tales of a girl in the city

février 14, 2004

In Which I Finally Get To Use The Word "Vomitous"

Well, here it is. Valentine's Day. blech.

For those of you in relationships, have fun calling each other using your special Verizon V-Day romantic ringtones. Because nothing says "I care" like electronic beeping to the tune of Mya's "My Love is Like Whoa."

That Mya.

For those of you who, like me, may have spent the wee hours of Valentine's Day crouched in front of your toilet throwing up--whether from stomach flu or just general malaise--I would like to offer the following observations about relationships, love, and Valentine's Day.

So, without further ado, I bring you:

Relationships, Love and Valentine's Day As Seen From the Cool Porcelain Base of A Toilet While Throwing-Up Half-Digested Tortellini At Three AM

First of all, everyone who lives with me in Manhattan and is female and single gets a Super-Special Outstanding-Genius Princess of The Universe Forever Gold-Star Sticker because not only have we survived Valentine's Day (so far), but we have also survived FASHION WEEK. And--to those of you who live outside of Manhattan--let me tell you, it is one thing to have V-Day come upon you when you're single and lonely, but it is another thing entirely to have V-Day come upon you when you're single and lonely and on the subway surrounded by eighteen-year-old models casually toting handbags that cost as much as mid-size off-road vehicles.

Sure, some of you kind male readers may interject at this point and say, "Whatever. Guys don't like models. They're too skinny and their hipbones jut out so far that it hurts to make out with them. Yo."

Boys, I hate it when you lie.

Each day this week, I have seen the way men react to these gaggles of young women in their size zero designer jeans and their fresh four-hundred dollar messy-look haircuts. Old, young, homeless--down to a MAN, you would file the jutting-hip-bone-pain under the heading, "Hurts So Good."


Last year for Valentine's Day, M gave me a Whitman's Chocolate Sampler. The kind you get at the drug store. He didn't even get the largest sized box. Nor did he get the kind of Whitman's Sampler that comes in the heart-shaped box. Because he waited so long to get me anything that by the time he got to the drug store the heart-shaped ones were sold out.

Anyone saying, "But it's the thought that counts" has just missed the point entirely.

He also gave me a card with an elephant on the front of it. The elephant (huge. purple.) was asking, "What kind of Valentine are you?"


There is nothing less wonderful than receiving a Valentine's Day card that--even for the briefest of moments--makes you think that your lover is suggesting that the answer to the question "What kind of Valentine are you?" is: Huge and Purple. Like this elephant.

On the inside the card actually said, "Too cute." (Relief.)

He signed it, "Happy V-Day." For anyone who thought he was going to sign it "Love," your optimism is annoying. Go eat some glue.


Last night, as I was laying in bed feeling nauseous and disgusting and all hollowed-out, I thought, "Thank God I am single. There is no one in the world, save my mother and my old pediatrician Dr. Ed, who I would want to see right now. Also thank God I am single because now I get to sprawl out on my bed and moan a lot whenever I flop over, and kick around the covers as much as I want. And I can continue to do so even when I'm starting to feel better. Harumph."

Today, though, I wish I wasn't single--or at least that I had a hot date tonight--because having the stomach flu has temporarily made me super skinny, and I would like to show off.


This is a list of things that make a better gift than a medium-sized Whitman's Sampler in a square-shaped box:

A large-sized Whitman's Sampler in a heart-shaped box.
Live blooms of any sort.
Even geraniums.
A McDonald's Happy Meal.


A boy who I have kissed before, cornered me on a stairwell in a bar two nights ago and kissed me again. Yay!

Then he said, "How 'bout you touch my chest right now and I'll touch yours."





I thought I'd give it a moment and see if the right words would come.



But, nevertheless, I do think He's out there. My Guy. Who will Get me. And who won't treat me like a bar wench (see above.) Wait--do over. He won't treat me like a bar wench unless we're alone and feeling fiesty.


I'm going to go eat some glue.