What love really does

Did you do it?

Did you do what you're supposed to do and buybuybuy the requisite card/jewelry/flowers/chocolate that retailers say you needneedneed for a successful St. Valentine’s Day?

All those sappy, crappy cards. All those fuzzy, manic stuffed animals piled up on end-caps. All that pink and red and fuchsia.

Makes me wanna puke.
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“I don’t like him. He’s kind of a jerk. But he’s got a YACHT!”

That was the gist of a conversation overheard in the ladies’ room at the Conch Republic restaurant in Key West earlier this month.

After that particular woman and her friends left, my friend Wanda repeated sarcastically, “But he’s got a YACHT.”

“Yep. Sad.” I replied.

Neither of us realized that another woman from the sex-for-yachts support group was still, as they say, on the pot. All of a sudden, we hear a snippy little voice from the other side: “Life is all about trade-offs, girls!”

Yikes.
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Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. There ya go. Judging again. What kind of trade-offs have YOU made?

Everyone, in every relationship makes trade-offs.

There are the big ugly I’ll screw you on your yacht type trade-offs.

And there are the small, I’ll put up with your farting if you’ll put up with my $100 trips to Target type trade-offs.

The difference is that in the good trade-offs, both parties get screwed. In a good way.
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A single friend of mine is big into on-line dating.

He’s pretty much an expert on working these sites designed to quickly and easily find the one person who could be the Love of Your Life or the Fuck of the Night, depending on what you’re into that week.

How do they do that, Hedy?

You plug in your age, sex, location and any quirky requirements (“Must have a 10 inch cock and play banjo”) and voilà, your Blessed-by-Jesus Soul Mate magically appears.

Well, not exactly.

It’s disturbing, but apparently you also can provide information about your annual income.

So my smart friend – who’d been on the site for a while and was getting some decent hits – decided to conduct a little experiment.

He went into his profile and doubled his salary.

What happened, Hedy? Did he get the girl? Did he find the love of his life?

No, but his hit ratio quadrupled.

Now that’s depressing.
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Who writes these greeting cards, anyway?

From what I’ve seen, it’s someone who has a rather tenuous grasp on what relationships are really all about.

I spent 15 minutes at Walgreens and then another 20 at Target trying to find a card that wouldn’t plunge both of us into a diabetic coma, leaving Gromit homeless and wandering the streets looking for someone kind enough to give him his standard night-night drink of water from a glass.
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I guess I hate Valentine’s Day because it’s all about what everyone thinks love is supposed to do and not at all about what love really does.

Love sits on the bed, farts, and then tells you it’s like Magic Fingers.
Love drives you to the train station when it’s crappy outside.
Love patiently listens while you explain exactly how to drive you to the train station when it’s crappy outside.
Love makes dinner while you sit on the couch and work on your blog.
Love tells you your ass is making those jeans look big.
Love lets the dog out at 5:30 a.m. so you can sleep.
Love tells you you're skinny and cute when you're bloated and hormonal.
Love knows you don't care about silly Hallmark holidays.
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I am listening to: KT Tunstall - Universe and U
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Love-a-licious