The Jam Box

To some, Valentines day is a day of romance, love and chocolate. A day to cuddle with their lover and be thankful that someone is willing to look past their freaky monkey toes, hairy mole and odd habit of grinding their teeth while sleeping. To others, Valentines day is nothing but a commercial holiday forced upon us by a consumer driven society and the money-loving large corporations that drive our economy. They shun the little cupids and cute hearts and avoid the flower shops like there is a plague amongst all the pretty petals. They proselytize to all who’ll listen about how every day should be Valentines day and then go home, shut the blinds and have wild animal sex with their partners while begging forgiveness for not bringing home a mushy card filled with sappy sentiment.

I’m just imagining…I wouldn’t have any experience on either of side of this coin. Ahem.

So, what does Valentines day mean to me? Well, since this is my pulpit, I’ll tell you. The ole V-day to me is a reminder of how NOT to behave. Yep, something about Cupid, his arrows and those damn little cardboard cards that bring out the worst in me. Always have, always will.

As far back as I can remember, I have always acted like a petulant child regarding this day of forced romance. When I was in grade three, and required to take part in the class exchange, I pouted because I didn’t want to give everyone a card. I didn’t like everyone. Why should I have to lie and give those cooty carrying freaks a card that says “Be mine.” I didn’t want them to be mine. And when I received the obligatory valentine from them, I carried it between two fingers and disposed of it as if it were covered with dog poo once I got home.

Wasn’t I a charming child?

Fast forward to my teeny bopper days. Grade 7, and twelve years old. A very cute little boy named Jeff wanted to be my valentine. I liked Jeff. He was the smartest kid in the school and he wasn’t a geek. When he brought a big heart shaped box of chocolates to school with the intention of asking me to be his girlfriend, all my friends gushed and sighed and told me how lucky I was. What did I do? I yelled at him for embarrassing me in front of my friends and then hid in the girls bathroom until he gave up and trudged home. From what I heard, he ended up giving the chocolates to his mom.

Jeff Litchfield, wherever you are, I’m really sorry.

Fourteen years old, and I had matured. I was ready to embrace any boy who wanted to be my man. Which is exactly what I did at the after school dance. I locked lips with a boy with braces during a slow song, while others stood around and timed us. We made it to just over two minutes. Him cutting my lips and shoving his tongue into my mouth. Me, spitting all over him.

Then there was the time Boo gave me roses for valentines day. How nice, right? Poor kid paid a fortune for them and drove all the way into the city to give them to me, on a school night. Would have been really wonderful, except for the fact that I had called him on Feb. 10 to break up with him. For the simple reason that I didn’t want to have to buy him a present. When he showed up on my doorstep I literally beat him with the roses until petals were flying and he had to seek refuge in his vehicle.

Since we’ve married, we have managed to avoid any of the minefields that seem to trigger my psychotic tendencies. He buys me flowers occasionally, plies me with liquor and passes on a mushy assed card, which I normally snigger over and then whine about it not being a funny card. One I can appreciate it.

This year, I was bound and determined to right the wrongs of the past and embrace St. Valentine. I went off in search of the perfect valentine present, not only for him, but for the kids too.

When I came home and unloaded my goodies, I noticed something. I had bought a shitload of crap for me, some groceries and spent more money than I care to share on Nixon, the World’s Greatest Dog, Ever. He’s gonna have the best Valentines day ever! But as I rummaged through the now empty bags, I realized something.

I hadn’t bought a single thing for my kids or my hubs.

Wow, sometimes I even amaze myself with my thoughtfulness.

Now I am forced to return to the city to buy some sort of candy bribe for my chitlens, and beg for them to overlook my lack of parental grace, and try to find the perfect gift for Boo. Something to show how much I really love him.

Ah, screw it. Who am I kidding. I’m going to go to the damn gas station, buy a bag of skittles, tell the kids to share and to quit their damn whining. They’re lucky I got them anything at all. As for Boo, well, we all know the best gift I can give him will be tonight, in the quiet hours of the night when I show him just how bendy I can be.

After all, what says “I love you” more than a flexible wife? Right?

Redneck Mommy: It's the Thought That Counts