Categories of Valentine's Cards

Ah, Valentine's Day. It's all about love... real, genuine love. Love that lasts until the end of time. Love, deeper than the ocean and higher than the heavens. Love that binds two souls together and lifts them up on the wings of a snow white dove.....

What a load of crap. Pardon me while i retch.

February 14th approaches, and I'm generally pretty cynical these days about the L word to begin with. But this year? I don't even know if I'm still in a relationship or not. Do I buy a card, just in case? And if I do buy a card (without having my brain explode in the middle of the Hallmark aisle), what in the hell should it say?

Valentine’s day cards should be categorized differently. I know they have sections for mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, platonic friends and even 4-year grandchildren who can’t even read yet. But they need to break down the whole spouse/lover categories down to more efficient divisions, like how long you’ve been together.

On your first valentine’s day together you spent an hour considering all the romantic cards. The ones that say things like: “I’ve been looking for you all my life, you are my world, my soulmate, I’d drink your bathwater and lick the ground you walk on.” And you want the biggest, most elaborate card you can find, in the shape of a giant heart, trimmed in real lace and satin ribbon. Or the mutant cards that are 2’ x 3’ and not only take extra postage, but the postage costs as much as the card itself.


The first Valentine's Day is also the one where the man not only buys an embarrassingly mushy card that says things that would never in a million years come out of his mouth, but a dozen red roses, a box of Godiva chocolates and/or a stuffed gorilla who dances to “Wild Thing.” He takes you to an expensive, special restaurant and orders wine. That night you put on the sexy lingerie you paid too much money for and you have acrobatic sex all night long.

By the second or third valentine’s day, you’re both looking cards that say things like: “You’re still the light of my life.” And neither of you bother to write a poem on it. You just sign it, “Love, Cindy.” In bed that night, you surprise each other with oral sex.

By the fourth Valentine’s – if you’re still together – you’re sending the funny cards with cats wearing clothes and a caption that says “You are the cat’s meow, baby!” You give him a blow job, but you’re doing it with all the enthusiasm of ironing. He makes a gesture at going down on you, but moves on to the missionary position before you reach an orgasm.

A dozen red roses have changed to a nice potted plant; the chocolates are now Russell Stover or Whitman’s; and if he grabs a stuffed animal, it’s small enough to get tossed into the back of the closet without attracting much attention. And yet you’re beginning to look at the cross-eyed teddy bear and thinking you’d rather have had the money he spent on it.

If you make it to the sixth or seventh valentine’s day, you’re sending a card that says something equivalent to “Thanks for still letting me live here.” You might have sex for the first time in months that evening.

By the ninth or tenth Valentine’s Day, you find a card in his sock drawer meant for his girlfriend, not for you. He sleeps on the couch, or at the Holiday Inn. The next day you go out and buy 1 lb box of chocolate that’s been marked down to half price, and eat every damn piece in the box except for the ones with the weird orange jelly centers and try to decide whether or not to just to have done with him and love and all the crap that goes with it.

Kisses change too, of course, In the first year, you’re sucking face with wet sloppy kisses and tongues that writhe like eels in a barrel.

The second year, you’re not opening your mouth anymore. And by the fifth year, the only thing you want him to kiss is your ass.

I had to take the cat Dolittle to the vet today, and he's still pissed at me. I'm off my meds, and he's the one chewing bald spots in his coat. Go figure. Maybe Do will buy me a card, and it will say "Meeroow' and I'll know it's simple, heartfelt and has no hidden agenda or message or anything.

Then again, where would Doo get the three bucks? He hasn't got any pockets for change, nor does he have a check card. I don't think he can drive, but then again, how do i know what he gets up to while I'm asleep? There is a suspicious amount of cat hair in the drivers seat.

I'll be 46 in a couple of weeks, on my way to becoming an old woman with a cat. Saturday, I will open a can of tuna for Doo, and maybe even draw a heart in his kitty litter.

Sunday I will go to Krogers and buy myself the biggest damned box of half price Russell Stovers they have. I will eat it all, every damned piece, in my pajamas in front of the tv, watching reruns of something -- anything -- with murders, explosions and more special effects than plot, and definitely no love story. Then I will cuddle up with my cat and take a long nap. Maybe I'll even take a stab at writing the erotic novel my agent keeps pushing, because she says that whole genre is "selling like hotcakes."

(And how, actually, did hotcakes get such a reputation for killer sales? Have you ever stood in line to buy hotcakes? Me neither.)