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As some of you may have pointed out, I forgot to mention Fat Tuesday.  Easy defense.  I'm not Catholic.  I didn't know it was Fat Tuesday until I was asked if I'd like to share a King Cake.  I didn't know what that was, either.  I like Catholicism, though.  It is truly stranger than fiction.  Inside the King Cake, I was told, is a little baby Jesus, and if you are the one who gets it, you have good luck and prosperity for the coming year.  

I miss out on all the good stuff.  

But I'm probably the only one here who didn't know that.  

Now another holiday that began with a Catholic martyr and became something like Mardi Gras in nature.  I mean, it doesn't seem to have anything to do with its origin. 

But I'm down.  

I drink Valentine red.  I'm a lover, that's why. Campari and Lillies.  So very romantic.  And that's me, ain't it?  Mr. Romance.  

So why are all the girls with other lovers and I am alone with Campari and Lillies and a cheroot?  What the fuck did I do?  

It beats me.  I think I'm pretty swell.  Circumstance, however, would suggest otherwise.  I am not counting on either Cupid or cards today.  It's o.k.  I was never good at celebrating on demand anyway.  I have always favored the spontaneous affair.  

As I lounge today without worry, all the boys who "the girls" have decided to favor over me must buy candy and flowers and jewels and plan expensive, romantic dinners out with their own true loves.  They'll wear their best smiles and coo their undying love.  And if they are lucky, things will go well and "the girls" will show off the symbols of love to their friends.  

"Oh, that's sooo niiice!  I looove that!  Bob got us a trip to Park City.  Yea. . . he's so sweet.  I'll tell you the truth, though. . . I'd rather be staying in a warm resort on the beach in Cabo. The whole skiing thing. . . but you know, Bob tries.  He is really sweet."

I was never so very good at it, I guess.  Some Valentine red hots and a red rose just doesn't cut it.  I understand.  

"What did you get Bob?"

Giggles. 

I'm guessing it wasn't flowers.  

Men are easy.  

I am, however, a cuddler.  Funny.  Even Blogger doesn't recognize the word.  It keeps taking away the "r".  

As Marlowe so famously says, "It's O.K. with me."  I'll buy my mother flowers today and make her a card, too.  Maybe we'll drink some Valentine wine as well.  

When I was a kid in school, we all brought shoe boxes and decorated them for V-day by cutting red and pink paper hearts and gluing them on with the big jar of Elmer's every classroom had.  We'd cut a slit in the lid so that people could slip a Valentine's card in.  We all got the same ones, big clear plastic bags full of little cards and two or three much larger ones sold in grocery and five and dime stores.  This was, in a sense, our version of social media because the stupid and ugly people didn't get so many cards in their boxes while pretty little Suzanne got all the big ones.  

"Did you put a card in Bebe's box?  You did, didn't you?  Hey. . . hey guys. . . guess who's in love with Bebe?"

Bebe had thick glasses, dressed in three generation handmedowns, and was the butt of all jokes.  I gave her a card because that is how my parents raised me and that is just the way I am.  

And so. . . I am sending you a Valentine, too.  No matter.  I'm just sweet like that.

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