romance

Valentine’s AFTERMATH

There is only one thing worse than the day before Valentine’s, and that is–

DUN-DUN-DUN!

The Aftermath of Valentine’s Day, otherwise known as the day people leave their chocolates out too long on the kitchen counter, the day someone forgot to water their flowers, the day we decided we don’t give a shit about St. Valentine, only those who stole our hearts. Ah, how sweet–you want some syrup with that? Maybe some cinnamon?

I love watching couples in my high school on the day of affection as compared to the following one. In the morning, as I was walking in from the parking lot, there must have been–gee–twenty or so guys, some of them dressed up pretty snazzily, carrying gifts bags and Russel Stover chocolate hearts; of course, they went up to their girls and shocked them. I am sure they were hoping for kisses, but, as the world is strange, only received the typical “Oh, you are so sweet!” and a partially affectionate hug.

In that situation, I would have said, “Yeah, you want some syrup with that, baby?”

Only jokes on my part; however, because, you see, I have yet to kiss a girl myself. Oh, boo hoo, boo hoo–let’s get back to the post, shall we?

On Valentine’s Aftermath, same place, same me walking in from the parking lot, I see the same couples chatting happily away and practically groping themselves in the corner where they think teachers will not see, and the mood is mellow, to say the least. Gone is the romantic, pubescent tension that makes the rest of us, including me, puke a little in my mouth–did I eat carrots today?–and eradicated is the duty of the man to gift to his woman a lifetime, maybe more of an eight-hour school day, supply of delicious chocolates and roses that have a peculiar smell.

Where did you pick these up, honey? They smell funny.

Ah, you know, I went to Wal-Mart, grabbed a batch from this old guy outside the store. Great deal. 

One thing I wish that changed from Valentine’s Day is the amount of smooching and I-must-kiss-your-neck-like-a-dog. Some were grabbing each other’s asses–what, is there a Staples button from the early 2000’s implanted in her butt cheeks? You like hearing “That was easy” so much you hired a plastic surgeon to mold its shape and a computer geek to install wires?

Farting must be hell, seriously; it’s like Yoda squeezed his way in there and said “well, shit, this ain’t Dagobah, but it’s my home now. Ooh, Staples button!”

Do I wish for too much? Is my Fairy Godmother hitting the trail because I’m pressing her budget? Sorry, Oprah Winfrey; I guess you don’t make all my wishes come true. Time to call back Betty White.

Even though the Aftermath has its perks, I still love the classic: the hugging and the kissing and the I-love-you’s and the I-hate-you’s–

Whoa, where’d we go there?

I think some of my nightmares leaked into my dreams.

Or is the other way around?

Think daily,

A Southpaw

 

Romancing The…Stone is a Cliche.

Anyone in the mood to talk romance? Light up those scented candles and eat a red velvet cake on a satin couch…Whooh, boy–

Me neither. Anyhow, that was getting too hot for Thoughts of a Southpaw–geez, shouldn’t I remember how many innocent minds are reading these posts? Not enough is what I say, am I right? Innocence for the win!

Pardon me; however, we were, I believe, discussing a serious topic; and everyone knows all we cover here at Southpaw International is serious stuff. Spend a day in these rooms…you will have an evening filled with the most terrifying nightmares: kindergarteners picking their noses; dogs pissing on fire hydrants! It’s horrible. It’s downright scary.

But romance is not scary.

At least I hope, for your sake, it is not scary. Hey, if you want to hook up with the Axe Murderer on Gallows Street, please, be my dead guest; and be sure to call at your curfew–never o’ clock.

The sane minded among you, excluding those in flip flops–it is Winter, people–will not chase after the killers in your midst, however dark and handsome they may appear to be; and to tell the truth the darkness is from the shadows.

No, the sane minded will hopefully–this is a leap of faith–go hunting the equally sane minded; obviously they will be attracted to these sane souls, and perhaps some day find a common ground on which both sane minds can frolic…like puppies on a giant ass rainbow.

That a good picture?

There are plenty more portraits where that came from if you will kindly hand over your credit card…or write a check to Romancing the Bloggers Ind.. I hope your duration working with us has been delightf–

Wow. I apologize. That usually doesn’t switch on unless I hit a button.

Getting back to the romance chat, by the way.

Here are some dos and do nots:

DO eat dinner at a fancy restaurant–this is not McDonalds, you cheapskates.

DO NOT eat breakfast at a fancy restaurant–this should go unsaid…

DO get to be friendly with brothers and sisters–ever heard of browning points?

DO NOT get to be friendly with the drunk uncle–though it may seem fun, the reality equals hangovers and hangovers and more hangovers.

DO buy him or her a dog–name it Fido and enter it in the Thanksgiving talent show. You all know what I’m talking about…some of you did not switch the channel after the parade ended…

DO NOT buy him or her a parakeet–a bird that repeats whatever you say in your free time?  Bad idea.

Oh. Looks like I reached the end of the list. Note to self: add more do nots…

Are you still there? What the hell? Leave this computer, or phone, and run after that dame or duke–I mean, don’t go all stalker on their ass, but…you get the point.

Observe at a distance. Scratch that–sounds worse than before. I am genuinely picturing someone dressed up in a black ninja costume jumping behind trees and those pissed on fire hydrants as their crush runs through the park with headphones blaring rock and roll.

Last time. Observe them as you would a wonder of the world.

Think daily,

A Southpaw