it. Didn't like it. Mr. Leaver started grinning at me while I tried to choke the thing down. I made a very tiny ewy-ick face at him, just to make him laugh.
It's quite unfortunate that at that precise moment, the chef came out and wanted to know how everyone enjoyed their meals.
To make matters worse, my date's family was pretty well-known in the community, so the chef, proud of his work, looked to us first.
Yeah.
Poor thing--he seemed so anxious to know if we found his cooking satisfactory. Beaming, he looked to me first. Can you guess what he saw?
You guessed it: The leather-pants-wearing-faux-flatulence-problem girl, wearing the ewy-ick expression on her face.
His face went pale; I really thought he might vomit, which would have been very bad, since the little mushy brain-like thing in my mouth pushed me to the ragged edge of vomitville.
I swallowed the last bit as quickly as I could, coughed a little, made a small gagging sound, nervously (sadly) moved in my chair
Not thinking he bought it. Not sure if it was the expression, cough, gag, or faux fart that didn't convince him.
Sigh. I do hope he understood after everything.
After dinner: Once in the car, I could tell something was off about Mr. Leaver. Was it the pants? The ewy-ick face? Ugh, the faux-flatulence?
I should point out that Mr. Leaver did NOT bring me any flowers or candy or a cuddly for Valentine's Day. His reason? Because he wanted to take it slow (fine by me!) and he didn't want to "scare" me off. **He knew about Wasn't**
NOTE: He had not even tried to KISS me yet, much to my surprise.
As the radio played one of my favorite songs, Mr. Leaver fumbled about for a CD. He cut off the radio, put in the CD, and immediately started playing a specific song, saying, "I want you to hear this one."
Uh-oh.
He picked a song that had a very clear message...and it didn't include sleep. Now, the song wasn't Bump N' Grind or Freak Me (those were really good songs, weren't they? Sorry, momentary mind melt), but I got the message.
I can't remember the song specifically--probably because my leather pants and I were busy visiting sweatville all over again--but I do recall some of it was very, very sweet and complementary...still, I got the jist of what it was saying.
He wants to take it slow. He hasn't held my hand. He hasn't kissed me. Yet, he wants to go have sex??
Seriously?
I didn't say anything, apart from commenting on what a pretty song it was; he didn't say anything. It was THE most awkward drive home. He never followed up with anything.
I kind-of think he wanted me to initiate something...suggest we go back to his place, perhaps. I didn't know what to do...usually the guy actually makes a move or suggests going back to his place...SOMETHING. This was new to me.
So, play a song, and I'm expected to recommend the sex??? Total confusion.
Next thing I know, Mr. Leaver says: "I'm just going to take you back home tonight. I have an early day tomorrow. Hope you don't mind." His tone was a bit cold, at least to me.
It was pretty early for a date to end. My initial translation on his words: "You didn't pick up on my song and suggest going back to my place, so I'm gonna pout now." I could have been wrong, but that's how it came off.
After the longest drive ever--where I tried to make conversation and he just seemed distant--we finally pulled into my very icy driveway.
We paused for a moment. I felt bad. I didn't want the date to end all awkward and full of misunderstanding. So, I tried to imply that we could take things to the next level (i.e. kissing...since I was a little confused as to why that hadn't happened yet).
Whatever. It didn't take.
Hmm. Why isn't he moving from that nice warm seat to walk me to my door? Maybe say goodnight with a Valentine's kiss?? Ah, I get it, he's not gonna do either.
He literally dropped me in the middle of my driveway and drove off without making sure I made it safely to my door.
Nope. I was left in the dark, in the middle of my icy driveway, in leather pants, and brand new heels.
Maybe I misread everything, but I still think, no matter what, you see your date makes it to her door safely... especially a Valentine's date. I'm a southern girl, remember.
I scraped and slid my way to the door, looking like something between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and a turtle. During my long hobbit-like walk to the door, several thoughts ticked across my mind:
What happened to "taking it slow?"
Ya haven't kissed me, but you want to have sex? Huh?
Play a song = girl suggesting sex? Really?
Am I totally wrong, here?
Once I made it safely inside--shocked I didn't fall on my arse--I closed the door on Valentine's Day forever...and wearing leather pants on a formal date.
After about three days of nothing, he called and started calling me "honey" and "dear" and I think even "darling." It was strange and, yet, totally par for the course.
So, there you have it, my top three worst Vomit Days. I think the only reason I don't have more is because of my tendency to hide this time of year. If history is any indication, it's a dang good thing I do.
To all of you who love V-Day: Happy Valentine's Day to you. {{{HUGS}}}
To all of you who don't: Happy February 15th...a.k.a. The Chocolate Sale Day! {{{HUGS}}}
Vomit Day #3: Driveway Roadkill, Part One
Who: We'll call him Mr. Leaver.
Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.
Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.
Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them.
Restaurant: Quaint, converted house. Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.
Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.
Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."
The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.
Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).
While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.
*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*
As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:
leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.
Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK.
Oh. Holy. God.
The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.
Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.
I had to get off this stupid stool. I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.
The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.
By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.
I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.
Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"
Me: "I can't get off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Why?"
Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Um, how?"
Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."
Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."
Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"
Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.
I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...
...which had wooden seats.
It was only the beginning.
Date: 3rd. a.k.a. the expected sex date...on my very first official V-Day date. Fabulous timing.
Mood: Excited, hopeful, happy.
Outfit: Oooh, a good one--leather pants, brand new pink top, brand new, tastefully sexy boots with a decent size heel on them.
Restaurant: Quaint, converted house. Picture a mid-size bar adjacent a surprisingly small dining area--very intimate. The overwhelmingly quiet atmosphere around the bar and dining area made me nervous.
Me + new heels + small area + insane quiet = possible catastrophe.
Mr. Leaver: "Let's sit at the bar while they're getting our table ready."
The bar stools were unusually tall...dangerously so, actually. With my nice new heels, I lifted and balanced myself gracefully onto the stool. Phew.
Mr. Leaver and I talked for a few moments before he left to go talk to someone (I think he wanted to greet someone his family knew...that whole bit is a blur).
While my date did whatever, the front of house informed me that our table was ready.
*Keep in mind, the following happened very quickly, but it felt like slow motion*
As I tried to slide off the stool, I discovered something the mean science teachers failed to tell us in school:
leather pants + wooden seat = inability to slide, slight stuck feeling, and manufactured farting sounds when attempting to move.
Now, I don't know if there were some unknown variables, like whatever they used to clean the wood, the type of wood, or the type of leather pants I had on, but my rear end was essentially STUCK.
Oh. Holy. God.
The height of the stools were such that I couldn't put my foot down and hop off without the possibility of my leathery bottom bringing the stool crashing to the ground. And, as we have already learned, I cannot simply slide off without sounding like I had a flatulence problem.
Growing very hot, I began to sweat--not a good mix with leather.
I had to get off this stupid stool. I slowly lifted my rear, one bum cheek at a time, and tried to ease myself forward until my feet could touch the floor. In doing so, these very strange *FLAWP* *FLAWP* peeling sounds rang out from my derriere.
The people at the tables closest to the bar kept a measuring eye on me; I couldn't tell if they were amused or if they were waiting to see if I would fall off the stool.
By this time, my feet were halfway to the floor, my body was slightly tilted on the stool, and I was in deep danger of the whole stool tipping over should I move one more inch.
I dared to try one more little slide. The only thing I accomplished was the sound of gas.
Grab Guy (sitting behind me at the bar): "You okay, there?"
Me: "I can't get off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Why?"
Me: "My leather pants--they're sticking to the wood. I need you to lift me off the stool."
Grab Guy: "Um, how?"
Me, sighing: "I need you to stick your hands under my bottom and just...peel me up."
Grab Guy, laughing: "I would, but I have a girlfriend."
Me: "I'm not asking you to grope me...just kindly help me off this thing, otherwise my pants will continue to make obscene sounds and eventually succeed in knocking over the stool. Please, I need your help...I can't reach the floor. Now, stick your hands under there and peel!"
Grab Guy, quite literally laughing his rear end off, aided in my dilemma, and I was able to hop off the stool with his, um, forklift-type-help. I did stumble a bit and, in doing so, my heels made an appallingly loud clip-clopping sound as people turned to look at the crazed leather-pants-wearing girl.
I thanked Grab Guy, and rejoined Mr. Leaver--the clip-clopping prompted him to leave his acquaintances and attend to his frazzled date. After assuring Mr. Leaver that all was well, we followed the waiter to our table...
...which had wooden seats.
It was only the beginning.
Valentine's Eve...A Weekend Roundup.
'Twas the night before V--...
Yeah, I can't carry that one through.
So, yesterday was the Budweiser Shootout, a.k.a. the official return of NASCAR. Hurray! Dale Earnhardt Jr. drew the pole for Saturday night's race, and was having a great night until...Smith got into Carl Edwards, who then clipped Dale. Night over. Boo!
***On the very bright side--Dale won the pole for the upcoming Daytona 500!!!! Hurray!***
Food Drama: Yesterday, I ordered Chinese food. My favorite part of the meal? Fortune cookie time!!
Well, I had 3 fortune cookies. 2 of them were the exact same: "You and your wife will be happy in your life together."
Fantastic.
Two totally inapplicable fortunes for several reasons: 1. Wrong sex; 2. I'm not someone's wife or anything of the like, so I can't stretch it in any possible way to make it fit; and 3. I don't recall ever seeing a marriage fortune, much less two of the same thing--highly inappropriate fortunes right before the-day-that-must-not-be-named.
Result: My dad's getting them, since he and my mom fit said fortunes perfectly.
The 3rd fortune did offer a tiny bit of hope: "All your hard work will soon pay off." Here's hoping. Think I'll keep this one.
Next up was a boatload of fun: After watching Gone With The Wind, another kind of wind began battering my stomach something awful. The painfully unwelcome visitor then kept me in post-food hell until 8 a.m. this morning. I'm trying hard NOT to take this as a sign, but rather an unfortunate, ill-timed occurrence...one that just so happened to fall on V-Day eve. Ironic and appropriate in so many ways.
Happy V-Day Eve! *just doesn't have the same ring to it*
Bah! Humbug! *now, that works*
Yeah, I can't carry that one through.
So, yesterday was the Budweiser Shootout, a.k.a. the official return of NASCAR. Hurray! Dale Earnhardt Jr. drew the pole for Saturday night's race, and was having a great night until...Smith got into Carl Edwards, who then clipped Dale. Night over. Boo!
***On the very bright side--Dale won the pole for the upcoming Daytona 500!!!! Hurray!***
Food Drama: Yesterday, I ordered Chinese food. My favorite part of the meal? Fortune cookie time!!
Well, I had 3 fortune cookies. 2 of them were the exact same: "You and your wife will be happy in your life together."
Fantastic.
Two totally inapplicable fortunes for several reasons: 1. Wrong sex; 2. I'm not someone's wife or anything of the like, so I can't stretch it in any possible way to make it fit; and 3. I don't recall ever seeing a marriage fortune, much less two of the same thing--highly inappropriate fortunes right before the-day-that-must-not-be-named.
Result: My dad's getting them, since he and my mom fit said fortunes perfectly.
The 3rd fortune did offer a tiny bit of hope: "All your hard work will soon pay off." Here's hoping. Think I'll keep this one.
Next up was a boatload of fun: After watching Gone With The Wind, another kind of wind began battering my stomach something awful. The painfully unwelcome visitor then kept me in post-food hell until 8 a.m. this morning. I'm trying hard NOT to take this as a sign, but rather an unfortunate, ill-timed occurrence...one that just so happened to fall on V-Day eve. Ironic and appropriate in so many ways.
Happy V-Day Eve! *just doesn't have the same ring to it*
Bah! Humbug! *now, that works*
Vomit Day Survival Guide
Still bruised and battered after my Mavs single point loss last night, I thought it might be fun to put together a Valentine's Day survival guide. Why not, right?
Hope you don't mind--my blog is my outlet. I figure once I get all this V-Day aggression out of my system this year, I will be done with it forever. This is the first time I've ever really talked about my V-Day catastrophes in any detail--I have yet to share a particularly "interesting" one with you...reckon I'll save it for the day itself.
Anyway...
Valentine's Day Survival Guide:
*Groan*
*Yawn*
*Gag*
First and foremost:
-remove all romantic movies from vicinity of DVD player (shove deep in closet, drawer, anywhere out of sight)
-eject all sappy-lovey cd's from stereo; do not listen to pathetic f.m.
-turn off answering machine--will only upset you to hear for the 900th time: "No new messages...*^%$"
-keep all phones OFF. Their lack of response to your inherent need for a ringing sound will not help your sanity.
Must gather necessary supplies for impending doom's day, er, Valentine's Day.
1. All vices--junk food? Why not? Soda? Oh, slap me silly and call me candy, you bet your sweet sweat there will be soda. Chocolate? Only in the form of M&Ms, Hershey's, or any non-V-Day candy. NO Russell Stover heart boxes--those are best saved for after V-Day when they are on sale.
2.Acceptable DVDs:
Action: Independence Day, Terminator, Alien (for the stomach blast alone, it's a perfect V-Day movie), Cast Away (okay, not exactly action, but totally apropos--don't we all have a Wilson? No? Yeah, me neither), Saving Private Ryan, etc.
Fantasy: Harry Potter (Stupefy!), Lord of the Rings, Beetlejuice, The Dark Crystal, etc.
If you absolutely must watch a love-themed movie on said day, stick to those with sad endings (happy endings will only tick you off; at least sad is in keeping with the tone of the day): Titanic, Phantom of the Opera, Love Story, Ghost, etc.
Could also go for slapstick comedy.
***Bram Stoker's DRACULA. That would be ideal on V-Day...any day, really. Edward Cullen pales in comparison. Get it? Pales... Yeah. I know. Lame joke. But, this really is a great film--tortured love, vampires, undying love (literally)--it's classic.
3. Advil for certain headache
4. Ice bag to numb head when Advil isn't working fast enough
5. Dramamine for certain queasy stomach when thought of someone flutters across your bruised mind.
6. Computer--equipped with favorite shopping sites minimized and ready for raiding.
7. Credit Card--to aid in said raiding
8. Second Dramamine for buyer's remorse.
9. Kleenex for any spontaneous eye leakage...due to inflamed sinuses, of course.
10. A cute cuddly something, like a teddy bear. Yeah, I love a good hug from a cute cuddly...please don't judge.
11. A partridge in a pear tree...wait, wrong day.
Hope you don't mind--my blog is my outlet. I figure once I get all this V-Day aggression out of my system this year, I will be done with it forever. This is the first time I've ever really talked about my V-Day catastrophes in any detail--I have yet to share a particularly "interesting" one with you...reckon I'll save it for the day itself.
Anyway...
Valentine's Day Survival Guide:
*Groan*
*Yawn*
*Gag*
First and foremost:
-remove all romantic movies from vicinity of DVD player (shove deep in closet, drawer, anywhere out of sight)
-eject all sappy-lovey cd's from stereo; do not listen to pathetic f.m.
-turn off answering machine--will only upset you to hear for the 900th time: "No new messages...*^%$"
-keep all phones OFF. Their lack of response to your inherent need for a ringing sound will not help your sanity.
Must gather necessary supplies for impending doom's day, er, Valentine's Day.
1. All vices--junk food? Why not? Soda? Oh, slap me silly and call me candy, you bet your sweet sweat there will be soda. Chocolate? Only in the form of M&Ms, Hershey's, or any non-V-Day candy. NO Russell Stover heart boxes--those are best saved for after V-Day when they are on sale.
2.Acceptable DVDs:
Action: Independence Day, Terminator, Alien (for the stomach blast alone, it's a perfect V-Day movie), Cast Away (okay, not exactly action, but totally apropos--don't we all have a Wilson? No? Yeah, me neither), Saving Private Ryan, etc.
Fantasy: Harry Potter (Stupefy!), Lord of the Rings, Beetlejuice, The Dark Crystal, etc.
If you absolutely must watch a love-themed movie on said day, stick to those with sad endings (happy endings will only tick you off; at least sad is in keeping with the tone of the day): Titanic, Phantom of the Opera, Love Story, Ghost, etc.
Could also go for slapstick comedy.
***Bram Stoker's DRACULA. That would be ideal on V-Day...any day, really. Edward Cullen pales in comparison. Get it? Pales... Yeah. I know. Lame joke. But, this really is a great film--tortured love, vampires, undying love (literally)--it's classic.
3. Advil for certain headache
4. Ice bag to numb head when Advil isn't working fast enough
5. Dramamine for certain queasy stomach when thought of someone flutters across your bruised mind.
6. Computer--equipped with favorite shopping sites minimized and ready for raiding.
7. Credit Card--to aid in said raiding
8. Second Dramamine for buyer's remorse.
9. Kleenex for any spontaneous eye leakage...due to inflamed sinuses, of course.
10. A cute cuddly something, like a teddy bear. Yeah, I love a good hug from a cute cuddly...please don't judge.
11. A partridge in a pear tree...wait, wrong day.
Roses Are Red...Unless You Are Me...
I have a thing for flowers. I love 'em. My favorite flower is the daisy. It's just such a happy little flower. Every time I bring them home, I swear the house smiles...and so do I. My mom loves to make me blankets featuring all sorts of different daisy patterns, and let me tell you how they brighten up a room!
But, considering we are approaching the wretched day called Valentine's, I want to look at the unofficial V-Day flower: The rose.
Now, I love roses, I do, really (*clears throat* they in no way make me want to toss them in a sewer when I see them handed to an undercover soulless witch)...
...but, they have been a bit of a thorn in my side, as they have with all single women. Society conditions us at a very young age to recognize the rose as a universal declaration of love, acceptance, desire, etc.
Rose = relationship;
Rose = romance;
Rose = gag
Ooh, wait, that last one's my personal reaction. Sorry.
**I do have a favorite color rose...bet you can guess.**
Due to this time of year, personal experience, and just the total randomness of my mind right now, I have this whole rose philosophy when it comes to the colors:
1. Red Rose: Unofficial Vomit Day flower and waaaaaay overused. Result: Nah, I'll pass.
2. White Rose: Innocence and purity. Huh! Well, this one was forever ruined when cute boy gave slut girl a white rose as a symbol of her purity. Turns out he was trying to kiss up for the ideal boy-V-Day, if you get what I'm saying. Result: Not on your life. However, I wouldn't pass up a white rose with pink touches on the petals--those are just gorgeous.
3. Yellow Rose: Soooo, the popular kid in school! Okay, I know there is the famous song, The Yellow Rose of Texas, but the only Texas flower for me is the bluebonnet--love them. Result: Wouldn't turn 'em away. ;)
4. Pink Rose: Poetic romance and sweetness. Aside from the fact that it's my very favorite color, the pink rose has always struck me as the one who quietly sits in the background, not needing to be the center of attention or flaunted about. I hardly see these featured, certainly when compared to the others. Result: We have a winner!
My two very favorite flowers: Pretty Pink Roses and Happy Daisies!
Please, no one tell me a bad story involving pink roses, I beg you.
Wow...this was a random post...I never know where my pre-Vomit Day mind will carry me.
***Aw, who the heck am I kidding? I'd be jumping up and down, clapping, and doing the happy dance over any color rose at this point. ***
But, considering we are approaching the wretched day called Valentine's, I want to look at the unofficial V-Day flower: The rose.
Now, I love roses, I do, really (*clears throat* they in no way make me want to toss them in a sewer when I see them handed to an undercover soulless witch)...
...but, they have been a bit of a thorn in my side, as they have with all single women. Society conditions us at a very young age to recognize the rose as a universal declaration of love, acceptance, desire, etc.
Rose = relationship;
Rose = romance;
Rose = gag
Ooh, wait, that last one's my personal reaction. Sorry.
**I do have a favorite color rose...bet you can guess.**
Due to this time of year, personal experience, and just the total randomness of my mind right now, I have this whole rose philosophy when it comes to the colors:
1. Red Rose: Unofficial Vomit Day flower and waaaaaay overused. Result: Nah, I'll pass.
2. White Rose: Innocence and purity. Huh! Well, this one was forever ruined when cute boy gave slut girl a white rose as a symbol of her purity. Turns out he was trying to kiss up for the ideal boy-V-Day, if you get what I'm saying. Result: Not on your life. However, I wouldn't pass up a white rose with pink touches on the petals--those are just gorgeous.
3. Yellow Rose: Soooo, the popular kid in school! Okay, I know there is the famous song, The Yellow Rose of Texas, but the only Texas flower for me is the bluebonnet--love them. Result: Wouldn't turn 'em away. ;)
4. Pink Rose: Poetic romance and sweetness. Aside from the fact that it's my very favorite color, the pink rose has always struck me as the one who quietly sits in the background, not needing to be the center of attention or flaunted about. I hardly see these featured, certainly when compared to the others. Result: We have a winner!
My two very favorite flowers: Pretty Pink Roses and Happy Daisies!
Please, no one tell me a bad story involving pink roses, I beg you.
Wow...this was a random post...I never know where my pre-Vomit Day mind will carry me.
***Aw, who the heck am I kidding? I'd be jumping up and down, clapping, and doing the happy dance over any color rose at this point. ***
Vomit Day Confession
In a comment posted on my last entry,Vomit Day#2 , Drake asked if I had any positive Valentine's Day stories.
Answer: No. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
Exception: I don't count my parents; they have ALWAYS tried to do something sweet for me on that wretched day, and I dearly love them for it. Likewise, I don't count the days when we were little ones and Teacher practically made everybody give everybody else one of those little single sheet cartoon-y Valentine's.
No, I'm strictly talking about the boy-girl, man-woman Vomit Day experiences. For me, if they weren't flat out terrible, they were nonexistent.
Even when I tried a silent protest by wearing thick black eyeliner, a black top, tight dark jeans, and dark nails on that ungodly day, I had people say, "Ooooh, what a pretty look on you!" or "Do you have a hot date tonight?" So not the ideal reaction. I'm protesting people!!! How is this unclear?
I've never gotten flowers, whether via an e-flower or in the flesh; I've never gotten a Valentine's card; I've never gotten a cute little Valentine's cuddly-something. Nothing. You know who got those things? You guessed it. The girls who were a sure thing or the seriously mean girls--we're talking MEAN with rotten intentions. I've never understood it.
Confession: I'm a hopeless romantic, so I WANT to like Valentine's Day, I really do. Even though it's totally over-commercialized and terribly cliche, I would love to know what it's like to have just one good memory for that day.
Until then....I will hate it with a burning passion that's stronger than a million suns.
Answer: No. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada.
Exception: I don't count my parents; they have ALWAYS tried to do something sweet for me on that wretched day, and I dearly love them for it. Likewise, I don't count the days when we were little ones and Teacher practically made everybody give everybody else one of those little single sheet cartoon-y Valentine's.
No, I'm strictly talking about the boy-girl, man-woman Vomit Day experiences. For me, if they weren't flat out terrible, they were nonexistent.
Even when I tried a silent protest by wearing thick black eyeliner, a black top, tight dark jeans, and dark nails on that ungodly day, I had people say, "Ooooh, what a pretty look on you!" or "Do you have a hot date tonight?" So not the ideal reaction. I'm protesting people!!! How is this unclear?
I've never gotten flowers, whether via an e-flower or in the flesh; I've never gotten a Valentine's card; I've never gotten a cute little Valentine's cuddly-something. Nothing. You know who got those things? You guessed it. The girls who were a sure thing or the seriously mean girls--we're talking MEAN with rotten intentions. I've never understood it.
Confession: I'm a hopeless romantic, so I WANT to like Valentine's Day, I really do. Even though it's totally over-commercialized and terribly cliche, I would love to know what it's like to have just one good memory for that day.
Until then....I will hate it with a burning passion that's stronger than a million suns.
Vomit Day #2: Not A Top 10
If my first Vomit Day story was humiliating, then this one should rank fairly high on the pathetic scale.
The week leading up to Vomit Day during my sophomore year in high school was an exciting one. A friend of mine decided to set me up with this truly gorgeous senior. After pointing me out to him in the hall, he relayed his interest, and the road to my first decent Vomit Day was well underway.
He got my number from her, saying he would call me on Valentine's Day, and if things went well, he would ask me to a movie that night.
Wow! A date on Vomit Day with Adonis-senior-guy! Finally, a high school dream date coming true! And on my least favorite day of the year!!!!
February 14th: I turned my ringer on high, spent hours picking out my outfit (just in case said Vomit Day conversation turned into a date), and waited...and waited...and waited...
RING! RING!
Me: "Hello?"
Friend: "Aw, you answered the phone so sweetly! Has he called yet?"
Me: "No, not yet."
Friend: "Well, he will, just hang tight."
Not long after Friend called, my mom and dad knocked on my bedroom door with my Valentine's Day gift in hand. They gave me a CD...a soundtrack, to be more specific. I immediately placed it in my stereo and listened. Read on to find out which one...trust me when say this CD was the metaphorical dagger.
By 10:00 p.m., I knew he wasn't going to call. To this day, I can see myself sitting in my bed, staring at my carefully planned outfit all laid out, listening to my Valentine's CD from mom and dad, with my little pink phone by my side. Sad.
By 11:30 p.m., I was crying...while listening to...drum roll please...
The Bodyguard Soundtrack. You know, the one with I Will Always Love You---a favorite of manic depressives back in the day.
Yep. I was stood up/shafted/ditched on Valentine's Day, while listening to Whitney Houston belt one of the most depressing songs of all time, second only to All By Myself.
Oh, but there's more to this story! If I thought I couldn't feel any worse about myself, I was about to learn otherwise.
Turns out Adonis-senior-guy asked around about me prior to calling. He found out my name wasn't on the list of top ten sophomore sluts.
I believe his exact words to Friend were, "She just doesn't have the right name."
In fact, after a little digging, Friend found out that this guy "needed some kind of sex" on the first date, so he would never take a chance on a "good girl."
Bottom Line: He ditched me because my name wasn't on a list of sluts. It didn't matter that he thought I was cute; it didn't matter about my personality. He didn't care. He needed sex, and I didn't have the right name.
It's so pathetic, it's actually amusing. I mean, who gets stood up on Vomit Day for not having the right name?
Ugh, I hate you, Vomit Day.
The week leading up to Vomit Day during my sophomore year in high school was an exciting one. A friend of mine decided to set me up with this truly gorgeous senior. After pointing me out to him in the hall, he relayed his interest, and the road to my first decent Vomit Day was well underway.
He got my number from her, saying he would call me on Valentine's Day, and if things went well, he would ask me to a movie that night.
Wow! A date on Vomit Day with Adonis-senior-guy! Finally, a high school dream date coming true! And on my least favorite day of the year!!!!
February 14th: I turned my ringer on high, spent hours picking out my outfit (just in case said Vomit Day conversation turned into a date), and waited...and waited...and waited...
RING! RING!
Me: "Hello?"
Friend: "Aw, you answered the phone so sweetly! Has he called yet?"
Me: "No, not yet."
Friend: "Well, he will, just hang tight."
Not long after Friend called, my mom and dad knocked on my bedroom door with my Valentine's Day gift in hand. They gave me a CD...a soundtrack, to be more specific. I immediately placed it in my stereo and listened. Read on to find out which one...trust me when say this CD was the metaphorical dagger.
By 10:00 p.m., I knew he wasn't going to call. To this day, I can see myself sitting in my bed, staring at my carefully planned outfit all laid out, listening to my Valentine's CD from mom and dad, with my little pink phone by my side. Sad.
By 11:30 p.m., I was crying...while listening to...drum roll please...
The Bodyguard Soundtrack. You know, the one with I Will Always Love You---a favorite of manic depressives back in the day.
Yep. I was stood up/shafted/ditched on Valentine's Day, while listening to Whitney Houston belt one of the most depressing songs of all time, second only to All By Myself.
Oh, but there's more to this story! If I thought I couldn't feel any worse about myself, I was about to learn otherwise.
Turns out Adonis-senior-guy asked around about me prior to calling. He found out my name wasn't on the list of top ten sophomore sluts.
I believe his exact words to Friend were, "She just doesn't have the right name."
In fact, after a little digging, Friend found out that this guy "needed some kind of sex" on the first date, so he would never take a chance on a "good girl."
Bottom Line: He ditched me because my name wasn't on a list of sluts. It didn't matter that he thought I was cute; it didn't matter about my personality. He didn't care. He needed sex, and I didn't have the right name.
It's so pathetic, it's actually amusing. I mean, who gets stood up on Vomit Day for not having the right name?
Ugh, I hate you, Vomit Day.
Vomit Day #1: Mistaken Valentine.
So, I thought I'd tell you how a girl who loves love, adores pink, and is a sucker for romance, literally loathes Valentine's Day. I've never, ever had a good one. Seriously, I have rigid rules for that God forsaken day (another post for another day).
Mistaken Valentine:
Do you remember the flower tables in school? I dreaded them. Every Vomit Day those damn tables would pop up covered with big white buckets full of friggin' flowers.
The worst part? This whole flower-giving shindig went down in the cafeteria IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So, every single self-professed "it" kid knew who got a flower, who didn't, who wanted one, who cried (yes, some cried...I didn't...not in public, anyway), etc.
The stress was unreal: Am I going to get a flower? Who might give me a flower? Oh Dear God, will pick-a-nose boy give me a flower?
Well, on this particular day of blithering bile, I had it on good authority that someone was going to give me a flower. Sadly, I was quite excited in spite of myself. Lunchtime arrives, and I'm a little anxious. Could this be my first actually GOOD Valentine's Day?
Of course not.
Boy after boy approached the wicked flower table, purchased a flower, then delivered it to their chosen girl, while an entire lunchroom took note. Finally, a boy I didn't recognize purchased a pink carnation and began walking in my direction. My friends were all nudging me, yanking on my sweater, etc.
Just as he was about to hand me the flower (and, yes, I was in mid-stretch for the stupid thing) I heard a voice in the distance shout, "No! Not her! The girl behind her!"
Fan-friggin-tastic.
The boy meekly apologized, then handed the flower to the girl behind me--he literally reached over my head to give it to her. As he did, a drop of water fell on my forehead. Humiliation personified.
Apparently, he was just the delivery boy...and I was the wrong address.
Needless to say, I didn't get a flower.
I loathe this day with a Medusa-like passion.
Mistaken Valentine:
Do you remember the flower tables in school? I dreaded them. Every Vomit Day those damn tables would pop up covered with big white buckets full of friggin' flowers.
The worst part? This whole flower-giving shindig went down in the cafeteria IN FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So, every single self-professed "it" kid knew who got a flower, who didn't, who wanted one, who cried (yes, some cried...I didn't...not in public, anyway), etc.
The stress was unreal: Am I going to get a flower? Who might give me a flower? Oh Dear God, will pick-a-nose boy give me a flower?
Well, on this particular day of blithering bile, I had it on good authority that someone was going to give me a flower. Sadly, I was quite excited in spite of myself. Lunchtime arrives, and I'm a little anxious. Could this be my first actually GOOD Valentine's Day?
Of course not.
Boy after boy approached the wicked flower table, purchased a flower, then delivered it to their chosen girl, while an entire lunchroom took note. Finally, a boy I didn't recognize purchased a pink carnation and began walking in my direction. My friends were all nudging me, yanking on my sweater, etc.
Just as he was about to hand me the flower (and, yes, I was in mid-stretch for the stupid thing) I heard a voice in the distance shout, "No! Not her! The girl behind her!"
Fan-friggin-tastic.
The boy meekly apologized, then handed the flower to the girl behind me--he literally reached over my head to give it to her. As he did, a drop of water fell on my forehead. Humiliation personified.
Apparently, he was just the delivery boy...and I was the wrong address.
Needless to say, I didn't get a flower.
I loathe this day with a Medusa-like passion.
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