Skip to main content

Another LOVely Valentine's Day

Thank God it's over.


I've hated Feb. 14 ever since I was a four-eyed geek with no hope of ever having a boyfriend to fondle in the lunch room. And even when I wasn't a four-eyed geek -- and I could get boyfriends I never managed to have one on Valentine's Day.

I was a hideous girlfriend, which karmically explains how I ended up with Jerod -- Mr. Romance, if romance is snoring on the couch with King of the Hill or Moonshiners on television.

I gave up on champagne and candlelight many, many years ago. Something in the way Drunk Jerod vomited in the lobby at the Olive Garden on our first dress-up date told me I shouldn't hold my breath for any fantastic gestures with flowers and jewelry and bubble bath.


Romance is overrated.

I like the cotton grandma panties that come in packs of 20 at Costco. I like sweatpants and hoodies and a bed all to myself.

The highlight of Valentine's 2012 was Lily's classroom party, which I -- being a room mom -- contributed to with homemade sugar cookies and pink buttercream frosting. If it sounds simple -- it should have been -- it wasn't.

Much like I'm not the kind of woman who wears pretty underwear and receives pretty "I-love-your-panties" roses on Valentine's Day; I'm not the kind of mother who puts together beautiful party activities for her children. I try, but I fail. The cookies turned out -- sort of. Ashlyn took a couple of bites of one and handed it back to me with a sort of disgusted scowl.

"I no like," she said shaking her head.

Lily was more diplomatic.

"I think something's missing," she suggested. "They don't have much flavor."

I told her the frosting would take care of that -- sugar cookies are supposed to be boring.

The frosting tasted very good, but it was rather stiff and tricky for the kids to spread on their cookies with plastic knives -- a quarter of the class including Lily opted out of the activity.

So I returned home with a lot of cookies and buttercream frosting, and I spent most of the evening in the bathroom with what I assume was butter poisoning.

Comments

  1. Well at least there was no pressure from the hubby on Valentine's day. Sorry the cookies didn't turn out. That is a bummer to spend time on something like that only to have it not turn out the way you'd like. I can bake several things, sugar cookies never turn out for me.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Hey Alexis! I saw your comment - I'll go check out the Linky and get you back on the IWSG list.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Replies
    1. Thanks -- my eyesight must be going with my brain :)

      Delete

Post a Comment

I showed you mine -- it's your turn now.

Popular posts from this blog

The insecure writer's support group

The ground is important -- for several reasons.

Among them

Gravity makes no sense without it -- there's no mandate that science be logical so long as our scientists are the smartest smartypants on the planet, in which case "because I said so" is an acceptable explanation. The ground is important, because it's something to build on -- a starting point, a foundation.

I respect the ground, because it has on occasion fallen out from under me, and it's rather unsettling to watch your life in free-fall mode -- to see your accomplishments disintegrate in an instant or a decade in some cases. It all depends on how fast you're falling.

Most of us drop in slow motion. We'll catch a ledge or an up draft every once in a while and think "this is it!" But then we go on falling. Or do we? Is the "bottom" just a figment of our imaginations? Can we lay new ground wherever we choose?


Ask Alice

None of my friends growing up were impressed with Disney's…

Writers get laid

Writers get laid -- or they would if they tried -- because people -- especially women -- are impressed by the phrase, "I'm a writer." It's romantic.

Introducing yourself as a writer insinuates substance and depth of character; people like that. They don't know why, except that one-dimensional characters on T.V. sitcoms and big-screen romantic comedies prattle on and on about the whole package -- a good looking, funny, intelligent single with rock-solid values and money.

People admire the skill and dedication it takes to be a novelist or a journalist or a screen writer  -- "I always wanted to be a writer," they tell you with stars in their eyes.

Whether they know it's a myth or not they imagine us in rich, thrilling lives with sports cars and beach houses and Louboutin shoes like Carrie Bradshaw. So the woman at the grocery store doesn't feel bad when she puts back the US Weekly she read cover to cover before she checks out.

Or downloading unauth…

My favorite geeks

Imagine a little girl in pink granny glasses. Her haircut gives her a boyish look and she’s dressed in a purple checked sweater with red high waters and electric-blue duck shoes. A couple of kids on the playground tell her how cool she looks, and -- not comprehending their sarcasm -- she smiles brightly and thanks them.
That was me -- the dork in ginormous glasses. I answered to many names in elementary school -- loser, duck feet, four eyes and a few others I'd rather forget -- smart, pretty and fashionable I was not. It felt like the end of the world back then. All the popular girls braided each other's hair during story time at the library while I picked my nose and talked to myself. 
I'm not ashamed to admit it. I was a dork -- as big a dork as it's possible to be -- and it gave me character. I think Lester Bangs said it best : "Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts."
No one called 4-year-old Paris Hilton -- or Lindsay Lohan or B…