Caterwauling

The furry little fucker from Punxsutawney says winter ain’t gonna be over for a long time to come.

You can tell I’m a native Pennsylvanian, as I can actually SPELL Punxsutawney!!!

I got to thinking about some of the sentiments behind that entry from Jan. 31, as well as some of the discussion it sparked both inside the comment box and out in the real world.

I don’t want to convey that I insist on any man in my life giving me flowers. On the contrary, I don’t exactly love flowers. I’ve been to more funerals than China has rice, and flowers usually remind me of death. When my grandmother died, we had scads of roses, stargazers and baby’s breath. And while I love each of them, it hurts me to smell them. Besides, if a man would send me a huge bouquet of flowers — especially on a random day — I would think he was up to no good and was trying to divert me from the really sleazy thing he doesn’t want me to discover that he’s done. 😉

And what flowers I do love, in addition to the above, well, are not exactly available at your local Safeway or Shopper’s Club. I love heathers, lilacs and hydrangeas. Yes, I have to be exotic. lol. You have to put some thought into it when you want to impress me. 🙂

But that brings me to a point I wanted to clarify for my loving readers, something at which Tiff intimated. It’s not that I — or many women, for that matter — necessarily desire flowers or chocolates or whatever the hell it is that is “traditional” for Valentine’s Day or other holidays. We appreciate gestures that are as unique as the person making the gestures. As I cannot come up with any loving, romantic gifts that I’ve received in recent years, I will say one thing that knocks my frog socks off — greeting cards.

Yes, gentlemen, you don’t have to spend a shitload of money to make a girl swoon. Just prove to me that you walked into your friendly neighborhood Hallmark store, read a few cards with me in mind, and purchased one that you thought I would love. Yes, get that last part — if you put some thought into it, I will take note of that.

Flowers are a good stand-by because you can have them delivered to the office. Granted, I try to keep my personal life out of that godforsaken hellhole, but Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year when people are cruising up and down the halls with the bouquets they receive, seeing who else has someone who cares about them enough to send a little special something. My mom used to send me these adorable arrangements — like one year, the pot had M&M characters and had little bags of M&Ms (plain, my favorite) mixed among the roses and carnations. It was adorable. And she didn’t sign the card other than “Love, Your Secret Admirer.”

I knew and loved her trick — because people in the office are too goddamned nebby for words, and they die to see what you got and what the card says. And when people would ask questions — and you can bet your sweet ass they were lined up and waiting — I would say, of course I knew who sent it, and no, I would not divulge any details to them. Hee hee. Men don’t really get this concept, but this annual ritual has forced many of us to order our own damn flowers, just to save us the aggravation of seeing Slutty Sally and Bland Bertha getting arrangements on this special day, while we rot at our unadorned desks.

Granted, it’s a bitch to take your lovely arrangement home on the metro, bus or even in your car, and the flowers never look quite the same when you get home, but still — the eight hours of glory in which you bask as they stare at you from next to your computer is just an unparalleled thrill sometimes.

Besides, for those of us who casually talk to a few guys at a time (don’t worry, I’m good and not sleeping with anybody right now, but I do have a few prospects!), sending flowers — especially on this most romantic of days coming up — is a damn good way to ensure that I’m thinking fondly about the one who cared enough to think of me in advance of that day.

And remember, March 20 is “Steak & BJ Day.” Whoever does right by me on Valentine’s Day gets his own special holiday, celebrating him and only him, in one short month.

Now, who needs my work address? lol.

I know it’s only 5:30 p.m. on Sunday, but the back-to-school butterflies are waging war in my stomach right now … dreading another five solid days of bullshit ahead.

I went in for awhile today, to work on my resume to submit to H.R. for the position I am already doing in addition to the one I took when I moved down here. My cover letter was on the cocky side, noting that I have been doing the two jobs just fine, so why shouldn’t I be easily and quickly promoted? Although, they are now on a witchhunt, per Shan, about dress code, and I know I have my moments of conflict with it. Thus, they’ve already emotionally assaulted me on a few issues already, and I know I fall victim to some of their new pet peeves, so I expect they will be dredging up any minute reason to prevent me from having the job.

Speaking of pet peeves, I HATE IT when people cough without covering their mouths. Hate it!

Case in point: I breezed into my nail parlor (read: Vietnamese sweatshop) today to get my lovely French manicure done at 3 p.m., and the girl who did my nails snarfed and arked in my face for awhile, until she finally put on her little surgeon’s mask. Then she continued to snarf and ack through the thin paper. Naturally, she was busy with my nails, so even if she covered her mouth, she was still touching me with her germ-infested little hands.

And it’s so weird being there. It’s silent, save for the employees communicating in their language. Once in awhile, a worker will speak to a client, but in my case, I never realized it and had to ask three or four times for her to repeat herself. She was very sweet, though, and much gentler than the gal who did my nails the last time I was there. I didn’t bleed or cry once today, so I got her name and figured that a little bit of cold germs are decidedly better than getting HIV in my open wounds from their nail files.

Nails look really good. Not as good as Dina used to do them, though. I miss my early-Saturday appointments at Cardamone’s in Pittsburgh with her. She rocked. We chattered the whole time I was there, and as it was a big family-owned place, the owner was there b.s.ing with us, and all the manicurists, hairstylists and customers were all in each other’s conversations. It was like a big Italian-family dinner, every time I had an appointment there. Here, in the Sweatshop, you can hear a pin drop, for the most part. I was wondering if the workers, when they did speak, were talking about what assholes they thought their clients were. lol. At any rate, Dina really did do a better job, but she was waaaayyy more expensive, so I guess it’s a trade-off.

I like having pretty nails, so that when I drive by the Veggie Patch, I can flip it off with a beautifully manicured finger. Heh.

Shan and I were there at the same time, but we only spent a few moments together when we were both done. We did hang out yesterday, though. Treated ourselves to a disgustingly sinful dinner at Lone Star — Amarillo cheese fries, filet mignons, etc. etc. Stuffed ourselves silly, but it was so very worth it. Highlight of the evening: we were walking to our cars, and this short little asshole in an ancient car came pealing around the bend at 60 mph, almost running straight into us. I started to move aside and attempted to pull Shan with me, but she wasn’t having it and continued walking exactly where she was. Then the little shit pulled into a spot just behind us.

As if on cue, we both — at the top of our lungs and completely in unison — yelled, “Dumbass!” Then we realized we’d heard an echo or something, and we dissolved into giggles and high-fived each other. Just goes to show how alike we think. It was hysterical. And the little runt got out of his car — he was all of 5’2″ — and I shouted back to him, “Perhaps if you could see above the steering wheel, you could drive better!” I was also laughing at him because he had his seat reclined all the way back, and I know I hooted about that, too. Hee hee. The dumbass didn’t bother with us, though — he would’ve gotten his ass kicked, for sure.