The Only Thing Worse...

...than diner artwork is office artwork. For those of us lucky enough to dodge the company advertisements and motivational posters, it seems that we're relegated to whatever was on sale at the last Starving Artists bargain show.

Holy crap is it bad.

Instant Valentine's Day Survival Guide

For a woman, Valentine's Day is about being remembered. It's about someone focusing on you long enough to choose a gift. The irony, however, si that Valentine's Day is so heavily advertised and heavily commercialized that men have to go to almost no effort to remember or choose a gift. Some of us are aware of that, but shush, don't ruin it for yourself.

For men, I suspect Valentine's Day is overwhelming. Too many sitcoms have given you the impression that you have to do something over the top - massage oils, flower petals, a dozen roses and diamond earrings - in order to make a dent in our expectations. The truth of the matter is that that's simply wrong.

Read on, my friends.

The Perfect Quick Gift.
So this might not be the perfect gift, but I certainly wouldn't mind getting it and, if my survey is at all correct, neither would anyone else. It has all of the classic elements of Valentine's Day, but it does it in such a way that makes sure you don't break the bank, your back or her spirits.

Candy: If you're going with chocolate, don't buy a box at the grocery store. Whatever her favorite kind of chocolate is (i'm partial to that from a shop about 45 minutes away) buy it but, to avoid the dangerous weight web, only buy a few. 6 to 10 is a good number that will keep you from looking cheap and her from feeling like she's just blown her entire diet plan. If she doesn't like chocolate, or if she simply has a favorite something else that you're aware of - whatever it may be - go with that. It's thoughtful that you noticed and she's bound to appreciate it. (I love blue rasberry blowpops....it's 5 bucks for a bag of like thirty and the fact that someone thought of it would make me happy.)

Flowers: You don't have to buy a dozen roses to keep yourself off of the sofa. You shouldn't buy a dozen carnations either, though. (Funeral flowers.) Find out what her favorite flower is and, when cost is an issue, buy less of them. You could get away with buying a single stem of her favorite without question, as long as it's accompanied by something else and you remembered what she likes.

Extras If you don't want to go the flower and candy route, or if you're looking at a single flower and a tiny box of chocolates feeling like that just isn't going to do it, there are a ton of other simple things you can do.

Wal-Mart sells inexpensive adorable stuffed animals and no girl can resist something adorable. There are a few tips and tricks to that - of course. First of all, we like things that are both squishy and maleable and have soft fur. Second, if you buy something with an "i wub you" heart pillow sewn into it's paws, it's obvious that you picked it up in the Valentine's Day isle. Odd though this may sound, wandering into the toy department and finding a stuffed bear that is just a cute stuffed bear will go a lot farther - plus, the animals in the toy department are usually cuddlier. (Bonus points if the animal you buy is her favorite animal)

Lingere is a trap, of course and whether or not it's a safe buy really depends on the girl you're with. Some, like me, might find lingere of any variety fun and complimentary. Other's might be OK with a gift certificate to their favorite store so they can go choose some themselves. (It's an OK bet if you're on the fence. She may prefer snuggly PJ's over something in black mesh and, that way, she gets to pick it herself and you don't end up tarred and feathered...unless you're into that.) Still, there are some who would be offended by the fact that you bought them lingere on a day that was supposed to be about getting them something they liked. The moral - unless you're very sure about your girlfriend and your relationship at the moment, stay away from lingere - -it can be a big beast.

Jewelery will probably never upset a girl, but getting the wrong piece can really upset you. My advice, if you're going to buy your girl jewelery, don't make it a surprise. Or, do make it a surprise. There are a lot of pretty cooperative jewelers out there and you might be able to covince one to part with a box. Tie a ribbon around it, stick a balloon to it, leave it on the pillow with a single stem next to it - whatever your presentation may be, write her a little note telling her how you feel about her and that you'd like to go pick out a special piece of jewelery to remind her of that and stick it in the box where the ring/necklace/earrings/whatever would go. Then, take her shopping with you. Obviously, it's important to set a price range before you get there, or set one with the jeweler and arrange to have them show you a few pieces within that range - that way, there's no weird awkwardness about her picking a piece that is twice what you could afford to spend. It's a good way to avoid buying a classic platinum girl an orante gold whatever or getting a woman who doesn't like to wear earrings a necklace. Plus, there's something cool about walking through a jewelery store like that....Kind of a win win, they get the surprise of finding the box and falling in love with the idea, plus the neato high of the shopping experience and they're bound to get something they love :)

Those, of course, are just the staples of the day. You could easily get out from under the V-Day trap for less than $30 bucks if you shop with the suggestions above in mind and, even if you're looking to spend more, you're still gaurenteed not to make any classic mistakes, product of not properly understanding the female psyche :)

Bah Fucking Humbug

...that was really all i had to say...

The Common Cold

Among teenagers, depression is like a bad cold in a pre-school. It starts with one kid bringing it home and, before you know it, thirty-six thirteen year olds are listening to Sunny Day Real Estate and researching the vegan diet from their darkened basements. I don’t know if anyone else is aware of this fact but if my teenage years taught me nothing else, it was that.

So, a few weeks ago when my brother sent a quasi-suicide note to a friend, I immediately pulled back on the reigns of his relationship with Mike’s nephews to stop the spread of life threatening bacteria.

Well, apparently I’m the biggest bitch in the world.

Happy 23rd.

Every year I get just a little bit more superstitious.

Family

I long to belong to a family where a kids worst fear is walking in on their parents having sex.

To Be or...

I wonder if you ever stop wondering?

Girls – and girls in the true definition – start to wonder whether they could cut it as parents at the age of three and I’m wondering if it ever stops.

A few days ago, I had a two hour discussion about abortion, adoption and babies in general. Through the wonders of the internet, five different people weighed in on the topic in separate little anonymous, compartmentalized windows. Through experience, the wisdom and thoughts of others trickled through.

The first time I ever remember saying I didn’t want to have kids, I was about 11. I don’t think I said it to anyone else, at the time, but I knew – then and there – that kids were not for me. Of course, I’m relatively certain now, though the details are fuzzy, that my then 4 year old brother was probably pulling my hair at the time. By 15, I’d developed a list of sixteen criteria that had to be met before my want could ever come into the conversation. By 18, I was beginning – in embarrassing moments - to wonder what I would need to do to meet those eligibility requirements.

Today, it’s a craps shoot. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a cute little baby girl in frilly dresses learning to talk resides. Next to that, an angry 15 year old boy is flunking math and stashing drugs in his closet.

While I have yet to find many things to cosmically thank my parents for – I can at least say that a lesson was learned, on my part, when they brought my brother into the world. In infancy, he annoyed me because he never slept through the night. As a toddler, he drove me crazy with his refusal to actually potty train until he was nearly four. As a kindergartener, no shiny $17 CD was safe from his jam hands and kleptomania. As a third grader, no evening of baby sitting was complete without a literal attempt on my life.

Yes, having a sibling has taught me many things – patience, self-defensive techniques, stealth – but none will ever be as important as the healthy fear of pregnancy I learned from him. At 13, his anger management issues are, mostly, under control, but he’s already fallen down a slope into the D and F range that I could never forgive a child of mine for. His interests go no further than video games and skateboarding and, more infuriating than anything, he excels at neither. Just around the corner is a classic display of the family's alcoholism gene – though, I must say, he made it longer than I did.

Sure, I ask myself questions no other sane individual would. What would I do if my child was stupid? It’s better that I ask it, I’m sure, than being dumbfounded by a “average” result on an IQ test, but it does make me sound cruel – no? What would I do if I ended up with a “sports” kid – something I lack interest, understanding and patience for.

To a degree, by 18 I felt like I had already dealt with most major parenting hurdles. My childhood was a strange one – one that involved more inclusion in family decisions and, most noticeably, the parenting of a younger sibling, than most kids my age. I knew the ins and out’s of a lot of it – the discipline balance and the various and sundry things that sound so easy on paper but never work when you get home.

At 16, I had conviction and I was informed. At 18, I had my first scare.

Okay. It was less a “scare” than a “paranoid episode” in which I did a silly thing, mussed up my pills for a few days, and panicked when, three weeks later, my period was three days later than it should have been. The nurse I called, nearly crying, laughed at me and muttered something about ‘calming down’ but that week from hell opened up a whole new set of fears.

What would I do if it happened by accident?

Normally, it’s something I dissuade with a new brand of pill or by picking up a prescription for Plan B - and then one of my stupid extended-friends has to go get themselves accidentally pregnant and slam the pastel-blue “Baby” bumper car into my passenger door.

I’m a stark believer in “pro-choice politics,” but I never purported to be someone who could go through with it. I’ve always wondered if the 15-year old drug addict who lives in the basement of my cranium would be enough to out-last the 24 hour waiting period. Then, I do know adoption wouldn’t be an option for me. Maybe it’s something that would be easier for a single girl with no relationship but in my quasi-married state, I’m not sure that even I, the Mistress of Gift Wrapped Problems, could compartmentalize nine months of food cravings and swollen ankles away to hand my child over to someone else.

So, I’m left with two options – I could attempt a mission abort and risk losing it completely, or I’m in it for the long haul – 3 days in a 35 degree left over while the boys in the trenches try to catapult me around the moon. (That’s another reason I should never have kids – Mike has me weaving Apollo references in by accident. I can’t imagine what the two of us would do to a child.) It’s the “To be or not to be” of the 20-something female.

Maybe you never stop wondering – because maybe the older you are, the more you wonder.