Shameless Self-Promotion

I try not to ask for much (apart from attention, cash, understandingand fame -- if you even count those), but I would really appreciate asmall favor from the readers of this blog. (I'm sorry if this makes mea terrible person):

Please vote for me (story #1) at My Scoop's Valentine's Day Contest.It'd be the best V Day gift I've gotten since a single rose from theboy who gave everyone roses as part of my high school's Key Clubfundraiser. 

Single, Alone and Crying in Banana Joe's

I've spent my fair share of Valentine's Days single. (Most of them for that matter.) Usually, I would watch bad movies (my college roommates laughed when I came home with my own copy of Love Stinks, starring the forever-squinty French Stewart, but I also caught each and every one of them watching it before the semester was through), talk about how much men sucked and I loved being single, drink copious amounts of wine with my girlfriends, go out dancing and come back home for a good cry about whether or not I was doomed to be alone and where all the good ones were hiding.

As sad as you think that might sound (this routine probably encompassed far more nights out than just Valentine's Day in my early 20's), no "I'm single pity party" compares to 2004.

Then, my love life was off-kilter at best. I was in the throes of a romance that was largely in my own head. There were distance, unrequited feelings and far too many late night phone calls. Whatever I had made that mess into, because of the distance I would obviously be having a very single Valentine's Day in Birmingham. So, another girlfriend and I gathered our friends together for a good, old-fashioned Saturday night on the town.

Our logic: Every restaurant in town will be full of couples canoodling and staring adoringly into one another's eyes. How could we avoid this? Why, by doing shots and heading to the cheesiest dance club in town, of course.

(For those of you not from this area, that club was Banana Joe's. To set the mood for you, I was conservatively dressed in a halter top, jeans and heels. Also, what I remember most from dancing is the moment that "Pussy Control" came blaring through the speakers while dudes dressed in Hawaiian shirts sprayed fire extinguishers into the crowd. It was pure class.)

We drank; we danced. Then, I took a break from the mob to sit on the stage after a few songs, and a male friend of mine decided to tell me some info about the ill-fated crush.

As some advice to any teenage boy or male that might be reading this blog: If you know something you're not sure will go over well with a female friend in your life, Valentine's Day is not the time to share it.

In the words of Adam Sandler from The Wedding Singer when his fiance shows up to explain why she left him at the altar: "Gee, you know that information really would've been more useful to me YESTERDAY." Only in this instance, if you can't get the info in a week (calendar, not business) before Valentine's Day -- and it doesn't involve death or dismemberment -- replace "YESTERDAY" with "TOMORROW" in the above sentiment.

So, male friend shares info about crush. I think it involved another girl, but I'm not sure, and it's not like the crush owed me anything. But, at that time and alcohol-fueled, I was heartbroken. I ran to the ladies' room with my best girlfriend trailing behind.

There, we found most of the girls standing in line to dry their hair under the automated blowers (sweat from dancing), re-apply lipstick or talk about who was the cutest boy in the club. (Needless to say, my friend and I had about five years on most everyone in there, despite being only 24.)

I barreled through to a spot by the sink and let the tears flow.

Within seconds, a Hooters waitress found me, put her arm around me and pulled me toward the high top where the bathroom attendant sat. (Didn't I tell you this place was classy? Of course a restroom attendant complete with "If you like Ralph Lauren Romance ..." perfume belongs in a Banana Joe's.)

"Where is he and what did he do?" the petite waitress said.

"He's not out there," I said. "Well, he is out there, but he's not the he that ..."

"Uh-huh," she said. "Tell me about it."

"I just don't know why this happens to me? Why is it always like this? What is wrong with men?"

"Cocks," the bathroom attendant chimed in, shaking her head. "They're all cocks."

"I'm a good girl," I said. "I'd make a good girlfriend."

"I know honey," the waitress said. "You're beautiful."

"Cocks."

I nodded in the bathroom attendant's direction. "Why me? Why today?"

"Are you sure you don't want to point me in his direction?"

"Cocks."

"It's not his fault," I said.

"I'm willing to teach him a lesson. No one should treat you like this."

"Cocks."

"No, no, it's going to be OK. I know I can get through this."

"You can do so much better than this baby."

"I can," I said. "I know you're right."

"Cocks."

"You ready to get back out there?"

"I am," I said. I wiped my tears on some toilet paper from the girlfriend who had followed me into the restroom. (A girlfriend who didn't know whether to laugh or cry during this exchange and who also can validate every detail of this meeting.) "I can do this. Thank you." I stood and looked back towards my two new boosters.

"Go get 'em," the waitress said.

"Cocks," added the bathroom attendant.

With their confidence and commiseration, my friend and I walked back out into the crowd. I held my head high for a few more songs, and then we headed home. But, at least I didn't cry again.

I vowed to never spend another Valentine's Day in a club bathroom crying, and so far, knock on wood, I've been able to keep that vow to myself. I wish you all the same. 

* I love all of my male and female friends (even those I've only encountered briefly, in, say, a Banana Joe's bathroom), and in case it wasn't incredibly obvious, this story is meant to mock me, not the other players.

The Week of Love

In honor of the time of year, I thought I'd share some Valentine's Day-related stories this week. However, as with all incidents filtered through me, there will be some caveats.

For the coupled up amongst you, I wouldn't expect too much insight into the world of over-the-top romance. I cringe during proposals on The Today Show or Dick Clark's Rockin' New Year's Eve because those moments seems private to me. And the idea of people watching and judging what should be an intimate moment? No, thank you. I don't want to attend your annual physical exam either. I like my sappy moments fictional and created by one Nicholas Sparks. Plus, these days, there's not much I appreciate more than finding out that the dirty dishes have already been put away or that the trip to the recycling center has already been accomplished.

As for the singles, please rest assured I have some tales that will make you only too happy to spend February 14 alone or celebrating with friends or candy, whichever floats your boat.  

To go in what I consider to be reverse order, I thought I'd start with the story of my best Valentine's Day. (Best V-Day before the Significant Other showed up, of course. If confused, please reference previous paragraph about some privacy and intimate moments.)

The year was 1993, I was 13 years old and the Valentine's Day dance approached. I had been to exactly one dance before, but that dance hadn't really counted. (I.E., it wasn't school-sponsored. A friend's mom hosted a dance-themed party for our class in the clubhouse of her condominium complex the year before. While we were all very excited about the concept, no one ended up dancing, and because it was more of a "party" than a "dance," talking our moms into special shopping trips had been a bit of a challenge.)

The Valentine's Dance, on the other hand, was a time-honored tradition for seventh and eighth graders and came complete with shiny cardboard heart decorations, a DJ and teachers-turned-chaperones.

Naturally, I turned all of my attention to the outfit, and after bugging my mother incessantly, we set out for the mall one night after she got home from work. To share with you why this was an even bigger deal for me, let me reiterate what a late bloomer I was. I was the next-to-last girl in my grade to get her training bra, and sixth/seventh grade was just around the time I could finally start wearing "adult" clothes. (Oh, to have the problem of not being able to fit into a size 0 because it was too big, again.) I was stuck shopping in the kid's department for years, and the idea of showing up to a school dance -- of all places -- in an outfit you could also buy in a child's size 6 was too much for me to bear.

In those days, my mother and I always went to Express first because their clothes had a better chance of fitting me. Their outfits came in the now-I-hate-seeing-the-doll-clothes-next-to-my-curvy-body-shapers-built-in-nearly-maternity-style-tops 0/1 size.

Before we even crossed the threshold, I saw it. Sheath dress. Falling just above the knee. Scoop-necked. Black stripes alternating with neon stripes of pink, orange and yellow. (This was 1993.) It was the most beautiful, sexiest (by seventh grade terms) dress I had ever seen. I instantly saw my crush swooning the moment I walked in wearing it.

"Do you think it will fit?"

"We won't know until you try it on," my mother said, and I rushed to the dressing room.

In terms of fit, the dress came pretty close as I remember it. I think my mother and grandmother had to make a few alterations -- most likely taking in the chest -- but all in all, I was in heaven.

The night of the dance, I styled my permed and heavy-banged hair to perfection, zipped up my new and so-bright dress up and topped it all off with a velvet choker that had a single gold heart charm. (For Valentine's Day, of course.) 

Arriving at the dance, I was nervous. But spurred on by my stellar look, I had more confidence than usual. And rather than finding boys on one side of the room and girls on the other, this dance actually had members of the opposite sex talking to one another. When the music started, members of the opposite sex even danced with one another.

Everyone was being very friendly. (When there's only 24 people in your grade, you kind of have to be that way. Private school. Sigh.) As the evening wore on I danced with my crush many times (!!! as my inner-adolescent would say) and a bunch of other boys, too.

But, it was the end of the night that was the most special of all.

"Last song," the DJ called.

It was all coming to an end, and everyone knows the last song at the dance is by far the most important song. (I mean, a last song is all about eternal and ever-lasting love. Marriages and babies are built on who you choose for that last dance. You might as well sign up for adjacent burial plots when you pick that partner for your last dance. Am I right people?)

"What to do?" I thought. People were already pairing off. I turned towards my crush to see what he was doing, and he looked right back at me. He then gave me the shrugged shoulders that mean "Why not? You wanna dance?" in seventh grade boy speak.

I shrugged back. ("Sure," in seventh grade girl speak.)

We moved closer together. He put his arms around my waist, I put my arms around his neck, and with enough room between us for a small person, we danced the last dance of Valentine's Day 1993 to "You're the Inspiration."

I fell asleep all aflutter, dreaming of rock ballads and would could happen at school that Monday. 

I'd like to thank Express and Chicago for making such an incredible evening possible.