Single and coupled alike, many people give this holiday the bird. Some for political reasons. Some for economic.  Some people just don’t like chocolate. As we (Americans) live in a capitalist society, it only stands to reason that businesses are season geared and promotional. Commercialization happens. Paper turkeys happen in November; rabbits hide plastic eggs in the spring. In December, every mall has a faux-fat guy with a beard sit in a chair and listen to the wants and wishes of small children.

On the subject of the bearded man of Christmas, ask any child what Santa Claus looks like and they’ll tell you. He’s a fat bearded man in a red coat with white trim. Only a few people know that that specific image was created by an ad exec from coca-cola. It’s so deep in our cultural consciousness that we’re barely aware of it. Should we then flip the bird at Christmas, Grinch?

Holidays happen.  Local and large corporate businesses alike will want in on the action. Nothing, short of an unlikely Communist coup, will change that. No GOP, Obama won’t steal Christmas.  Shop window displays will turn red in February whether Obama is re-elected or not.

Nevertheless, it’s on these grounds that most people reject a holiday like Valentines day.  They don’t care about where it came from. They just know where it is and want it gone. Why should a calendar tell you to love someone? And I say: if it doesn’t, what will?

Where DID Valentine come from? Every holiday has murky and questionable origins. No one knows the exact origin of Valentines,  but I’d put my money on some sort of pagan shag-a-thon first order converted and inserted into Christianity when it swept the nations.

As for Valentine himself?  Emperor Whose-yer-daddy (it may have been Claudius) wished to put together an army of single men, believing that such a fighting force would be unstoppable. Such an army would have their head in the game–so to speak –with no thoughts of wives or children at home.  Such an army would be ruthless because, really….why not? If there’s nobody at home, why bother going? If you’re not going home, presumably you’re prepared to make sure the other side doesn’t either.

Claudius (for arguments sake let’s say it was him) made marriage among his enlisted soldiers a crime, and Valentine (that rebel) performed secret marriages on the sly. I, for one, agree with Valentine. Such an army of bachelors would not be so much formidable as it would be without clean socks and fuzzy on the last known location of their car keys.  Not to mention their table manners. But no one asks me.

Of course Valentine was caught. Of course he was martyred.  On Feburary 14^th, or so the legend goes.

Is the legend true? Don’t look at me. Myths and legends are not valuable based on their provable veracity. Their worth is their enduring legacy of thought, idea and understanding.  Every culture has its myths, and more than one myth has a holiday.

Boiled down to core essence, all holidays are essentially the same and if I was instructed to give them all a uniform umbrella title,  it would be this:  Days-in-which-our-over-worked-self-absorbed -worry wart- asses-are- forced-to-remember-the-people-in-our-lives-instead-of the-things-we-do-or-do-not-have-or-things-we-can-or-cannot-buy.  It’s a mouthful, and I’m pretty sure I’d never get it through Congress.  It definitely won’t fit on a candy heart.

Nevertheless:

Mothers Day, Father’s Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Veterans’ Day, Presidents Day, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Memorial Day, Labor Day, Birthdays (mine is of yet, un-nationalized and more’s the pity)….Remember the people.

So if your stance on Valentine is less than charitable, I encourage you to soften your stance. Like the mythical figureheads of all holidays, Valentine was in on the secret. Commercialization, Capitalism, Patriotism, Promotions, Commotions, Communist, Pacifist….be damned.  St. Valentine knew. Claudius can stuff it. You need someone at home. With all the laudatory love of independence, self-sufficiency, and the power of one, God and country– everyone needs someone at home.

Commercialization might have ruined Valentine, but it’s also the reason he needs to stay.

You need someone at home.

And a reason to eat chocolate is never a bad thing.

I, like I suspect most other PC users, have a healthy disrespect for the wishes and desires of my computer. Even if its occasional propositions are in the best interests of the longevity of the machine, I ignore it.  I don’t calibrate the printer cartridges. I don’t download the newest version of software until  entreaties turn to shrieks.  I click past license agreements with reckless abandon.  I’m a rebel…as far as Bill Gates is concerned. My technological procrastination is the stuff of epic poems.

Case in Point: My new green and shiny computadora  is fast and highly evolved. I do love her, but it was less than a week of having her out of the cardboard box she came in before we had our first lover’s spat.

Observe (the close approximation of the) transcript….

Computer: We’ve found a fanastic new update with which to further safeguard your computer from inscrupulous thieves!

Me: Fuck off.

Computer: You don’t want it?

Me: Maybe later.

Computer: How much later?

Me:  Later, dude. I’m busy.

Computer: Found another update to enhance your video!

Me: Kiss my ass.

Computer: Excuse me?

Me: you heard me. You’re brand new. What possibly needs updating?

Computer: Technology is an ever changing, evolving at the speed of light….

Me: Get bent.

Computer: I need to power off and reboot.

Me: So do I. Yet I tary on. Computer, there is no need to be shrill.

Computer:  At 3:30 in the morning, I notice. You should go to sleep. (no, it didn’t say that. My shiny new computer has a touch of the passive aggressive.)

Me:  ::type, type, type::

Computer: Au Revoir, suckah

ME: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Lesson dutifully learned, shiny green love dollop of mine. When you say you’re going down, you’re going down. I will endeavor to believe you in the future.

A good reboot is excellent salve and should be embraced.  As exhibited above, submission to the whim of the reboot will save some measure of tragedy.  A policy that applies elsewhere in my life, to be sure. So you’d think I’d learn. You’d think…

Let me explain. Every couple of years, my brain calls a timeout. My body parts lose a game of freeze tag. Circulatory blood flow to joints and other such sundries that hold me upright take a ten second holiday.

In short, I pass out.

I know. How very, very Victorian of me.

Before any of you suggest I see a doctor, I will ask you to imagine walking into the doctor’s office and asking him to investigate a phenomenon that happens only every three or four years. It’s a reboot. Plain and simple.

Admittedly, there are warning signs, but true to my nature, I ignore them entirely. As a result, my body does pick the absolutely most inconvenient times to blink out.

Elementary school – 20 yrs ago

Location: In a line with my fellow classmates, traversing the hallways on the way to lunch.

One minute I was staring at the freckled neck of the child walking in front of me. The very next thing I knew I was staring at the mold stained ceiling panels and offensive fluorescent lighting to the hushed whispers of a passel of my fellow eight-year-olds –”iz she DEAD?”

Pros: Parents were called. I was fetched and spent the rest of the afternoon ensconced on the sofa watching ‘toons.

Cons:  Missed recess. Damn. Did NOT miss math test. Double damn.

Highschool – 12 yrs ago

Location: hallway on the way from lunch to choir class

I felt lightheaded, and had the rather ingenious plan of steering myself right into the biggest, best looking football player I could find. Said football player took it upon himself to accompany me to the office. A phone call was put through, and I was home free.

Pros: Can you say, Rhett Butler? Also, avoided face to floor contact.

Cons: Completely freaked out my friends.

Denison University – 8 yrs ago

Location: Walking to my dorm amidst the construction of the ever-expanding campus.

Denison was undergoing quite a bit of cosmetic and utilitarian construction and the lay of the land was peppered with guard rails and yellow tape. I beaned out straight into an unobliging patch of gravel. A young missionary escorted me to the nearest bathroom facility and talked about Jesus while I picked gravel out of the hamburger that was my hands.

Cons: The worst of the damage was done to my left, not my right hand. To my professor’s grand relief, I could still take my exams with my wrist brace on. My hands took weeks to heal and eventually had to go to the doctor to discover…

Pros: I’m allergic to Neosporin. I know that now. Thanks, body.

Prague – 6 yrs ago

Location: Outside The Globe—used English bookstore/music venue amongst a group of fellow ex-pat friends who had just attended a concert with me.

I went down onto the bricks with little ceremony. Blinked up into the eyes of people who were, no doubt, trying to reach a consensus on how to scream for an ambulance in Czech.  One friend took it upon himself to slap me across the cheek, and when everyone demanded to know the motivation for that particular course of action, he cited several movies where it was effective.

Cons:  I got slapped.

Pros: Roommates felt illogically guilty and bought me pizza.

Romania – 3 yrs ago

Location: The bridge to the road leading back into town from Solomon’s Rocks.

I had just victoriously scaled a waterfall of sorts in loafers and feeling extremely pleased with not getting myself mangled on the very sharp rocks. I was a good five feet from the solid road back into town before I ate dirt.

Cons: I had to hobble home on a crappy ankle.

Pros: My perseverance won me an auspicious title of badassery from a Swiss girl.

Akron, Ohio – last week

Location: Front hall of my parents house.  Through a collapsible doggy fence and onto the wood floor.

Ouch. I’m old now, and do not recover from nose dives with nearly the same resilience.  After lying on the floor for several minutes, I hoisted myself up and sniffled while my parents looked on shaking their heads.

Pros: I managed to not 1) break the fence, 2) spill my purse 3) crack my brains open on the door jam

Cons: My knees hate me. They write me daily letters filled with their rancorous bile. If it were possible, I believe they’d secede from the union.

******

Ah, body. Ah, computer. Reboot, if you must. It’s not how you hit the floor, it’s how you dig the gravel from your palms, claw your way up a door jam, and make icy peace treaties with your knees. The fall is irrelevant. How far can you walk on a bum ankle? Can you freak out a large group of eight year olds? How many  Swiss people have made you their god?

Make it work for you, ask for help when you need it, and do your best not to panic loved ones.

Above all, remember this: Dignity is over-valued.

Onward.

It must be said that used car lots are a lot like personal ads.  You peruse the list of stats and pictures, keeping in mind that all these cars were abandoned for a reason. It’s just a matter of whether or not it’s a reason you can live with. You walk down aisle after aisle of lined up available with the sales-guy, a modern day Yenta trailing behind asking you what you’re looking for.

My Dad had come with me for consultation purposes but had been strangely quiet up until this point. He piped up with: “That cavalier  had no air conditioning, hand-crank windows, a tape deck and speakers you have to kick to get started—anything is a step up.”

“It’s unkind to speak ill of the dead,” I said.

I turned to Yenta and informed him that I was looking for basically the same things I’m looking for elsewhere. Low maintenance, comfortable with a nice face.

What’s that? –you say. Cars don’t have faces. Oh, but they do.

Take for instance, the Pontiac G6:

“I feast merrily on the bones of small children”

The Chevy Malibu:

“Hey there, loverboy. I’m not much but I’m cheap.”

**promising, but unfortunately for used cars, what you smell is what you keep. And this particular filly smelled of gym socks soaked in formaldehyde.

the Mercury Milan:

“You bore me with your intellectual ineptitude”

or My Dearly Departed

“I’m a delightful rabbit who just had eleven consecutive orgasms. Jealous?”

…surely you conceed that first impressions are important.

I eventually decided on a Toyota Camry.

A somewhat ambiguous expression, to be sure. A friendly-ish bulldog who is just the slightest bit peeved? Perhaps determined. I’ll go with that. I admit that I’m a bit smitten with its sound system and ability to get up hills with the slightest of gas pressure.  Not so thrilled by the fact that it’s so common of both species and color that i lose it constantly in parking lots. Good thing it has that automatic panic button. (Though, I suspect local business patrons begin to get annoyed with my methods.)

All in all,  it’s still new. For instance, when a family friend asked me how my car was, I replied: “oh, she died.” Those at the table who knew of Toyota choked on their pita bread.

“Oh, you mean the Toyota…Oh, it’s fine.”  The car lacks both name and gender at this point.

“THAT is your car…”

“No it’s not. We’re just dating. I’m not married to it.”

You have a lot to live up to, you Japanese wildebeest…

RIP

1996 – 2009

through highschool, college, abandoned for Europe and reclaimed…you hung together with love and rust. My eternal gratitude.

Unless, say I, there is some sort of eternal wisdom that you and Dad need to impart to me in private. Unless there is some kind of clandestine passing on of the adult keys upon turning 29 that requires privacy.

“Oh no,” she says.

“There is no secret to life and the grand majority of us are just winging it?” I ask.

“Pretty much,”  she says.

I guess adulthood happens when you learn to accept and embrace a concept like that. Adult happens when you learn to enjoy it. Adulthood happens when you successfully fool younger folks into thinking you know what’s going on and gleefully watch as they flounder around, thinking themselves stupid for not understanding anything at all.

Two years ago, a young woman in my presence (a full 18, i believe she was) informed me that when she “grew up,” she wanted to be “just like me.” I didn’t slap her. Instead, I smiled, nodded and replied cryptically, “Maybe.”

I’m an adult.

I will speak. I may or may not know what I’m talking about.

So without further ado, let us blog…