This post is a Valentine's Day obligation. Just like the gift giving.

My dad walked into the kitchen a little bit ago (why, no! I’m not working today, thanks for asking) and asked me what he should get Mom for Valentine’s Day. Uh. You could have gotten her the relaxation of knowing she didn’t have to play hostess to your out-of-state friend and his wife all weekend. Or at least an offer to do all the cooking. Or the ability to plan ahead. This is what I’m thinking in my head. Out loud, I reminded him that Valentine’s Day is, you know, tomorrow. And we live in a half horse town so the options are pretty limited unless you want to go down to the cigar/ammo store that also operates as a bar and pick her up some shotgun shells and a nice anise flavored cigar or maybe a 6 pack of Busch Light.

I’m not inventing the wheel here when I say that I’m not a Valentine’s Day sort of girl. This is not to be confused with being the sort of “woe is me, I have no man on February 14^th therefore this holiday is the worst thing ever and I will talk about how I don’t care about it endlessly until all around me are forced to realize that I’m just pathetic” sort of girl. I lived with a few of those in college. Even self-pity isn’t attractive when dressed up in pink hearts and cupid cutouts. Valentine’s Day is nice. It comes with cute decorations and I really enjoy pink and red. And also good chocolate. Truffles, yum. But it’s sort of contrived. And by sort of I mean a lot. And by a lot I mean completely. But a holiday devoted to the recognition and celebration of the people we love and care about can’t be all bad.

I have pretty much always had zero expectations for Valentine’s Day, to the point of putting a moratorium on celebrations and gift giving. Give me a spontaneous evening or gesture that makes everything feel right and connected any day over a predictable crowded dinner at Olive Garden, surrounded by other young couples uncomfortably dressed up and hoping their efforts will get them laid tonight. And if you want to buy me flowers, wait until an unexpected time when the price hasn’t tripled in honor of “love.” Or better yet, put some thought into it and plan something more original. Show you care by doing something nice for my family or friends or hell, give the dog a bath for me. Valentine’s Day has become little more than a competition between females and a male obligation not to let them down. Trust me, the year I spend an hour making you a one of a kind card with a handwritten, personal message on it and you buy me a 1 pound bar of crappy chocolate because you want to eat it? We’ve got issues.

I love romance and love and all things heartfelt. I do not love $4 Hallmark cards, even if they play The Way You Look Tonight upon opening, or heart shaped boxes of chocolate from the local discount store that may or may not have been left over from last year’s Valentine’s Day. If you have a thoughtful significant other, in tune to your personality, Valentine’s Day will most likely be great. But if you have a thoughtful significant other in tune to your personality, most likely every day together is great. In my opinion, we need to stop with all of the commercially fabricated importance and pressure on February 14^th and remember that, if we’re lucky, Valentine’s Day can be any day. Any day you take a moment to celebrate relationships, friendships, family. And any day you buy me truffles.

You probably won't want to put quarters in my personal juke box

 I’m sort of a music whore. Take a spin through my iPod and you’ll soon notice that I’m far less choosy with tunes than I am with men. Which, I mean, at least it’s not the other way around, right? I have a few—very few—limitations when it comes to what I’ll listen to and honestly, a lot of times they’re more related to the artist as a person than to the music they produce. For instance, I hate U2 because I think Bono has a God complex the size of Mt. Everest and often thinks he is the Savior of Humanity and, hello? we all know that position has been filled by Oprah. I mean, duh.

The first song I remember learning all of the words to, outside of nursery rhymes and Wee Sing tapes, was “Friends in Low Places” by Garth Brooks. I was in kindergarten, riding the bus to my grandma’s after school when the bus driver’s daughter taught me the words. Is this one of those you might be a redneck if instances? Possibly. I had no idea what I was singing and I thought it talked about a bear chasing people. I ended up with the cassette tape somehow and would lay on the floor on my stomach in the living room, listening to my tiny purple boombox for hours.

I’ve got binder of CDs and my car is filled with the newest ones, but pre-high school I tended to lose a lot of my tapes or CDs. In honor of last night’s Grammys, I’ve compiled a list of some of my favorite lost music, in whatever format, in no particular order.

1) Bryan White by Bryan White – I’m not sure what happened to Bryan White, but in this album he is country. I don’t follow his career at all now, but back in the day I could still sing along to almost all of the songs on this album. Most of these songs don’t even show up on a quick YouTube search and that makes me sad.

2) B*witched by B*witched – Apparently I really like self-titled debut albums. And as much as those Irishmen in U2 annoy me, these Irish girls are awesome. Awesome in a jumping on your bed with a hair brush as a microphone sort of way. They were for sure riding on the Girl Power wave created by the Spice Girls (which makes this the 2^nd time in one month that I’ve referenced the Spice Girls on this blog) and the music was fun and bouncy. I pulled some of their songs up on YouTube for my friends last year and they had no clue who I was talking about. Guess they missed out on fabulous songs like this. Also, the dude’s outfit in that video is awesome.

3) Pieces of You by Jewel – Yet another debut album and another one I spent hours earnestly singing along to. And you know what, Jewel? I’m sensitive, too. Jewel’s more recent stuff is just eh, but I was enamored laying on the floor with the liner notes from this CD.

4) Middle of Nowhere by Hanson – I am not ashamed to admit to loving Hanson. In the same way I hate the stupid curly-headed Jonas Brothers, I love Hanson. Sure, they sounded like girls and that one was only like 6 years old but they made some damn good music. I introduced one of my college roommates to one of their lesser known songs one day and it ended up on every CD she burned for the next few months. (Seriously, check out that video, it’s creepy weird.) And this was just last year, proof that Hanson has staying power. Or that my friends have similarly crappy taste in music. Also, all of those Hanson boys are now married with many children. And I live with my parents.

5) Firecracker by Lisa Loeb – The first non-debut CD on the list, I still remember the soft pretty pink of this CD. I remember my copy had my name written on it, evidence that I once donated my music to be used at our middle school Valentine’s Day Dance. Lisa Loeb is cool, despite that horrible reality TV show she had to help her find a man. I’ll forgive her for that. I may have lost this CD but I downloaded some of the songs awhile back and they’re still on my iPod.

6) Enema of the State by blink-182 – I held on to this CD, and this one for a long time before they were stolen from my binder of CDs. In my opinion, everything blink-182 puts out demands respect and attention. They’re no B*witched but I’m beyond thrilled they’ve announced their reunion. These are almost the only CDs from my high school years that I’ve lost and they’re really the only ones I want back.

So, what have we learned? I have crappy taste in music but sentimentality makes even the worst song enjoyable. I lose shit. That’s about all.

This small intestine's for you, dear

I’m sitting here drinking a tall glass of wine from a $10 bottle and thinking about TV. There are deep thoughts happening over here, folks. And expensive ones. I’ll admit to watching some fairly lowbrow stuff on TV. And some stuff that is probably no-brow. But I successfully stayed far away from MTV’s A Double Shot at Love until the final episode last night. I had no idea how this was all supposed to play out, it seemed to me that these bisexual twin Barbie girls had already narrowed the search for “love” down to two contestants so shouldn’t that be the end? But no, they each separately chose the contestant who still had a shot at love with them and wouldn’t you know it, Vikki and Rikki chose the same boy! Who then had to choose from 2 bisexual blonde identical twins! And the rejected girl caused drama! How did these sisters ever think that this show was a good idea? Girls are catty enough when it comes to boys. And well, everything else. Why pit yourself against your twin sister? Although I’m still not convinced both Rikki and Vikki weren’t played by the same girl with the help of a talented makeup artist.

But none of this is really the point. We all know MTV puts out some questionable programming, I mean, come on, there have been 3 reincarnations of Laguna Beach, 4 if you count that abomination with Brody Jenner. (Note: this does not mean that I refuse to watch quality programming such as True Life: I’m in a love triangle or that ridiculous show with Paris Hilton and a bevy of women and one Asian man-woman trying to become her next fashion accessory.) But my point. Throughout the whole hour long shenanigans, both contestants continued to profess their love for the -ikkis. Until Trevor, the final winner, took back his love declarations and proceeded to tell the girls—and the cameras—that they had “a big part of [his] heart.” Over.and.over. Uh. Okay? He does realize that your heart isn’t actually the pink thing on the Valentine card his grandma sends him each February, right? And that it’s actually an organ full of veins and blood and pulsating ventricles? (Ventricles pulsate, right? It’s been a long time since Biology class.) So announcing that each of these girls has driven their –ikki flag into bits of his heart, claiming it as their own territory, this is no more romantic an organ than a liver or pancreas.

Now look, I understand that love is a four letter word of the damn, shit, fuck variety to some people. I get it. And to others it’s just uncomfortable. Their families didn’t say it, they had a bad breakup, whatever. But what is with dedicating parts of your organs? Is that what all the kids are doing these days? Or just the hippie skater/surfer/boat captain dudes who are incapable of adding inflection to their voices or expressions to their faces? I don’t get it.

I grew up in a family that peppered each good bye and good night with multiple “I love you’s,” but I’m probably not going to prematurely say it to two blonde bisexual twins on a reality tv contest. But maybe I’ll take a page from Trevor’s book and start dedicating my limbs to those I care about. Maybe.

And, uh, yea this post had more direction and better-ness before I finished that glass of wine. 

Wii Fit wants to know if I trip a lot. Uh. Duh?

I got Wii Fit for my birthday yesterday. Coincidentally, Wii Fit cost only slightly more than the 3 month gym membership I signed up for around Thanksgiving and used exactly 3 times. I came away from that experience with a useless electronic key and residual guilt. At least with Wii Fit I’ll get to keep the nifty balance board.

Wii Fit works (uh, I’m basing this on one whole use, so the term “works” is relative here) because it judges you. I can go to the gym all I want—which admittedly is like, zero—but when no one else is there when I get off the elliptical machine after 15 minutes, I’m pretty good at reasoning away my slacker habits. Never mind that those 15 minutes were full of slllooowwiinnnngg down anywhere from 3-10 times to take big drinks of water or to stoop to pick up my magazine from the ground because it simply refuses to stay on the little rack in front of me. Not that it does any good because, really, who can read with eyes rattling around in your head and thoughts of merciful death at the forefront of your mind?

Enter the World of Wii and that skinny “trainer” bitch starts telling me that I “may not be strong enough for this exercise yet.” Oh yea, trainer lady? Suck it. Retry. My leg is a little shaky? You’re a little shaky. (Is it just me or is the male trainer a little, um, effeminate?) That trainer lady is sort of like my college roommate who suffered from exercise bulimia. She simply won’t stop working out and monitoring your progress. Although at least my former roommate did the judgment thing silently or at least behind my back while she ate her single meal of the day, Healthy Choice soup.  Plus, Wii Fit grades you, and as a former nerd-Valedictorian-perfectionist, I NEED to have the highest grade possible.  Admittedly, this drive slipped slightly in college but floats to the surface in more childish pursuits instead of academia these days.  Also, dude, it's a video game.  You call it improving my balance, I call it skiing.

I really have no point here except that apparently the most effective form of motivation is ridicule with a smile. I’m going to keep this in mind for my future children. “You don’t appear to be smart enough for the ABCs yet! Wipe that drool off your face, dunce! You are not good enough!” Also, I gave myself two whole weeks to lose two whole pounds. Keeping the underachievement standard going strong.

I'll probably never get a husband if I keep offering to pay for shit.

I was an avid fan of Cosmo magazine at an inappropriate age. When my parents were still paying for subscriptions to Teen, I was begging for The Bible to turn up in our mailbox each month. When I had finally complained my way into my very own subscription, I was more than annoyed each time it showed up in the checkout lane magazine rack before I had it in my smutty little hands at home. I took the quizzes and made mental note of all the sex tips and tricks. At school, my friends and I would compare notes and opinions. It never occurred to me that A) our teachers could hear or B) if you’re also carrying around prom dress magazines, you should probably not also have a copy of a magazine that blatantly references sex about 4 times on each cover.

I graduated high school (without ever using the majority of those tips and tricks. Also without getting pregnant, connection perhaps?) and realized that a few things about college life were no longer conducive to magazine subscriptions. Actually I doubt I ever actually realized this because I was busy drinking or throwing pumpkins off of high places or watching Disney movies my first year of college. But the combined effects of regularly changing addresses and no money meant I fell out of the slut magazine audience. Besides, how many articles can one read with secret sex tips/fantasies/confessions before they sort of all start to repeat each other? 10? 20? 42? Also I lived in a dorm full of other 18 and 19 year old girls so really, I had free access to any tips or tricks I may have needed.

I was pretty okay rejoining the uninformed, apparently sexless masses. In one of those “I don’t know what to get you for Christmas” moments, I ended up receiving a year’s subscription to Cosmo. From my grandma. (This is actually misleading because my mom took over the job of buying Grandma’s Christmas presents for the grandkids this year. Magazine subscriptions galore!) My first issue arrived today, the day before my 23^rd birthday and I’m sort of realizing that uh, what the f, Cosmo? You are totally setting women back a few years. Or at least brain cells.

In a literary masterpiece entitled “50 Guy Phrases Translated” (I haven’t made it to the page that teaches me about the 8 things in my closet that make me look “chunky.” The 8^th thing is probably the cake.) author Bethany Heitman tells her readers that, in the dating world, asking to split the check REALLY means “I’m not into you.” Oh.Well...Shit.

I would like to give the high school version of myself credit enough to believe that I would not have believed this crap then either. But I find it pathetically laughable now. Apparently Bethany Heitman hasn’t been paying much attention to the current state of the economy. Or, you know, that day women got the right to vote and were even allowed to work out of the home and make their own money! A few pages later, we’re also given breakdowns of playing hard to get and the different levels, from Too Hard to Not Hard Enough, with the apparent ideal being Just Hard Enough. Apparently I would be playing the appropriate amount of hard to get if I only agree to last minute plans every so often. Oh. Oops?

Oh Cosmo. I think you need to dust off your Spice Girls CDs and take a look around.  Women are wearing pants now!