I’ve got a grab bag, again, of observations from Valentine’s Day, as we desire to gain in a desirable way that which we desire, but just don’t get her only a grab bag. Put something desirable in it. Or consider making it a small, or bit bigger, box. The Never Ending Story.
A guy pulls into The Nearest Store With V-Day Stuff Or It Will Be D-Day. Like if you forgot her B-Day. He grabs a card quickly, without reading much of it, just enough to know it will pass muster. Sweats a bit as it’s 1:26 p.m. The card, not the one being purchased, but the credit one to pay for the one being purchased, isn’t working. Whew. Then like the magic of the holiday, it’s approved, not necessarily yet by her, but by the key component of the transaction. He motions early with his hand toward the machine to pull it out and get going, but like the Hand Of Doom the Remove Card button just wouldn’t Busta Move. When it finally did, maybe prompted by something like the traction grid at the intersection that gives you a green when risking death and you creep forward and thus sit on it, he made the card(s) grab instantly, Like One Who Knows, and doesn’t want to be a Heartbreaker … Whew again.
This intersections into something my driver has taken to love, one of his online videos. It showed an out there babe he has been following — only online and just viewing her videos — and her preference for pink and white striped flooring, “like a carpet puked.” Do you like the colors, honey? Honey …This is where the experts, on relationships, driven to explain these things, give the same answer to the question of when she asks, I think she looks better than me. Do you agree? Say as little as possible, young man.
— A last gasp if you still have not met your Valentine’s Day obligations, as this is the season of Red Alarm, or maybe only 3 on the heat scale, chili contests to warm your cackles and her heart and thus your soul, and could that not also melt the snow out in Malibu so it could be diverted into rivers that are further diverted over many acres to put out wildfires? No word on the mudslides. The grand-daddy of such chili contests takes place at Dick’s Bat starting at 1 p.m. Sunday. But based on what the bouncer said there last night, all the size-of-a-nightstand cooking or just maybe reheating spots over three rooms have been taken, so even if you have that killer new recipe to impress her centering on kale-basted-pickle-fried smelt, all that’s left to do is sample the many other entries. But will the roaming judge, as they all do that, still have the old-British-looks-like-white-ropes hairpiece, as in colonial times, as we are going back to that conquest era fast? —
— And there does seem to be some dissatisfaction with The Old Guard of been-in-there-forever circuit court judges, based on the turning out of candidates for last night’s election. And this was only the primary, the first of two. (And there was That School Board Thing also, at both the state and local level, and in a right society that would also attraction attention.)
So the signs have been out and about. Support who and diss who. There were for example, the big and bad almost billboard-size signs for James Johnson, a veteran of the local attorney scene, with those depictions of justice in the form of scales of justice taking up space, glaring at you, staring at you. They didn’t seem to help, as justice is blind and he did not win the contest and be the very top dog, thus one of three. Like in Metallica’s infamous album (back in the day) cover showing a blindfolded statue of liberty. Other signs, for Board of Education, showed things like check marks, pencils and stars. As it was, this primary election only attracted voters in the thousands, not tens of thousands. And with the election only in the books for far less than a day, there was a drapery of a sign posted over a metal fence that pumped up to-be turnout for another such April election, still coming.) —
Ah yes, on the 14th. But what if it was on the 15th? Will she cut you a bit of slack just past midnight? At my Kwik Trip, a cool V-Day special awaits your loved one, via you — as it says, will you be mine — via the killer convenience store. Buy one of a certain few things for her and get something free for her via the 15 visits-as-put-on-your-rewards-card. But then will she no longer be yours, if you try to visit on the 16th? How many are your numbers as per shades of gray, not pink?
You might not make it to Day 17, if you’ve botched this one up. At a local store, its candy special is billed as super sweet, as may be so at first glance. But then there’s these that don’t exactly say love, at least to her, and you don’t want to be a tool: A tool box with (kick) stand and other guy hardware although she can do it too, mongo man’s sweatshirt, guy grub and other gear, and stuff like mop and bucket.
Maybe that’s what he did. An open ended story follows. His frustrated wife put a coffee mug on his face, as it was written, and said to be done. As in a lower form of chuck it onto your cheeks. Just a note: If you’re going to get in his face like that, make sure it’s not decaf as that would not have the same (deathly) sting. Maybe substitute Liquid Death?