Monday, February 1, 2010

A Valentine’s Day Horror Story

Yes, I’m aware that our modern Valentine’s Day is some horrible Hallmark creation, concocted for the sole purpose of making people spend money on heart shaped junk. Despite this deplorable truth, I am determined to have a damn good V Day this year – pretty much because my V Day weekend of 2009 was such a crapshoot!

No my friends, I’m not talking crapshoot as in sitting on my couch whining and stuffing my fat face with bon bons that I had to purchase for myself. If I had been single, I would have thrown a bad ass drunken “Fuck Valentine’s Day” party. My story is sad because, even though I was in a relationship, I didn’t even try to make romantic plans – and yet my Valentine’s Day still fucking sucked!

The logic is this: if you have too much riding on the romance of Valentine’s, it’s bound to go wrong. But I didn’t even plan anything like that! I just wanted to get drunk and chill! Take a mini road trip! Instead, the stupid fucking cupid gnomes came after me and turned a chill weekend into a stress fest. I didn’t freaking love anybody by the end of that weekend!

What did I learn from this? Well, that I should buy overpriced Cirque de Soleil tickets and make reservations at some ritzy restaurant that serves steaks the size of buttons. Because that’s what the creepy cupid gnomes want you to do.

So, for your amusement, my Valentine’s Day 2009* (complete with a scoring system):

*For those people included in this story, yes, I know you look like jerks. But I adore you regardless.


CANCER DAD, lord of dramatic and often grim overstatements.

THE BOYFRIEND, a stubborn bugger whom I adore; and who is possibly from another planet

THE DRUNK FRIEND, a generally responsible young woman, who is unfortunately overwhelmed by booze one night and takes refuge behind a toilet

THE DRUNK FRIEND’S DRUNK ASS FRIENDS, minor characters who cannot think or drive straight when under the influence of alcohol

THE BOYFRIEND’S BEST FRIEND, savior of my sanity, and master of yoga breathing techniques over the telephone

Part One

It all began on Valentine’s Eve, when Cancer Dad, got – well – cancer again. Only, it was in an entirely different area than previous cancer, therefore confirming Cancer Dad’s fears that said cancer was traveling through his blood, meaning, of course, he would drop dead immediately [minus 30]. Since I am such a dutiful daughter, I was, without delay, overtaken by ridiculous panic-induced dad-less visions of the future. Bad start to the weekend. (Spoiler: Cancer Dad has since lived through cancer scare number 3 and bone burning radiation, but is not yet dead, despite about 7 public proclamations of imminent death. However, at the time, I was certain he was going to die. Now I’m certain he will live forever.)

I decided to put off a complete panic attack about father-less-ness by concentrated on my upcoming road trip weekend with The Boyfriend. The distraction seemed promising enough when The Boyfriend, in a completely inebriated state, confessed his love to me for the first time (despite having dated me for nearly a year) at 3 am on Valentine’s morning [plus 10]. All was cute and lovely until he woke up hung over later that day, and, when confronted with a description of his drunken declaration, replied by saying that he could not have possibly said such a thing [minus 18]. Major burn though this was – especially since my reply was “finally!” instead of “I love you too!” – I continued to be optimistic about my weekend plans.

I arrived at The Boyfriend’s residence that evening, to pick him up and embark on our trip to visit The (not yet) Drunk Friend, who lived nearly 7 hours away. Sadly, The Boyfriend had not broken his habits by developing a sense of time. Instead, he tells me that he had no clean clothes to take with him on a trip. Nonplussed, I throw him and his dirty drawers into my vehicle, and head north. He promptly falls asleep, leaving me to drive, sleepily, in the dark and silence – with only thoughts of impending fatherlessness to keep me company [minus 5]. Shit.

We arrive at our destination at approximately 3 in the morning, only to discover that The Drunk Friend – now very drunk – is wrapped around a toilet bowl at some undisclosed location, and cannot bear to be parted with it. Hence, The Boyfriend and I are stuck outside in 30 degree weather [minus 15].

We finally reach The Drunk Friend’s Drunk Ass Friends, who, in their infinite drunken wisdom tell me to either A) knock on The Drunk Friend’s apartment door and wake up her inexplicably and eternally antisocial/pissy roommates who will be much more pissed after I do such or, B) wait for The Drunk Ass Friends to drunk drive to the apartment and give me the key. Because I am freezing to death and don’t want to be murdered (and do not care about the safety of The Drunk Ass Friends), I vote for the latter.

The Drunk Ass Friends arrive in good cheer, and give me The Drunk Friend’s purse, keys and phone – so that, of course, it is impossible to reach her and she has no identification or money on her, which proves, rather dramatically, that The Drunk Ass Friends are unequivocal retards [minus 16].

I am proved correct the next day when I do not see The Drunk Friend I drove 7 hours to see until 3 in the afternoon because she had no phone on which I could contact her, and somehow forgot I had a car – meaning she got a ride from someone who had to make 30 unnecessary stops (including one to the airport) before dropping her off at her apartment [minus 2].

After reuniting with The (no longer) Drunk Friend, the weekend went swimmingly. We ate sushi and went to Trampoline World [plus 8]. But then, it was time to depart.

Part Two

Previously, The Boyfriend had come to have a suspended license due to unpaid citations. He had already served time in county jail for driving illegally.

For some reason unbeknownst to me, The Boyfriend decided that it was a fabulous plan to purchase a BMW on the way back home – though he would be unable to legally drive it. I used all the powers of logic to convince him otherwise, but The Boyfriend is a stubborn bugger; and, in the end, I drove an hour out of my way in a rainstorm so he could put himself in the law’s way [minus 15].

Several hours later, as predicted by me, the law caught up with The Boyfriend. While on the phone with me, he was pulled over [minus 25] and subsequently had to convince the officers not to arrest him, as he had a girlfriend that could pick him up.

Most unfortunately, we had been traveling through the Tejon Pass – and there were no exits for miles. My phone was dying, I could not get off the freeway, and The Boyfriend kept calling more and more frequently to beg me to hurry up in an increasingly panicked tone. At this juncture in the narrative, I completely dissolve into textbook female hysteria [minus 10]. I began, literally, screaming – My dad is going to die! My boyfriend is going to jail for a year! And worst of all, it’s Valentine’s Day Weekend! You fuckers! (I don’t know who “you fuckers” refers to. I can only assume it was the evil cupid gnomes.)

Luckily, The Boyfriend’s Best Friend is surprisingly good at mediation instruction over the telephone [plus 5]. If it weren’t for the 5 minute breathing exercise, it’s possible my cranium might have spontaneously popped off, and I would have dropped my brain on the car mat – which, of course, would have made the situation even more difficult to navigate.

Eventually, after zen-ing that shit out, I turned around and managed to locate the McDonald’s where The Boyfriend was waiting in a police car. The police turned him over to me, but kept the BMW as a consolation prize [minus 10].

As boys in trouble are wont to do, The Boyfriend tried to laugh the incident off. Unfortunately for him, because he was not in jail, he was now doomed to die by my hand for the crimes of 1) abandoning his girlfriend in a car, alone, for 7 hours, to contemplate her father’s demise; 2) making his girlfriend drive an hour out her way so he do something illegal; 3) doing something illegal; 4) getting his ass caught; and 5) sufficiently wasting thousands of dollars and several hours of his girlfriend’s life on Valentine’s Day weekend [minus 28].

He was promptly murdered and buried a mile from the interstate.

The End

Yes, sadly, the above story is entirely true – except for the murdering and burying. Actually, The Boyfriend and I are still (inexplicably) together, and almost at our two years of stupidly cute (emphasis on the “stupidly”) romance mark. The only good thing that came out of that weekend was my ability to drunkenly tell The Boyfriend I love him at every opportunity – and not feel in the least bit guilty about making him uncomfortable. (Oh, and he paid off all his fines and got his license back.) (Oh! And I’ve been inspired to write the next big V Day anthem, “You Never Say ‘I Love You’ When You’re Sober”)

So, stop feeling freaking sorry for yourself if you’re single this Valentine’s Day. Dude, it could be so much worse. (Or so much better, if your Cancer Dad actually died, or your Boyfriend actually went to jail for a year. Sorry to those peeps.)

But anyway, I scored a negative 141 last V Day. Here’s to 2010 being in the positive. Cheers!

(And fuck you, cupid gnomes.)

No comments:

Post a Comment