Monday, February 14, 2011

My Fuzzy Valentine

I was torn between celebrating today by wearing a red onesie and glitter heart deely-bobbers to work or expressing myself through the majesty of prose. In the end, majesty of prose won out, narrowly, but only because I don't have a bedazzler to add some extra flare to my onesie.

I custom made myself a someecard for Valentine's Day because I found that none of
Hallmark's selections accurately expressed all I wish to convey about this holiday.

Valentine's Day is my FAVORITE day of the year, just after Christmas, my birthday, Halloween, Super Bowl Sunday, New Years Eve, the Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Sundays during football season, any day on which any Pittsburgh sports team wins a game, St. Patrick's Day, every Thursday - Saturday, Thanksgiving and Easter, and just ahead of Yom Kippur, Arbor Day, and Boxing Day (Canada), as I still have no idea what the hell any of those things are. My enthusiasm for the holiday is mildly dampened, however, by an annual dilemma.

Choosing just one Valentine from all my many gentlemen callers (a short list of whom can be found in last year's Valentine's Day blog ) is always a difficult task for me. Though many men vie for this privilege, this year, I haven't found any who meet the requirement of either being my soul mate, being Sidney Crosby, or being someone willing to take me out to do something gratuitously opulent, preferably involving a unicorn, icecream cake, me in a tiara, and not being offended by my texting a boy I'd rather be with after the date is over.

So upon whom, you may ask, have I selected to bestow this prestigious honor? There were 3 finalists.

Finalist number 1 is a bar; George. George makes the cut because while there last night, I found some chocolates on the bar and pocketed them. Since my drunk memory span is approximately that of a goldfish, I was delighted and surprised to find my coat pockets full of said chocolates this morning. Not only were they delicious (hello, breakfast), but they miraculously did not contain the date rape drug, Rohypnol. I know George loves me even though he only we only see each other drunk on Thursday - Saturday nights after 10PM, he always keeps the lights dimmed, he sometimes leaves me with bruises, and he is seeing a few hundred other women...

Finalist number 2 is my grandmother who sent me a Valentine's Day card with $20, which, in an effort to honor her thoughtfulness, I will attempt not to spend on booze, crack cocaine, or whores.

Finalist number 3 is my cat, Maya. I have to give it up for my cat. She's easily the most low maintenance of all the finalists, and I'm a big fan of putting minimal effort into a relationship and having the recipient of said minimal efforts not become resentful or develop a drinking problem as a result. All you have to do for a cat to love you is basically put out food and water in bowls on the floor. If that's all the effort it took to raise a child, I might actually look into it some day.

In the four years I've had my cat, I have spent more time with her than anyone else. Somehow, however, I have managed to not get sick of her except on the weekends before 1PM when she attempts to wake me by pushing each and every belonging off my dresser one item at a time, then glaring at me to be sure I heard the noise and am just passing back out before she pushes the next item onto the floor for maximum sustained annoyance.

When I get home, she greets me at the front door, meowing; her back paws on my dining room table, her front paws on the door knob, looking eagerly through the window in the door as I undo the locks. I compare the feeling of something greeting you that enthusiastically with swimming naked in a pool full of puppies. When I am home, Maya follows me from room to room, even laying just outside the shower along the edge of the basin when I'm in there. She doesn't care what I spend my time doing; she's happy just to do it with me.

She lets me watch whatever I want on tv and sits beside me on the couch or in bed and watches contentedly and silently with no complaints. Anything and everything on Animal Planet? Of course my cat is into it. Hoarders and Intervention on A&E? Maya's down. 8 hour all-day weekend marathons of America's Next Top Model? Those too. Sports games? Yup. She is the only thing I know aside from my father who can watch as many Pittsburgh sporting events as I do with me and tolerate me... although when I swear at the screen and jump up and down, she definitely glares. At least she would never cheer for the other team.

Most importantly, my cat loves me unconditionally (like my grandmother but unlike George, which doesn't appreciate when I "sit on the floor" or "go out the fire exit" or "lose my purse/cellphone/keys/coat for the ninety-fifth time"). My cat loves me whether I'm in makeup or not. She loves me whether I'm sick or healthy, and no matter my mood. She loves me whether I'm in unattractive, loose-fitting pajamas, a floor length ball gown, or something incredibly sexy like my bunny onesie, complete with bunny-footies. My cat loves me the same whether I'm sitting on the floor playing with her toys with her, or stumbling into the house at 4AM apologizing with slurred words, "I'm sorry for being your drunken, white trash mother, but next weekend I'm gonna get dressed up real classy-like and find us a DADDY... go get some lottery tickets and play my numbers. Maybe win a couple hundred and turn this life around!"

True, sometimes I think she may be a bit of a Judgy McJudgerson because she'll give me that angry "I'm better than you" look the cat species has perfected, but I know she loves me. If you believe the adage "If you love something let it go. If it comes back is yours.", then you will be convinced of my cat's unconditional love with the following:

A few months ago, I fell asleep with my front door wide open and somehow managed to not only be not robbed and not raped, but to still have a cat. I woke up and found her laying contentedly at the foot of my bed, untempted to stray in an attempt to find greener pastures. There will always be a wide world beyond your front door, but having someone (or something) content to choose home, having realized that home is where the heart is, over whatever else is out there; that's something indispensable in any Valentine of mine. So laugh all you want at my fuzzy Valentine, but I'd rather have a cat for a Valentine than anyone who doesn't have these qualities, or who isn't Sidney Crosby.

If sappy feelings about love aren't your bag and you're a little overwhelmed with the cringe-worthy status messages of your coupled-up friends or embittered "Valentine's Day is just a stupid commercialized holiday!" status messages of your single friends, here is a video of the incredible Pittsburgh Penguins / New York Islanders NHL game / battle royale the other night. It resulted in 65 penalties, 15 fighting majors, and 6 players from each team being tossed from the game. That makes this game approximately 65 times more fun than monogamy, 15 times more tolerable than cuddling, and 6 times more worthwhile to discuss with friends than whatever monotonous, cliche thing you've got planned for Valentine's Day.

1 comment:

  1. Fantastic. Sans all the Sidney Crosby loving that is.