Tomorrow I buy me big Valentine candy box for cheapie.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Ms. DunThat has had a number of bad V days, no doubt about it. I, however, have had many many Valentines Days that were much worse. At least DunThat got to go on vacation. I never went anywhere. And my gifts always sucked. So, the rundown:

College boyfriend: very cheap strand of 'pearls' that broke the next week. He informed me that I wasn't getting a card because he regretted spending so much on the cheap-ass necklace.

Grad school boyfriend: Year One--'the honeymoon phase'--a very cheap plastic Casio watch. I got him a Coach leather briefcase. Did I dump him dear reader? Of course not. The next year I got a set of grapefruit spoons. When he gave them to me he said something to the effect of "I love that you don't need silly gifts like flowers, that you like practical things. Now we can eat our grapefruit together every morning" Instead of punching him in the nose, I thought "what a sweet simple guy" as I gave him $200 worth of Clinique mens skincare products. Year 3: "The Party's Over." Since this was the early 90s cordless phones were still a big deal. I searched high and low and spent what, for me, was a tortuous five days in stores like Best Buy and Electronics World searching for the phone that would best suit his needs since he was way into technology. I, you should note (becuase it is important) am NOT AT ALL into technology, phones, or anything like that. Well, V Day rolls around and I get NO GIFT! He tells me it is something very special and he will give it to me the next day. Well two days later he drops by and gives me THE EXACT SAME PHONE I GOT FOR HIM!! The bonehad says to me: "well, you talked about it so enthusiastically when you gave it to me, I thought you might like one for yourself." So lame. But I stil didn't break up with him until about six months later. When I went over to his house to get my stuff I discovered a closet that contained every gict I had ever given him--unopened. The Coach bag still wrapped in tissue paper. the skincare, all wrapped up and no doubt dried up since it had been TWO YEARS. The phone--never opened. The guy was such a commitmentphobe he couldn't even committ to opening up my gifts!!

Treasured Valentines Moments

Let’s just make this simple. The best Valentines’ days have been the ones that fall the closest to the beginning of a relationship. Silly me, I was under the impression that as a relationship progresses and grows deeper, V-Days would grow more and more romantic. Is that true for any girl besides my mother? Now that I think about it, my dad has his faults, but not worshipping my mother isn’t one of them. Once, he even surprised her with a necklace she had wanted by burying it in the sand while vacationing on the beach. And she still yells at him for not wiping up the bathtub after he uses it?
My experience has been a little different.
Was St. Valentine a sadist? Why on earth would they devote one day a year that is fueled with so much expectation? Some of you are reading this and thinking that I am a boob. “It’s just a day,” and “It’s shallow to place meaning on a gift” might be some of the things you’re thinking. I hear ya. The point is, I was enough of a boob in the first place to date these guys, so holidays turned into a test that pitted what I knew to be true against the last shred of hope that they would use this day to prove my hunch wrong. Namely, that I was doing the dating equivalent of dialing the wrong number over and over again.
I’m actually, finally, over the breakup, so Valentine’s day and all that comes along with it doesn’t feel like someone’s wrenching Cupid’s arrow from my flesh anymore. I’m just pretty ho-hum about it.
I do miss the chocolate, my favorite thing. But here’s a novel idea- I CAN BUY MY OWN! I can walk into Godiva, pay money, and walk out with lovely red ribboned box of truffles for myself and Mrs. BeenThere this weekend. Or, I could ask my friend John to biy me some. And those candy hearts stink; they taste like chalk and look like suppositories.
Anyway, I had a hard time picking a winner for Worst V-Day, but this one was pretty low.

My ex and I made plans to go away on Valentine’s Day, for four nights. Montreal. In the middle of February. Driving. Actually, I have to say it would be a fantastic, out of the ordinary, cozy holiday for a less-dysfunctional couple. The hotels are all discounted so you can pamper each other in luxury for less. But it would be better if your boyfriend wasn’t on the heels of a commitment freak out and treating you like crap. Remember that, cuz it’s pretty cold not to be nestled in bed almost the entire time. Anyway, so we left New York V-Day evening around six, right after he drove all stinky and smelly from his boxing workout. I thought to myself, “He’s probably waiting until we get to the hotel to give me my card or gift.” On the way up there, we were trying to find a motel to stay at but everything was booked, once again, on account that it was VALENTINE’S DAY. We pulled into this real dive motel, Campy’s, I still remember the name on one of those signs with the individual black block letters you put up yourself. We joked that it looked and sounded like a crash pad for patrons of the strip club we saw a while back. At the counter the old guy told us that he was sold out, although I didn’t know who else besides us rejects would end up here on V-Day. As we were leaving he shifted his gaze curiously and said, “Well, I do have one room available, but it’s a little rough.” Not knowing what “a little rough” meant exactly, we accompanied him to the room. When he opened the door we saw two cots with yellow teeth-colored sheets, stained walls and carpet, and a nasty smell. I felt like we were the investigators of a crime scene right out of “Murder She Wrote” or “Mike Hammer.” My BF adopted one of the most disgusted faces I’ve ever seen in my life, up there with when I tried on for him the kilt miniskirt I bought a couple years ago when the twenty-somethings started wearing them again.
We found another hotel, and at this point, it was 11:30 and I was now kidding myself with the idiotic thought “Maybe he’s waiting until 12:00 to celebrate Valentine’s.” At this point it was pretty clear I wasn’t getting a proposal. And anything valuable never would have made it out of Campy’s. The night ended in an argument and me saying “You didn’t even get me chocolates?”

Once I stuffed down the difficult trip up, we had a couple of nice days. We actually made it to a wild animal reserve about a two hour drive away. We saw deer, ox, wolves, bears, etc. You could buy carrots and feed the animals, which was nice, and we were the only ones there. It is definitely something I wouldn’t mind repeating someday, with a guy that didn’t actually want to leave me there.
We had to stay an extra night on account of bad weather. During check out, he would only ask me to split the cost of the extra night, since it was Valentine’s Day and all. Keep in mind this guy made five times my salary. And then he paid with his corporate account! Actually, he paid for a lot of stuff with his corporate account. It wasn’t until much later that BeenThere informed me that he could charge that stuff to his place of work. So I guess he was screwing me and his boss.
On the drive back, he reflected that the best thing about it was that he got a close-up picture of a wolf.

ME on CBS Early Show!

On Wednesday, I was proud to be a guest on the CBS Early Show. That's right. Sometime around Valentine's Day, friends and family will be able to catch a glimpse of me dishing it out with 6 other women about my breakup with the ex and its aftermath.
As you can guess, this is part of every girls fantasy. To be able to go on NATIONAL TELEVISION and talk about ridiculous and horrible things about your ex? Come on! It's only a 3 1/2 minute spot, but hopefully something shaming I said about him will get aired, and he will be sitting in front of the telly eating his non-fat Muesli and watching it, along with his friends and his mother (who all think he's such a stand up guy).
It was so nice to take a little walk down memory lane and revisit some of the more vile behaviors I subjected myself too. With two years distance now, I was able to look back and have a real Idi Amin moment. An Idi Amin moment is precicely that moment when a man who you formerly considered charming is suddenly revealed as a vicious and predatory louse.
On the Early show panel, I got to talk about the breakup. How he called me out of the blue to break up with me at 10:30pm , right before a yearly children's dance recital I had to coordinate the next day. How he sent all my stuff back in boxes minus all the jewelry and clothes he gave me. I got to show the viewers at home the only thing I got to keep, his first stuffed animal: a faded and stained stuffed snake. I got to talk about how after every time he treated me badly, he would shut me up with chinese food. He'd buy us a big feast, and after I munched down spare ribs and lo mein, we'd end up in the sack. I should never have been a willing participant in this. And about how he backed out of our vacation plans to stay in New York for his mother's surgery. And before you think I'm a bitch, like all his friends did, can I tell you about how I had to pay for the vacation myself, and how I found out that HE DIDN'T EVEN VISIT HIS MOTHER AFTER THE SURGERY?!

Chances are, each of us willl be hauled to the dump at least once in our lives. I am an expert on getting dumped. At least when it comes to what NOT to do. I've broken all the rules and have lived to tell what what could have been done, what should have been said, what might have been read, and what I'd wished I'd learned when I was eighteen.
If you would like to become an expert like me, I've got a few tips.
First of all, like anything else, you can't expect mastery overnight. You should get one good decade and at least three devastating dumps under your belt before you consider yourself an expert. Here are some things to get you started.
Communication. Make sure you check into his voicemail a few times a day so he can see your number flashing on his caller ID.
Home Decorating. Each time you visit his apartment, bring a gym bag full of your things to stash there. It's not a home until your tampons are edging out his shaving supplies.
Compromise. In this case, fight for what you want and deserve, but if it lasts too long, just give in.
Holidays. An IPod or a Typing program is a really good gift, much better than some girly crap like diamond earrings.
Other Women. If he is still licking his wounds from a previous breakup, by all means, proceed. If it doesn't work out with the two of you, you have the great personal satisfaction of knowing you have helped heal his soul just a little bit, enough to reunite with his ex.

More tips to come...

Mrs. BeenThere says:

We’ve often heard it said that 'a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.' That's all fine and dandy, unless you happen to be a fish that idolizes Lance Armstrong. We know what it is like to be that fish; desperate to get out there and peddle, even though we don't have any feet. As any fish who’s ever longed for a ten speed of her very own knows, it is especially hard to sit on the sidelines watching all the other fish pedaling off to Pottery Barn to register for wedding gifts. Given how many fish are out there actually riding bikes, who seem to be having a really good time, you can hardly fault your average fish for wanting that damn bike!
Sometimes you are a fish without a bicycle, so your goal is to find the perfect bike. Much of the time, however, you have a bicycle. The problem is, however, that your bicycle has a lot of problems. Some bikes are missing important parts, like the seat, so every time you try to take it somewhere you end up with a big pain in your ass. Sometimes one or more of its wheels don't work. No matter how hard you try, you can never get it to go in the direction you want. Lots of times the bike just doesn’t want to take off his training wheels and grow up, thus making it impossible for the two of you to go the long haul together.
Many fish who find themselves with bikes that don't work simply dump them by the side of the road and get new ones. Other fish (and we put ourselves in that category) want to hang on to the bike that they have. They are attached to their bikes. They have worked on their bike, investing time and emotional energy (and even a lot of cash). They are determined to cross the finish line with the bike they've chosen. Even if that bike is a Big Wheel and the race they are riding is the Tour de France.
"You'll never make it!" onlookers scream. We know better. We love this bike. And love conquers all. Even if we can't control the steering, the brakes are shot, and the only thing that works is the bell.
Welcome to the world of long term love and commitment, where irrationality, blind sentiment, and foolish determination rule. We feel your pain. We have been 'the girlfriend' and we know that when you are just a girlfriend, no one really feels very sorry for you. If someone's husband or wife leaves them they usually get quite a lot of sympathy. A woman or man married to a cheating spouse or stuck in a marriage marred by poor communication and a lack of intimacy usually gets at least a sympathetic nod. But when you are 'just the girlfriend' in a long term relationship that isn't going where you want it to, as far as sympathy goes you get nothing.

Today, A Lizard Man Asked Me Out

As a dog walker, I am on familiar and friendly terms with a number of doormen that work in my clients' buildings. I've been asked out by two of them, and would have taken each of them up on it if one hadn't been 21, and the other hadn't been married. But today, somebody else that works in one of the buildings asked me out. Somebody behind the scenes. He is obese and looks like a lizard and works with the garbage in the back elevator. And socially, there's nothing wrong with the guy. Which makes it worse, because that means that he used sound, critical analysis to determine the credibility of us as a couple.
Now, I'm not being mean when I say that he looks like a lizard. He just does. He has scaly skin under his eyes and a gap in his front teeth through which his tongue darts out. He appears to be about 10 years older than me. He may be somebody's dreamboat, he's not mine. And I am upset that he continues to hit on me, not only because I feel violated, which I do, but also because he is apparently he has a chance of making it happen with me.
And yet somehow, my sense of inequality would fail to be riled if George Clooney, or someone else out of my league, goosed me while I was leaning over to clean up some dog poop. Oh well.
I used to be real friendly with him, but I have turned into a cold fish. I have to use the service elevator in that building, and I pray to God I won't be caught in there with him and the smelly garbage with him tomorrow. On Tuesday, he told me I was "a hard working woman," and he needed to find someone like me. On Wednesday, he started putting his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me. You know the move. Everyday day now I get the hand. He's got as far as the intro, the old "so what do you do with yourself when you're not working?" I've been able to evade any further advances because it is a very short time I have to see him every day, only a trip from the 11th to the 1st floor, but I feel that one day soon I'm just going to have to shoot him down.

Jagged Little Pill

When a relationship ends under devastating circumstances, the best thing to do is to take some time alone, and to not jump into anything serious. Good advice, but when you reach the two year mark, beware. I have not had one date that has made me even consider bending over far enough to shave my overgrown legs. A lovelife this barren can actually drive you a bit bonkers. My recent solution that backfired? The Celebrity Crush.
A little background about me: I have all the inclinations of your basic stalker; although I like to believe I have some modicum of impulse control. The stalker side of me reared it's ugly head recently, after developing a crush on Ryan Reynolds, the comic actor. I became immediately infatuated and proceded to google him and fantasize about how we would meet and how I could get Alanis out of the way. Of course, I usually succeed in keeping most of my movie star obsessions safely under control, due to the extremely remote chance of any one of them entering my daily orbit of doggie poop bags and donut shop lunches. This convenient barrier to obsessive behavior derailed, however, when I realized that the movie set I had been passing by with the dogs for two weeks, and which had just wrapped, was the set of Ryan's latest movie. I have since been filled with rage. WHY CAN'T I MEET MY RYAN REYNOLDS!? If I had known, I would have hung out by the set, and Ryan would probably have sauntered by with a meat sandwich. Then I would have encouraged Scruffy to chase after him, surely initializing a courtship between us.