My funny Valentine

by Muzikdude

It was milk and cookie time. I was five years old. My years of wisdom led me to believe that I could make the girls laugh by drinking milk through my nose...with a straw. The plastic cut the inside of my nose and, to the horror of the little girls, blood flowed from the end of the straw. I spent milk and cookie time in the nurse's office. Yeah, I've always been quite the ladies man.

When I first saw Mrs. Muzikdude I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Even the fat, naked, angel shooting arrows at us couldn't distract me. Ironically, it was Valentine's Day.

I have no idea why or how she tolerates my irritability, flatulence, insensitivity, lack of romance, and disorganization, but she is still there every morning. I am not an easy roommate. I do things that make the dogs gag, but Mrs. Muzikdude takes it in stride. I'm a slob, I'm opinionated, I'm insufferable. But she is always there.

This is something I am reminded of annually on the 14th of February. For me, Valentine's Day is the holiday of guilt and shame. I join the same group of men every year on February 13th in the card aisle of Wally World fighting for the last Valentine card even though it's addressed "To a Special Friend." Then we meet in the candy aisle and wrestle for last bit of sweets. I realize how ridiculous this is, but no one wants to go home empty handed. Now, don't get me wrong, chocolate can mend a plethora of minor ailments but a bag of M&Ms on February 14th just doesn't cut it.

In an attempt to cover my procrastination I opt for a lovely dinner for two. Obtaining last minute reservations on Valentine's Day is slightly more than difficult, so we spend the first two hours of the evening standing just inside the entrance of a restaurant with all the guys from the card aisle. A breeze chills the crowd when the door opens and another procrastinator enters with his date. All the men give a nod to acknowledge our shared humiliation as we open a path to the hostess station.

We are finally seated at a rickety folding table near the kitchen where we spend the remainder of the meal serenaded by the staff's laughter and profanity. We order prime rib. We are served table scraps. The atmosphere is cacophonous. Our glasses are empty. We are cold. We are frustrated. Is this romance? I'm pretty sure it is the minions of Hallmark that would have us believe so.

We return home, exhausted, frustrated, and hungry. I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about how good I am to her.

I think Mrs. Muzikdude is aware that I love her. And that's the problem--I shouldn't have to speculate. If I were doing it correctly, I would have no doubt. However, I'm sure it takes more effort than early shopping and dinner reservations.

Muzikdude is an enigma that has been described as a lighthouse in a bog--brilliant but useless. However, he keeps submitting stuff, and we have an extra page to fill, so...