Be My Bad Valentine...

I’ve always considered V-Day to be somewhat of a commercially contrived holiday designed to make singletons feel like they’re inadequate and missing out on something that the rest of the cosmos seems to be revelling in, yet at the same time make couples feel they’re under-achieving in their relationships and failing to provide the ultimate romantic experience on this one-off, rather un-impressive cold, grey February day. 

My attitude towards this day has always been that if you have someone who treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) this love does not have to be proved on a one-off, Hallmark-poster child holiday. I mean, I’ve always done the obligatory card, etc. and expected only that in return, and for the most part I have not been disappointed. However, despite my low expectations and indifference towards the day I’ve had some fairly dire V-Day experiences. There have been some spectacular, epic fails that shocked even apathetic-little-‘ol-me into an un-invited awareness of how cruel this holiday can be at times. There are three that stand out in my memory…

The first one

I was only 17 and had fallen for a boy I’d met on a cruise to New York. He was my first big emotional-something. I can’t really say love because in retrospect it was more like my first awakening to feelings

towards the opposite sex. Having attended an all-girls school all my life I’d had little interaction with boys, and as such when I did, I clearly failed the necessary life skills to cope with the situation and would reduce to an incoherent, blubbering, giggly mess. So, Mr Cruise-Boy was my first lovey-emotional-thingy and man, I was smitten. But, he lived in Washington DC, and I lived in the ever-so-exciting backwater-middle-of-

nowhere-north-of-England. Our first (and only) V-Day came five months later. I was a little surprised to receive absolutely nothing. This was, after all, my very first V-Day with a partner and I guess I’d been hoping for something (this was clearly long before my present day cynicism kicked in). But, nothing came, not even a phone call (pre-email days). I was fairly gutted, but opted not to say anything to him about it, yet was kicking myself for being such a sap as to send him a card. As he was five years older than me I thought that perhaps the holiday was more of a kids thing, and I’d shown my immaturity by partaking in the V-Day rituals. Again, having no prior experience with the opposite sex, or V-Day ceremonies I was on a whole new learning curve here.

One month later he came to visit me in England. Well, he was actually running an errand for his father in the UK, and coupled it up with coming to see me for a few days. They were magical, wonderful days showing him all over my little Kingdom, and I was so sad when they came to an end. On the drive to the airport I decided to pluck up the courage and ask him about the V-Day card…

Me: “Did you get the card I sent you for Valentine’s?’

Mr Cruise-Boy: “Yes, I did. Thank you for that.’

Me: ‘…..okay….I think yours might have got lost in the post.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘I doubt it. I didn’t send one.’ Now, I’m a little startled as this wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

Me: ‘Oh. Right. Ok.’ Ensue awkward silence…not quite sure where to go from here. Fortunately, he seems to pick up on my disheartenment. 

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You seem disappointed. I’m sorry if you are, it’s just that I couldn’t afford it.’ Eh? What?

Me: ‘…You couldn’t afford a card and postage??’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No.’

Me: ‘It couldn’t cost more than $5, and you couldn’t afford that?’ Absolutely incredulous now because clearly this isn’t a kiddies-only holiday, and clearly he should have sent me a card.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No. I get a monthly allowance from my father whilst I’m at university, and I had no more of that allowance left to be able to send a card.”

Me: ‘Oh….” Not quite sure what to make of this…

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘If it’s any conciliation I did feel guilty for not sending one…” smug smile starts to spread across my lips… ‘but I’d spent all my money on Lucia, and had none left over for you…’ smug smile instantly vanquished from lips.

Me: ‘Who’s Lucia?’ Calm, calm, keep calm, it’s probably his mother.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘My girlfriend.’ I’m sorry…your WHAT?? ‘I bought her a card, flowers, balloons, and took her out to dinner. After I’d paid for all that there was no money left over in my allowance to send you a card.’ Incensed, eyes darting from side-to-side, wildly considering dumping him in the middle of the Moors to fend from himself, foot getting heavier on the pedal, heart racing, blood boiling….

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You look angry….oh, you thought we were exclusive…”

Me: ‘Thought had crossed my mind.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘But, I never told you I was going to be exclusive with you.’ He laughs condescendingly, ‘how silly would that be considering we’re divided by an ocean!’

Me: ‘You’re right. You never said we were exclusive, but you also never said you were dating anyone. And given all the letters you’ve sent me pouring out your un-divided love and adoration, well, forgive me for assuming exclusivity.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You shouldn’t be upset.’ Shouldn’t I?! ‘It’s you I love, but you’re not around, so Lucia keeps me…occupied in your absence.’

Sometime later, arriving at the airport I kissed him on the cheek, gave him a hug, got back in my car, rolled down the window, ‘….just one thing before you go. Lucia can keep you…occupied for as long as you like’ He smiles, ‘yes, but you shan’t be occupying anymore of my life going forward’ The smile from his face vanishes as it emerges smugly on mine. I put my foot down and drove out of his life.

The Second One

The years passed after The First One, and each time I was dating around Valentine’s I knew not to expect much, and my expectations were met readily. Requisite cards and small shows of affection summed up the V-Day experiences, and I was content with that. Then, a decade after The First One came The Second One. From day one it was a tumultuous relationship, which shouldn’t have got out of the starting gate, let alone past any hurdles. We actually met at Christmas, and got together in the late January. For our first V-Day he was overseas in Europe on business. As we’d only been dating for 10 minutes I wasn’t fussed about the lack of arbitrary offerings.

Over the course of that year it became quite obvious to me that he wasn’t over his ex, and I often felt I paled in comparison to the memory of her, and paid for a lot of her sins. No matter how much he tried to convince me that I was being dillusional I just couldn’t allay this nagging feeling that he was only biding his time with me. Then came V-Day. He’d been promising me romantic dinners, and strolls by the river, and for the first time ever I got my hopes up. However, on the actual day I had to work late, so instead of going out for dinner he said he’d cook me dinner at his house. I was so excited at work I could barely contain my excitement. As soon as the clock struck the hour I was out of there like a shot, straight into my car, and on my way to his house. I tried calling several times on the way, but his phone just went to voicemail. When I reached the house it was in complete darkness. Ha ha! A surprise, I thought! However, upon entering, there were no warm welcomes, or shouts or ‘Surprise!’ Instead, I was met with darkness and silence. I went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There were vodka and tequila bottles strewn across the kitchen, a few up-ended cocktail glasses, and absolutely no food. I made my way around the house, turning on lights as I went, looking for Mr Requited-Love. Eventually, I found him passed out in the bedroom in a blind drunk stupor. I tried to wake him up, but he was having none of it.

Heavy hearted at the realisation of yet another dismal V-Day I trudged downstairs to pour myself a cocktail. On entering the kitchen I saw a single tulip sitting in a glass of water. I’d missed this before amid all the alcohol bottles. I went over to it and saw that it had a very small card attached to it, the type of card you’d normally get with a bouquet of flowers. I opened it up and it said, ‘To Susan. Happy Valentine’s day’ Oh, Ok, so he hadn’t totally blown me off. And, it might not be an actual bouquet of flowers, or a proper card,

but it was something, and it was definitely better than nothing. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disheartened at the lack of sumptuous dinner I’d been promised, and his preference to get annihilated instead of spending the evening with me. Hey-ho. Such is the reality of V-Day, and this is exactly what happens when you come to expect something.

I set to cleaning up the kitchen of all the alcohol debris. As I was throwing the bottles into the bin I noticed a crumpled up piece of paper lying on top of the trash. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this, and nothing special either, but something, somewhere deep inside told me to look at this piece of paper….

“Did you get the bouquet of flowers I sent to you? I hope you like them. I know tulips are your favourite. I didn’t include the little card that went with the flowers because I was afraid of what your boyfriend would say if he knew they were from me. This is silly. I can’t stop thinking about you. We should be together on this day, not with other people. Please come back to me. I love you with all my heart. Susan means nothing to me and I would drop her in a heartbeat if you said you wanted to give us another go….”

The Third One

Another decade later and I meet The Third One. I’m older now, and wiser (marginally), possibly less cynical and a little more realistic. But, The Third One, is different. He’s honest, kind, caring, loyal and faithful. Qualities I hadn’t encountered before. And, in fact, he is The One, and in time becomes TH (The Husband). My mantra had always been if someone treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) you don’t need a

commercial holiday to prove this love, and this was never more the case than with The One. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t do, or say something to make me feel loved and secure. But, having someone so special in my life made me want to do something even more special for him on V-Day. Yes, for the first time ever I wanted to buy into the commercialism of this holiday. I wanted The One to know that he was special to me 365 days a year, but on this one day I get to put that affection on a silver platter and spoon feed it to him in love-heart-shaped dollops, and show it off smugly to the world.

Unfortunately, for our first two V-Day’s he was working away from home. But, the weekend after V-Day he’d always come home ladened with armfuls of flowers, a gigantic card and lots of kisses and cuddles. In return, I’d make us a sumptuous, candlelit meal, and we’d simper and coo at each other across the table. It was wonderful.

And then in 2013 he was actually going to be home for Valentine’s Day. I was so excited to be actually able to spend the evening with him for the first time that I decided to really push the boat out. When he got home from work I drew him a bath. Whilst in the bath I brought him the newspapers and a scotch on the rocks. Upon alighting from the bath I served him a three course candle lit meal. At the end of the meal I presented him with a large box of chocolates and his card. After dinner, we cuddled on the couch and watched Football (which I hate). By 10:00pm I could no longer contain my curiosity…

Me: ‘Have you had a nice evening darling?’

TH: ‘This has been the best Valentine’s ever.’

Me: ‘Oh yay. I’m so glad you enjoyed it…but…I was just wondering…’

TH: ‘Yes?’

Me: ‘Is there anything for me? A card maybe?’

TH: ‘You wanted something? You were expecting something?’

Me: ‘As is normally our custom on V-Day, yes, I was expecting something!’

TH: ‘Oh crap.’

Me: ‘Please tell me that’s an ‘oh crap’ because you’ve left it in the car and you don’t want to go out in the cold to get it’

TH: ‘No, not exactly. More of an ‘oh crap I didn’t get you anything’

Me: ‘You what?!?!’

TH: ‘Well, you said you didn’t like flowers on V-Day so I wasn’t about to buy you any.’

Me: ‘Roses. I said I didn’t like red roses on V-Day because they’re far too cliché! I never said I didn’t like flowers. And besides, you bought me flowers for the past couple of years, so why would you suddenly now decide to not buy them?!’

TH: ‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.'

Me: ‘Putting the flowers aside, where’s my card? I can assure you I’ve never, ever said I didn’t want a card.’

TH: ‘I didn’t think you’d want anything today…’

Me: ‘No, of course not. Why would I want a Valentine’s card on Valentine’s Day?’

TH: ‘Oh crap. I’ve really messed up haven’t I?’

It turns out TH had got his wires crossed. As we’d always celebrated V-Day on the following weekend, he’d got it into his head that even though he was home for the actual holiday that we wouldn’t be celebrating until the weekend. Needless to say the very next day he came home with several bunches of flowers, the world’s biggest V-Day card, and proceeded to eat humble pie for sometime afterwards.  

The thing is when it’s someone you really, really love the disappointment is felt all the greater. Whilst the actual acts of betrayal from previous V-Days were more premeditated and harsh, and yes, I was hurt at the time, the actual level of disappointment was not that great because I expected little better from them. It’s when you have an expectation, especially from someone you love, that the pain of the disappointment is acute.

This Year

So, it comes to V-Day 2014 and I decided I’m throwing in the towel. I am not putting myself out, making dinners, or drawing any more stinking baths. I am having a man’s V-Day and not doing anything at all. I am sitting on the couch, avec un verre de vin blanc, and having dinner made for me. Ca va?

TH, still eating the last crumbs of humble pie from the year before, is conducive to this idea and agrees to make me dinner. Yippee! However, TH can’t cook. His repertoire of culinary delights include bacon/sausage and egg sandwiches, or crockpot surprise (the surprise being the varying number of odd combinations of food included in the Crockpot). So, my dinner prerequisite was that it couldn’t be made using a Crockpot, or a frying pan.

My man rose to the occasion, sought out my finest cookbook and set to the task. 

I have to say I was dubious, especially when he asked me what ground black pepper was, or if shallot was a relative of the carrot, or when it said a clove of garlic did it mean the entire bulb….but he battled on.

I was not permitted into the kitchen during the Culinary Festivalus, but was supplied with ample wine and contently read my book whilst delicious smells emanated from the kitchen. 

I did sneak in at one point on the premis of re-filling my wine glass, but I really just wanted to take a picture to mark the occasion! 

There was the occasional, ‘What the heck is this?!’ and ‘Why on earth would you do stick that in there?!’ but he sallied forth.

Two and a half hours of cooking later, and behold my feast. To start with - Salad Lyonnaise (Dandelion and bacon salad).

For main course - Carre d'agneau roti Provencale (Roast Rack of Lamb)

Accompanied by - Pommes de terre roties a l'ail (roast potatoes with garlic)

and Ratatouille

I have to say that is was magnificently delicious. Michel Roux Jr would be proud of TH. I know I was! And, I have to say it was the best Valentine's Day ever, for both of us. He loved cooking it as much as I enjoyed sitting back, relaxing and having dinner made for me. I think a new precedence has been set!

Of course, now I know TH can cook I might be taking advantage of this again soon...

New Year's Resolutions - 21 days later

So, it’s been a month since I started my New Year’s Resolutions, and I know you’re all dying to know how I’ve fared. Did I adhere to the 21-day challenge? What have I done that challenged me? Did I muster the balls to throw myself out of a plane? (As if, but I’ve got your attention now!)

 I’ve possibly been a little reticent about posting this article because in true Susan style I’ve somewhat failed spectacularly. Ok, I might be being a little harsh. Some areas have succeeded marvellously, some areas have (through no fault of my own, you understand) been subject to influences beyond my control, and other areas have been a direct result of my inability to assert any level of motivation/dedication/desire (delete as necessary).

 So, here you are; an update on my 21-day challenge:

• Drink 1 litre of water a day – Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy! I hadn’t realised before taking on this challenge that I was actually drinking about 1 litre a day (and not just wine!) But, when I added it all up it came to 1 litre spot on. So, I decided to up the challenge to 2 litres, which is more in line with what I needed to be drinking. Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Departed. Liver. Who? Who in their right mind actually manages 2 litres of water a day? One litre was easy, but by 1.5 litres I began to feel like my liver had been set adrift and all my internal organs were floating around my internal cavity. By 2 litres the crossed-legged dash to the loo at two minute intervals coupled with my liver begging for a lifebuoy became too much. So I cut back to 1.5 litres. And there it shall stay until I feel ready to take on that last climb to the summit of 2 litres.

• Eat at least three vegetables/fruit a day – Yeahhhh. I thought I was doing well with this.  Either
  • I’ve been duped, or whoever came up with the rule book for this ‘5-a-day’ needs to be fired… So, I’d drink half a glass of orange juice at breakfast, half an apple at lunch, and the other half at dinner. Ta da! Three fruit a day. Only, it’s not, is it? Oh no, you have to eat a whole, entire apple for it to count as a ONE. Who wrote this rule book? Surely if half a glass of orange juice counts as one, then half an apple should count as one. But, oh no. So, I thought I’d supplement it with another glass of orange juice to up it to 3 a day. Yeah, turns out all I was doing was upping my calorie count because apparently no matter how much orange juice you drink in a day it only counts as one!? Again, I ask, who on earth wrote this rule book?! So, the upshot is that I’ve made it to two a day and have not yet fathomed how to eat an entire other vegetable to get it up to three.
    
    
    

• Do at least three exercises a week – pfft. Well, I tried. No, honestly I did. I went running around my local park, which is .5 mile all the way round. I got about a quarter of the
  way and collapsed in a wheezy, blustering, red-faced heap in the mud. Ok, so running was definitely not my game. So, I started going to a circuits class during lunch at work. I’ve been twice, which is a 100% improvement on the running. It’s not as bad as running, but I’m not sure it’s my bag either. I just don’t do jumping, and sweating, and sprinting, and contorting my frame into body-shaped-hieroglyphics all in the name of getting fit. It just seems so un-gainly. I like dancing. Why can’t there be dancing fitness classes? I’d love them. But, not Zumba. I hate Zumba. I end up tripping over my feet wearing big trainers whilst trying to do dainty salsa steps. Not at all lady like. I haven’t entirely given up the ghost yet on this one. Just having trouble finding my stride and something that suits my asthmatic, ill-conditioned, disproportioned body.
  
  
  

• Lose that blasted last stone – see above two items for all the reasons why this has not been in the slightest bit successful yet. I have faith though! I will lose that stone!

• Read 12 books – I read three quarters of one book…and then I started another. Nothing  wrong with the first book, but it was a case of, ‘concentrating really hard, concentrating really hard…ooh, look shiny thing!’ I am determined to read 12 books this year, even if I end up having to read 12 in one month.

• Start a blog – something in this list that I have succeeded at! I’m actually loving doing it, and getting some great feedback. I’ve also had the thrill of one of my posts going ‘viral’ (What it’s like being married to an MP), which I never thought would happen.

• Have 12 new experiences that challenge me – now this I have utterly excelled on! I have not just had one experience that challenged me, I’ve had two! *sniff* very proud of myself.  The first challenge came in the form of conquering my fear of those fugly fleshy funguses; mushrooms. Dear God, do I hate those little gray sacks of vomit-inducing hell, but I brought some into the house, actually cooked with them, and resisted all urges to go all GI Jane on the one that sat on my plate throughout a whole meal. You can read more about my culinary escapades with the devil’s haemorrhoids here.
  
  The other challenge came when I cut my hair. ‘So what?’ I hear you say. Yeah, well, my hair is the only thing I like about my entire body. The Only Thing. And, in being The Only Thing that I like about my entire body it gets treated like a Goddess. My hair and I have been on a special journey to get to this point, because trust me, when I was little it was quite possibly the thing I liked least about myself. You see, as a child my parents were exceptionally busy, and having a younger brother it was much easier to take us to one place to get our hair cut than to two. I lost out on this deal and ended up with a boys barber cut for the first 5 years of my life. Whilst my younger brother was a flaxen-haired little cherub of a bouncing baby, I was by contrast a rotund, chubby, bowl-haircut-sporting red head.

Someone took pity on me around the age of 6 and insisted that my hair should be grown out. You’d think this would solve the problem, but no. I went from child-sized red-headed bowling ball, to crazy red-haired banshee child. No matter how much my mother tried to tame my wild red locks, I always looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

This continued until I was 12 when my mother decided in her infinite wisdom that I needed a hair cut. She must have really favoured the girls-looking-like-boys look that she’d opted for in my pre-5 years because I pretty much went back to the modern version of that; a short, back and sides. But, if that humiliation wasn’t enough, it was insisted upon that I have a rats tail; a long, straggly, streak of red hair creeping down my back like a hairy crimson spine. I hated it. The next day at school the girl that sat behind me made fun of me All. Day. Long. This then inspired everyone else to make fun of me too. Going home in tears I begged my mother to let me cut the tail off, but she was having none of it. A week of torture later and I cut it off myself and pretended to all un-sundry that it had miraculously ‘fallen off’. Thinking this would stop the taunts at school, I proudly went in the next day ‘de-tailed’. Pfft. Turns out the rats tail had been just the icing on the cake, and in fact the whole boys-cut in general was a source of merriment.

 So, some months later my mother figured they best way to stop the taunts was to have my hair permed. So, now I was a girl with a bright red, short, back, and sides, with a perm on top – I looked like a scalped little orphan Annie. The taunts became so much part of the daily routine that I’d only really notice if someone forgot to mock me. My humiliation was utterly complete, or so I thought.

It was then that I decided to try take control back of my hair, and I began to grow it out. So, I’m 12 years old, feeling all-hormonal and awkward as hell, not the prettiest creature out there, full set of braces on my upper teeth, and now I’m sporting half a head of straight hair, and half a head of permed hair. Those in-between years of desperately trying to grow out my hair, whilst daily straightening the permed bits (because we didn’t have straighteners back then), which actually only made the hair frizzy and stand on its end were awful. For most of my early teens I looked like Worzel Gummage. Needless to say I wasn’t inundated with a lot of interest from boys in my early teens.

Then, at the age of 14 something miraculous starting happening. Not only did my hair reach an acceptable length so that the last dregs of the perm could be cut out, but my hair started to turn lighter. It went from a real copper-knob-rusty-red, to a deep auburn colour, to a strawberry blonde. This is when I actually started to like my hair, and it’s also when I decided to never, ever-ever let anyone else decide a haircut for me.

By the time I reached my early 20’s my hair was long and completely blonde, and I loved it. And, so my love affair with my hair began.

This continued until last year. Who knew, but apparently losing a lot of weight in a short time frame can have a detrimental effect on hair retention. And this is what happened to me. I lost 5 stone in weight, but also ended up losing half a head of hair. When it first started coming out I was distraught. I’d wake up to handfuls on my pillow, and dreaded washing my hair as this is when the most hair loss occurred. My doctor said it was normal and would right itself in 18 months time. 18 months?!? To a woman that might as well be 18 years. So, I was sporting this really, really long blonde hair style that, by the day, was getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I had to face facts that my hair was no longer thick enough to hold a long hair style. Gutted. So, biting the bullet, I went to the hairdressers and had 6 inches cut off. That is the most I’ve had cut off since I was 12, and it took every ounce of gumption I had not to yank the shears out of the girl's hands and go all Edward Scissorhands on her. But, even though I couldn’t wait to get out of the salon and cry my heart out, I had to admit that my hair looked much, much better. This was a couple of weeks ago, and my hair feels ridiculously short to me now. I don’t feel ‘attractive’ anymore (not that I ever really did, but what vestiges I had of feeling attractive have been diminished), but I know I did the right thing. And when, in 18 months, my hair grows back, I will then grow my hair out and resume my love affair with my long hair.