In this rubber band, I have a stack of Valentines. I've poured my soul ... my true soul ... into them. I hope the selected recipients appreciate them.
This year, I went old school ... old school for a seven-year-old kid, that is. I was at the "card shop" (you know your name) and couldn't believe the prices on single Valentines. Or how mushy and smoochey they all were. I wanted fun. I wanted cards with Be-Dazzled jewels and glitter and attached balloon animals. I wanted something that spoke to me.
So I ditched the fancy place and went to my neighborhood SSSSSUUUUUPPPPEEEERRRRRSSSSSTTTTOOOORRRRREEEEEE (that's "Superstore" with an echoing sound effect) and purchased a dozen boxes of the strangest cards I could find. X-MEN ... Spongebob ... fuzzy Trolls with moving eyes ... unicorns ... HotWheels ... anything that meant fun. I also rounded up Silly Putty and Slinkies. Little green Army guys. Rubber snakes. Silly String. Water guns. And playing cards in the shape of those chalky hard candy hearts with the sayings on them.
Not only was I mailing cards, but I was preparing small "care packages" for a few of my special relatives and friends. I was going all out.
I'm back home from the post office. On my entry table are the nine special "treats" I've assembled (they'll be delivered over the next few days). I sit back in my favorite chair and think, "damn ... I did good. I found things I actually like to give for Valentine's Day ... a holiday that is usually only embraced by romantically-elevated men and hormonally-heightened women." And then it hit me ... I sent lame cards and cheap little toys to people who make decisions that affect me, make more money than I do, and who haven't had a fond thought of childhood in 15 years.
POINT OF RANT: Being cute often means being screwed ... Happy Valentine's Day!