Valentines Day Blues

A little comedy for the upcoming consumerist holiday!

   Between paying for such necessities as tuition, books, various articles of paraphenaelia related to college life, and enough Oriental flavored Ramen Noodles to last an entire olympiad, I was left with a paltry four dollars and thirty-eight cents with which to by my "girlfriend" (gah, I hate that word!) a Valentines Day present. I hurried into the Dollar General that lay in one of those "oh so inspiring" strip malls just north of my apartments and began tearing down the isles, looking for a proper gift. I thought to myself as I was looking at an assortment of hard candies with small, almost indicipherable notes such as "I heart you" or "Ur Neat" etched into them, that I was much like a convict, about to be beheaded, and I was looking for the right gift to give the executioner, you know, so it only takes one axe swing and as little pain as possible to end my miserable existence. I mean, honestly, what else can you expect to do with four dollars and thirty eight cents? I had no illusions that the current center of my romantic affections (that's right, I will go to great lengths to never use that horrid word again) would even entertain a thought of staying my sentence as "ex-boyfriend."

   Maybe if I used that vast amount of charm I keep bottled up for just such an occasion, she might atleast let me down easy. By the way, that charm I spoke of, turns out to be mumbling apologies and nervous twitching when it comes down to game time.

   I passed up said candied hearts in favor of something a little more permanent and, hopefully, a little less expensive. The item I chose, the item that hopefully would win over my darling sweetheart and deliver me to yet another night of blissful sexual depravity came in the form of a small, Valentines Day Red, stuffed puppy. One of those long, floppy-eared jobs that looks like a cross between a beagle and a lab. He looked cute enough to me, and at three dollars and eighty-two cents, he came up just shy of my current bank roll. Hey, maybe I could even afford one more package of Ramen.

   I shuffled over to the counter and plopped the little stuffed stay of execution (fingers crossed, ladies and gentleman) down, and tried my best to smile to the cashier. The cashier did little to stem the stereotype of disgruntled teen girl employee with her open-mouthed smacking of her pink bubble gum, the too much mascara and not enough foundation, and the "I really don't want to be here" look in her eyes. She half heartedly picked up the pup and scanned it's tag, then looked to me in sudden realization and asked, "You're not really gonna buy this for your girlfriend are you?"

   Needless to say, I panicked. "Uh.. uh.. no, no this is for my grandmother, well, my grandmother in law, anyways. You know that family member you don't really know and don't care about but you get them something anyways because you feel sorta obligated... yeah... my grandmother in law." I'm an idiot.

   "Uh huh," was her bisyllabic answer.

   "Just ring it up, ok?"

   "That'll be, four-fourteen, sir." She said as she rolled her eyes.

   I counted out the 2 dollar bills and the change from my change jar to the exact amount and handed her the coins. She took some time counting the pennies and nickels up, evidently math wasn't her strong point. Maybe it was just my smoldering indignity, but I had a feeling that anything having to do with academics wasn't her strong point. She handed me my receipt which I promptly pocketed and rushed out the door, glancing at my watch as I did so. "Great," I said. "Now I'm going to be a late, poor b*****d."

   I jumped in the good old '86 Mercedes Benz, sure it was over two decades old but it was still a Benz by god, (I do have some taste) and sped off down the street towards Beckie's apartment. Did I mention her name was Beckie? No? Well, now you know, and knowing is half the battle... GI Joe! Real American Hero!

   Ahem... anyways...

   I got to Beckie's just shy of next century and knocked on the door, fidgeting with my jacket, puppy inconspicuously hidden behind my back. I'm so original. She answered the door, looking as gorgeous as the day I met her (I'm trying to ingratiate myself here people, can't do any harm to brown nose a little). She smiled warmly and rolled her eyes as she noticed my hand behind my back. She made a beckoning motion with her hand and walked inside as I followed suit.

   "You're late," she said, not as an accusation, but as a matter of fact.

   "Yeah, I know, sorry," I apologized.

   "S'okay, what did you bring me?" She asked as she turned to look at me, her own surprise of a much larger and expensive looking wrapped present in her hands for me. My head drooped and my heart sank as I felt the heat rise to my face. I am such an a*s. A cheap, unworthy, a*s.

   I slowly and reluctantly pulled the little puppy from around my back and held it out with one hand, head down in shame and grief.

   "Aww, how cute," she exclaimed. My head shot up and I eyed her in disbelief. I looked in her eyes to see if there was any sign of disappointment, but I saw none. She was truly touched by the gift. When she got closer she let out a small gasp and looked more closely at the simple toy. "It says I love you on it's chest, how sweet honey, I love you too!"

   Oh... crap.

   In my haste and self deprecation I had paid little actual attention to the stuffed mutt outside of it's head, and in doing so did not see those three words printed on it's chest. I'd set myself up for a trap, then sprung it, and now I have the gaul to look surprised. Way to go, Jak, way to go. The question remained, still, what do I do? Do I play it off like I knew it all along? Apparently those three little words had completely sideswiped the cheapness of the gift with their profoundness. Or do I act surprised and possibly face the wrath of a women jipped AND scorned. I weighed the options in my head, and came up with only one possible conclusion to save myself from either a lifetime of monogamy or a harsh and painful break-up.

   "I'm glad you like it, Emily," I said. The look on her face went from over-abundant glee, to shocked disbelief. I smiled a smile that was as false as I could outwardly make it, dropped the puppy, and ran like hell to my car and shot out of the apartment complex like the devil himself were on my heels. Sometimes in poker, it's safer to just fold than call with a losing hand folks. And believe me, there wasn't any catching the inside straight that time around.