Remember those homemade valentines?
By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF
Why are women blessed with Post Menstrual Syndrome – socially acceptable depression – anytime the sink stops up; or the world’s will rebels against theirs?
“Yeah,” says my good friend, Herb. “Why shouldn’t a man have the same privileges as a woman? Why can’t we be cranky and irritable, and have a nice cry sometimes? Aren’t we human, too? Won’t a husband bruise if a wife kicks him; won’t he starve if she doesn’t feed him; won’t he freeze if she pulls all the blankets over to HER side of the bed?
Anyway, can’t he have a splitting headache and go upstairs when his in-laws come over?
Herb’s still upset over Christmas. His mother-in-law, the Duchess of Discounts, gave him a grandfather clock. “It’s a factory reject,” says Herb. “It always adds a couple of extra bongs after midnight just to make sure you’re up. It chimes off key. On the half hour it plays The Star Spangled Banner loudly. Why didn’t she just buy the kids a drum set?” wails Herb.
Herb spends January and February taking back such gifts and working on his tax strategy – which is basically to pay less taxes than the homeless and avoid a “Federal Correctional Institution”. He means jail. “And jails have lousy libraries,” adds Herb. “How many crooks wanna read “Macbeth?”
“Why do men gotta be so darned strong?” he moans. He says this a lot in February when there isn’t a vacation or holiday in sight except for Valentine’s Day, which he hates since he never gets a present. He calls it a heathen holiday. It’s for pagans and wives,” he claims.
“It’s like Mother’s Day, if you’re NOT a mother; or Thanksgiving, if you’re a turkey.”
“Lemme make sure I understand, Herb. Kinda like the 4th of July, if you’re a watermelon or a hot dog?”
“You got THAT right,” says Herbie.
Herb swears the last time he got a present on Valentine’s Day was in the third grade when Charlotte Green drew his name in the class lottery and sent him a discount coupon for a five-pound box of chocolates instead of a Valentine; and a mailing sticker with her address.
I thought of Miss Crump – my 6th grade teacher – who democratized our public school classroom. She decreed that all Valentines had to be homemade. Some of the rich kids – the year before – had bought 5-cent Valentines instead of 2-centers. Goes to show you how rich are different from the rest of us. They’re smarter. Those rich kids knew the way to a gal’s heart was through her pocketbook. My 6th grade teacher, however, wanted a level playing field for our adolescent romances. “Make your own,” said Miss Crump, the democrat. So, everybody went home, dug out a scissors and glue pot, and asked Mamato make a stack of Valentines. That way, you see, the kids with the most creative mamas, not the richest papas, got the prettiest girls.
Even the young know corruption.
I have another Valentine’s Day memory – it’s 15 years later and I’m no longer young and innocent. I’m married and I’ve learned the lesson those smart, rich kids knew years before me; i.e., the female of the species goes for baubles. So, with presents to my bride, I celebrate her birthday, her aunt’s birthday, her aunt’s cousin’s birthday, and even the anniversary of my sister-in-law’s divorce from her second husband.
But as I come down the stairs on a Saturday morning in February, something’s wrong. Breakfast seems to be a place mat, a knife and fork, and a shiny plate – no egg, no toast. The wife’s climate is Antarctic and there’s a frost on her short replies to my questions about her health. This is a major storm.
Let’s see, I rewarded her on our early February anniversary. And her birthday is in November. February isn’t even the right month for the aunt’s birthday. Then I remember. It’s that darned heathen holiday that Herb hates with a passion. So, I run to the den where there’s scissors and glue and some old magazines full of suitable pictures andmake the fanciest homemade Valentine in town. Miss Crump would have been proud of me. It wasn’t even sticky and the verse was as mushy as chocolate pudding.
If I’d been one of those rich kids, I’d have slipped in a 20 dollar bill. But later the wife says it’s OK. She loved the verse. And if she needs a 20, she’ll take it outta my wallet.