I really hate Valentines day.
I hate the way single people are made to feel inferior. I hate the way that attached people are mocked and resented by single people. I hate how people are expected to buy meaningless, overpriced things for their friends and lovers, and how women are expected to expect such offerings. I hate the ugly sad-eyed stuffed animals wrapped in cellophane. I hate cheap chocolate in ugly boxes. I hate the sickly-sweet artificiality of the whole holiday, and I hate the us-versus-them competition between those in relationships, and those not in relationships.
I only like those little conversation hearts. Those are delicious.
Until 2009, I ended up single for every Valentine’s day since I had been old enough to date. As I’m sure everyone knows, if you have no-one showering you with stupid things on Valentine’s day, it is implied that the whole world is judging you for your failure. Especially if you are a woman, the implication is that to be without a Valentine, is to be waiting in line to be a spinster, and somehow less of a woman.
Now that I am in a stable, happy relationship, I hate Valentine’s day more than I ever did when I was alone.
I feel as though my relationship is being indirectly thrown in the faces of everyone who doesn’t have what I have and as a result, somehow cheapened. Not to me, not to Michael, of course, but to the rest of the world.
Don’t get me wrong, the idea of the holiday is beautiful. The concept of a day to celebrate love is absolutely lovely, but this massive advertising-driven guilt-trip is disgusting, and tacky. If you love someone, just love them. You don’t need to spend a fortune on tacky lingerie, heart-shaped food in crowded restaurants, chocolate with suspicious fillings, and diamonds to somehow prove your affection; it’s revolting to suggest that people need these artificial trappings and that without them there is no love.
Really, though, I hate the people who say that Valentine’s Day is their favorite holiday most of all. Valentine’s day is like the RealDoll of holidays. How can you love something made of plastic and silicone?
I am mildly deranged, dreadfully misplaced, and uncommonly ladylike. I don't like most people, I probably don't like you, but that's more of a defense mechanism than anything else.Inquire Submit
I really hate Valentines day.
…that I realize that although I dress more conservatively than I once did, I still do not dress in a manner that invites employment opportunities. Dressing like a time traveller from 1942 can be just as off-putting as dressing like Lisbeth Salander.
Tomorrow I am going to apply at an adult bookstore that looks from the outside to be rather sleazy, and I realized that your average purveyor of adult materials would not want to hire someone who dresses the way I do every day. So I have to dress like a normal person, while still hinting at the fact that most of my wardrobe is almost as old as my grandmother.
How I am going to do this, I have not yet figured out. I am thinking pencil skirt with tank top and leather jacket. Sort of a ‘Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!’ aesthetic.
I love the 1940s, especially the war years.
I love the clothes, the hair, the movies, the music. As aesthetically beautiful as the decade was, what I love most are the ordinary women of the time. The women who got factory jobs, despite the fact that aside from retail or secretarial work, many of them hadn’t worked a day in their lives. The women who sold war bonds. The women who planted and tended victory gardens. The women who made the best of the strict rations imposed by the war effort. The women who often raised very young children on their own. The women who lived every day wondering if their men were alive or dead. The women who somehow looked amazing despite everything they had to manage on their own.
These women embody the things that I aspire to be.
It was a little white bunny with black and brown spots. It wasn’t some wild bunny who belongs outside. No, this was a bunny from a store. It had big black eyes, wide with the perpetual anticipation of fear, the way all young bunnies are. It was eating a dandelion plant in some of the stubby grass between the street and the sidewalk. There, in my ugly, run-down ghetto neighborhood, was this perfect gem of cute fluffiness.
I was so struck by the cuteness of this little animal that it took me a moment to realize that this was not right and that this rabbit did not belong there, or really outside at all. Once I did, I sprang, or rather crept into action. I would rescue the rabbit, stockings be damned. Long story short, I didn’t manage to rescue it. The poor thing, unaware of the fact that I was trying to help it, hopped through the bars of a wrought iron fence, and out of my reach. I went on my way to school with a heavy heart, but perfectly intact stockings.
What troubles me most about this story is not that I was unable to rescue the bunny, but that it was outside in the first place. I doubt it was a beloved pet that somehow made its way outdoors. More than likely, that poor helpless little creature was an Easter gift for one of the loud, spoiled, fat children of my neighborhood. One of their fat mothers bought it, thinking only that it was cute and soft, and not that it required food, attention, and a clean cage, and then discarded it when it proved itself to be more than a stuffed toy.
It makes me sad and angry that people are so thoughtless and callous as to completely fail to consider that owning any animal, whether it be a rabbit, a cat, a dog, or even a goldfish, is a great responsibility. Taking that little life into your home is not something that should be done heedlessly, and the fact that every day people take animals home on nothing but a whim, unwilling, and unprepared to care for them, enrages me.
I wish there was a way to enforce the licensing of pet owners. Adopting a pet and adopting a child should not be so different. People should not be allowed to take responsibility of any life without first being proven able to care for it.
The good news is that the good people of Red Door were extremely helpful concerning my inquiries about what to do in the event that I see that bunny, or any other bunny again, and have given me two rabbit rescue numbers to call. Even if the rabbit isn’t found, I think I may volunteer there over the summer.
When I buy ruined old dresses and sew them up to be almost, if not just as, good as new I feel so proud. It’s as if I am bringing history back to life when it would have been forgotten in an attic, or a thrift store or a landfill.
The dress I am fixing now is from the 1940s, as are most of my clothes. It looks like it actually went through WWII, instead of just existing around the same time. The underarms are yellow, and there are a hundred thousand tiny splits in the fabric. It is brightly printed, and seems to be handmade.
I wonder about the girl who made it. She was probably tall, although not quite as tall as I am. Unless someone wore it after her, she was very sweaty, at least in the summer. I wonder if she was pretty, or funny, or smart, or just boring. If she really did make the dress herself, she was probably not very rich. I wonder if she was a nice girl, or the town slut. What exactly made a girl slutty back then? I wonder if she was creative, or artistically inclined. I wonder if she is still alive, and how the course of her life went. She would have lived through so many wars, what must that have been like?
I wonder if we would get along, or if she would be put off by my tattoos and colorful language.
-Lack of tattoo acceptance
-Restrictive social codes
-Socially acceptable smoking
-Joan Crawford (see Good Movies)