Tag Archives: hate valentine’s day

Diamonds Are Not Forever … A Tale of Valentine’s Day WHOA!


This cute little story has “parts,” and by parts I mean a beginning, middle and an end. Just like a real story. Rest assured, when the end happens it will indeed be exciting and full of hilarity or pain, likely pain.

Prologue:

Twenty-years-and-some-months ago I married my wife because masturbation had begun to lose its charm and I was tired of eating nothing but bologna sandwiches. I  knew our marriage was off to a good start when both she and I  considered wedding bands an unnecessary expense. We agreed to not start our marriage off with a few thousand dollars in credit-card debt and said, “Fuck you, meaningless gesture!”

That’s how I saw it, at least. The wedding ring means literally nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s a symbol, sure, but let’s be honest, when you boil it down, most symbolic things are pointless. To a newly married couple the wedding bands, in my mind, are pointless.

Thus, in the last two decades we never wore rings EVER because we never got them.

Does anyone see where this is going?

At the urging of my bride’s friend and daughter, I bought Dagmar a diamond-wedding ring for Valentine’s Day.

Shopping for diamonds:

diamonds: its to die for...

Stop taking photos and dig up more diamonds for chicks to wear on their fingers. Diamonds, are, it seems, to die for. (Photo credit: Todd Austin (ReTodd))

As mentioned in the “prologue,” (wow, this is just like “Lord of the Rings,” isn’t it?!) it was her friend who finally talked me into spending my hard-earned money on the exploitation of a fourth-grader somewhere in Africa. I asked her if it was appropriate to inquire of the (blood?) diamond vendor person how many people were wronged in the process of unearthing the worthless chunk of carbon. She was not amused. I suggested that instead of carats, diamonds should be valued in lives – like, a five-life rock would be the equivalent of 2-carats. A 500-life rock, the Hope Diamond. She was still not amused.

I was even less amused when I Googled diamonds to discover their actual, no-shit value is estimated to be, “who the fuck knows,” because DeBeers ruthlessly controls the market or something. (If you Google this you’re forced to deal with words like “fungible,” so I recommend against it.) I also learned its common practice to swap real diamonds with synthetic diamonds and no one ever knows. In my opinion, when you place value on something that’s bullshit it becomes much less important if it’s the natural bullshit or manufactured bullshit.  So again, I think diamonds should be valued by their human cost. Did three orphans die in a pit mine in Africa for the diamond?   That’s actual value.

This argument with the friend led to the following response. “Shut up, they’re pretty okay?”  It’s hard to top that really, so let’s go buy a diamond.

To justify my spending oodles of cash on a worthless (real or fake) bit of carbon, I recalled reading somewhere that the price of goods and services are reflected in what the market is willing to pay for said goods and services. In this case, my willingness to pay is dependent upon how willing I am to make this problem go away?  The “problem,” in this case, is diamond shopping. That shit is BORING.

I’m a guy, so to me bigger is better, just like my penis. I thought we’d go into the store, find the biggest diamond my wallet would allow and BAM, I’m done and guzzling beer 20 minutes later. Not so. Dagmar’s friend explained to me that a  simple band with a sizable rock looked like a “starter” ring. Something a new bride would have, I was told. I was baffled, honestly baffled.

Turns out the ring the girl gets on her wedding day likely isn’t the ring she’s wearing 20 years later. See, they’re like Pokémon cards and the ladies are trading that shit up every day. Should my wife take it in, she gets the full cost of the ring deducted from her new purchase. I asked if the reverse was true: Could she trade down and walk out with some cash? Seems this question has never been raised and I was met with blank stares.

Buying the Diamond:

This part is very short. I cried, a lot. I cried when I swiped my credit card. I cried when I signed the receipt. I cried on the way out of the store. My wife’s friend cried too, but it was from laughing ’cause she’s evil.

I planned on presenting the ring on Valentine’s Day after work because my wife leaves the house at 6:30 a.m. and I’m far too lazy to get my ass out of bed at that ungodly hour. But foiling my plan, at about 2 p.m. my internet-detective wife phones me about a large charge on the credit card. Tap dancing ensued.

Physical violence was threatened, but eventually I talked her into unloading the gun.

“Honey just trust me,” I told her. All would be okay.

Presenting the diamond:

When my wife finally pulled into the driveway that night I admit I was actually fucking nervous. The five-beer bracer I drank was helping, sure, but still I was about to violate a central tenant of our relationship. For 20 years we’ve had no use for wedding rings, and while I thought she was cool with that, deep down inside of me there was always that nagging doubt. Did she secretly want one? Were her daughter and friend correct? Fuck, this is important. If she really wants one, I need to give her the ring in an important way. Crap, I need a beer!

She came inside the house and I did the traditional rose presentation because nothing says I love you like a gift that will be dead in a week.

Then I handed her a card and a gift bag.  She read the card, removed the tissue paper from the bag, extracted the little ring box and — told me I was fucking retarded. I laughed my dick off.

I honestly don’t remember the exact conversation, but it boils down to me demanding reassurances that she doesn’t value child exploitation or meaningless symbolism, and her reassuring me that, yes, even 20-years later, she still does not approve of child exploitation or find meaning in meaningless symbols. She didn’t want or need the ring.

Epilogue:

Assorted cubic zirconias glittering in the sun

Please don’t buy real diamonds. Fake diamonds don’t hurt children and hurting children is what real diamonds are all about! (Photo credit: DanR)

Holy fuck! Returning diamonds is a pain in the ass. I concocted some half-assed funny story I could tell the clerk about proposing to the love of my life last night and being rejected. I plotted to make it more believable by asking where the razor blades were kept and if they had a do-it-yourself last will and testament kit handy. But it was the same lady who sold me the diamond.

“She didn’t want it did she,” she asked.

“Nope, we got a good laugh out of it though,” I replied.

“I had a feeling you were right all along,” she said.

Guest Blogger Thor: Still single this Valentine’s Day? This article is for you!


I’m a woman of a certain age. I’m single. I have no children. I contemplated naming my dog Malbec (“Gin and Tonic” was just a cry for help, besides being a mouthful). I have a weekly date with Downton Abbey.

In short, I’m a demographic stereotype.

1valentines_day_sucks1With that in mind, and Valentine’s Day and a blank sheet of “paper” before of me, you’d be safe in assuming that I’ll  rail against the coming holiday. And of course, if I were to rant, it’d be because V-Day is commercialized, heteronormative, patriarchal, and sappy. My rant would have nothing to do with that fact that on Feb. 14 I’ll be eating a Lean Cuisine of a TV tray while I catch up on celebrity couplings.

Nothing at all.

I love Valentine’s Day. In fact, it inspires me to look back at my (mostly online) dating history in the last few years, which I’ve conveniently distilled into some broad categories.

Uterus Shoppers: I like to know that a man values me. And if it’s because of an organ I have, all the better. I get sick of men asking about my beliefs, and my background, and what I do with my time off. Blah blah blah. Uterus Shoppers cut to the chase. Their emails are succinct. It may be, “I want a woman with a healthy body. Are you ready to start a family?” Or, a little more conversational, “I love children, and I want more. How are you?” I find this charming. I’m in no way creeped out by somebody I don’t know suggesting we are intimate, then participate in one of life’s most profound experiences which later results in a person!

– Bait ‘n Switchers: These fellas, they keep me on my toes! They’re very spontaneous. One minute they’re looking for a serious relationship, and the next, they don’t have room for anything serious in their life. My favorite part, though, is they’re always open to hanging out casually with no expectations. One might expect this devil-may-care attitude from men in their 20s, but when it comes from men in their 40s, it’s downright adorable.

-The Jokesters: I love these guys. From the men who make “sexually knowledgeable” a requirement on eHarmony, to quirky and lovable introduction emails – “Hi there! Here is a good topic, that seems able to get just about everybody to fly off their hinge and take a giant leap away from their good senses: Abortion. Not only is it a fun word to say like ‘guacamole’ or ‘incandescent’, but it’s a topic everybody loves to weigh in on. So, what say you?” – to the man wearing as his main profile picture a T-shirt that reads, “I am the man from Nantucket,” to the guy who picked me up for our first date wearing a Fender T-shirt that read, “Chicks Dig My Lick.” The absolute, hands-down  winner in The Jokester category goes to the guy below, with his witty profile headline. At the end of his profile he challenges women to get in touch with him to find out the punch line. As I’ve hung out with some sick, ribald and juvenile folk in my time, I knew the punch line- it’s about incest.

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Other categories include The Sex Kittens: Yes, men, please post and/or send photos of you lounging about seductively!; the Hannibal Lecters: Any hint you might kill me really gets my blood racing; the Partners In Crime: All guys want this, apparently; and the Anti-Marketers: “I want somebody to sit around and watch TV with.” Of course, the categories are not exhaustive but I keep on keepin’ on because why settle down when I get all this?

Did you enjoy this?  You might also enjoy last years Valentine’s Day rant by another guest blogger: Why Valentine’s Day Sucks. Written by a person who hates Valentine’s Day.

Why Valentine’s Day sucks, Written by a person that hates Valentine’s day.


Note: This update is by a person who REALLY, REALLY hates Valentine’s day. I’m rather blah about Valentine’s Day. On one hand there is yummy candy, on the other hand it’s retarded (not as badly as Xmas but still). She hates it so much that she asked that I not use her real name, for fear of angering the Valentine’s day lobby or something. This is the first of what I hope (cause I don’t have to do very much work) are a few guest writers.

Without further ado here’s Why Valentine’s Day sucks …

She is correct ... Valentine's Day does suck.

Here we go again… You know, one of the many holidays throughout the year created, I’m convinced, to remind me that I’m still single. Well, not single… DIVORCED! Which at 26, is 10 times worse. I will never be single again. I now have a nice little label that follows me around everywhere I go, laughing in my face, occasionally reminding me of my epic failure of a marriage and insisting that I will never, ever, be happy again. So, enter Valentine’s Day, a holiday that even when I was married, I hated…

The Golden Rule

I really like the concept of treating others as you would like to be treated. So much so, that I exercised this rule in my marriage, particularly on Valentine’s Day. My then husband was not much of a romantic, so to show him how I would like to be treated on Valentine’s Day, I sent flowers and balloons to HIM… at work. That may have been my first mistake, as I have been told that I have a tendency to emasculate men, but that’s another story.

So, I figure, that if I did this, he would naturally come to the conclusion that he should do something similar for me on special occasions, something very public. I am a huge fan of public displays of affection, and not just the kind that involve boinking in a bar bathroom. I know that some people believe that special moments should be private, and to those people I say, if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around, did it make a sound? I am incredibly insecure, and I want, on special occasions like Valentine’s Day, for everyone I know to see that there is somebody that thinks I’m awesome and loves me and wants me to have like 20 of his babies… I want to proudly display two dozen roses and a big stupid teddy bear on my desk at work for one fucking day… So sue me.

Anyway, that whole treat him how I would like to be treated really worked out for me… That’s why I’m divorced, not single. However, being divorced on Valentine’s Day isn’t any better…

Red Suede Shoes

Nothing says I love you like shaving a heart into your hairy back!

So, my second Valentine’s Day as a divorcee is the reason why I loathe first dates. In my opinion, asking someone out for a first date and scheduling said date ON Valentine’s Day is pretty fucking ballsy. I tried to remain optimistic, even though the invitation came via Facebook… from a bald lawyer, who happened to be a captain in the Army. I had recently been on several first dates, with several different Captains, and came to the conclusion that in order to reach that rank, you needed to 1) Cry frequently in public, 2) Be balding at the age of 30, and 3) Have a really, really, really small penis. Really. So, I was impressing myself with my optimism. He was using words like “epic” and “unforgettable” when describing our evening. So what does a girl do? Honey, I bought the sexiest little black dress and some new knee high boots. I was determined to make THIS Valentine’s Day my bitch…

And after walking around in the freezing cold, in heels and said little black dress, for 45 minutes because a certain someone failed to make a reservation, my optimism slowly deteriorated. Finally finding a hole in the wall, that I was clearly over dressed for and being asked, by my lawyer date, about how my divorce paperwork was handled over a sub-par dinner, I succumbed to the fact that this was probably NOT my year for a memorable Valentine’s Day.

So, at the end of the evening, when my date said he had almost had enough wine to get up the courage to kiss me… You will completely understand why I told him he should have some water.

So, this year, I officially give up the idea of romance on this Hallmark holiday and instead will from now on give two, very nicely manicured, middle fingers to St. Valentine. (Well, at least until I meet an amazing man that will treat me how I want to be treated… Then I’m totally hopping back on the bandwagon.