Valentine's Day Special: Mandatory Courting

Child

“Um, Emily? You wanna be my Valentine?” (It’s November.)

“DO I?!”


From that moment on, we were computer partners every Tuesday and Thursday, and we played house with my Tommy Pickles doll every day during Recess. He was the subject of my morning journals and not one of our friends weighed in on whether or not we were meant to be.

Three weeks later, my mother found out that her first grader was going steady, and told me I should opt instead for being “special friends” with Mr. King (yes, that was his name. We pretended I was Mrs. Queen in our house games).

But Bob was a trooper. For the next five years before he moved away to a distant land, he diligently bought me a box of chocolates, a rose, and a card, every Valentine’s Day, and chased me around the playground trying to kiss me every Recess.

Preteen

“So I was thinking… Do you want to go to the Valentine’s Day Dance with me?”

Good Lord. I took a deep breath – my heart was pounding. It took me a whole five minutes of phone conversation to get that out. Of course, you’d think that at some point during that banter, I would have noticed I WAS ON SPEAKERPHONE.

At the family dinner table, no less.

“Jonathan – you should go! She’s such a sweet girl,” his mother told him in Spanish.

“No, mom. My friends wouldn’t like that,” he replied, also in Spanish.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten that three years ago, when he arrived here from Guatemala, I had taught him English. Meaning I knew enough Spanish to get it.

I hung up. He went to the dance with some other girl.

Teenager

I was very sick on Valentine’s Day, but my boyfriend and I agreed to go out once I was well again to make up for it.

A couple weeks later I picked him up. In my car.

We ate at Fancy Restaurant. You may notice a slight disparity between our outfits.

We went to see a movie and were the only two people in the theater. The whole time I sat, anxious, wondering where we were as a couple, debating whether he would try to make out with me in an empty theater, and hoping to God he wouldn’t try to make out with me in an empty theater because I didn’t think we were there yet.

Then we exchanged gifts. He gave me a card. It said something about how I was pretty cool. I gave him a blanket. I had handmade it in our school colors and even copied our school emblem onto the back. Then he kissed me, and all I could do was panic about how long a kiss was appropriate in this situation, whether we should even be kissing in my car, and hoping he wasn’t messing up my make-up.

(Technically) Adult

I’m sitting at home, with my curtains drawn and doors locked, watching Sweeney Todd and stuffing my face with brownies.

Something’s gone dreadfully wrong.

What turned this amazing holiday into something I fear, dread, and avoid like a llamaraptor with a machete and an invisibility cloak?

I started talking about it with a friend and discovered that I’m rather jaded when it comes to V-Day.

I just really miss the predictability. You go to school and the teacher lets you play arts and crafts all day long while consuming massive amounts of candy and receiving balloons and flowers from those you love and care about.

So I was all, “Why can’t we have that kind of predictability when it comes to grown-up love, too?”

And he so kindly reminded me that “that’s called courtship.”

So. I’m declaring that we either get rid of Valentine’s Day entirely, or make courting mandatory.

Because girls, just admit it. If you have a boyfriend, you spend the whole preceding week wondering what kind of plans he’s making, what kind of gift to get him that’s precisely reciprocal to the one he’s getting you, and exactly where you two are, because you don’t want to say something like “I love you” and scare the crap out of him, but you also can’t let him be more emotional than you.

And if you’re single, no matter how much you try to keep your hopes down, those darn movies and cards and commercials and Disney ideals completely convince you that by the end of the day, your knight in shining armor will knock on your door, bearing flowers and chocolates, take you out to dinner and a movie, then drive you home, holding your hand and talking about nothing, and drop you at your door after kissing you sweetly on the cheek… And you’ll be married in the morning, if you’re really holding to those Disney ideals.

But in all seriousness, don’t we all deserve that? It doesn’t come with any worries about the relationship or questions of  appropriate behavior.

All that matters is that you enjoyed his company for the evening.

Como estoy aprendiendo el español

Folks, I have been in a Spanish class every day for the past seven and a half years. And that doesn’t even count the two after school programs I attended in kindergarten and second grade. But it was not until this semester that I finally felt compelled to fully grasp the language.

And it’s all thanks to my professor. Because he is absolutely freaking gorgeous.

*Sigh* I wish you could see him for real, because that picture really doesn’t do him justice…


Anyways.

Up until this semester, I successfully evaded class participation with my Handy Dandy Guide to Avoiding Getting Called On. I would take a long gulp of water, scribble furtively in my notes, look quizzically at a book as though pondering the answer to life itself, even feign ignorance that my name had been called until a fellow student took pity on me.

But not anymore.

How are you supposed to avoid being called on when you spend the entire class period staring amorously into the eyes of your Latin lover?

It simply isn’t possible. Now I spend every moment attempting to prove my deep understanding of his native tongue in order to gain his respect and adoration so that we can move into the Spanish castle I know he secretly owns and spend our afternoons siesta-ing in the shade of the orchard with our beautiful Spanish stallions grazing nearby.

“Emily, ¿qué dice Callisto a Melibea en auto uno?”
“Él dice que está enamorado con ella. Dice que nada es más importante que ella, ni siquiera dios.”

Translation (for those of you without hot Spanish professors):
       "Emily, what did Callisto say to Melibea in the first chapter?"
       "He said that he is in love with her. He said nothing is more
        important than her - not even God."

He so asked me that on purpose.


By the end of the semester, I’m going to be fluent in the language of love.

Our children are going to be gorgeous.


——————————————————————————————————————————————-

*DISCLAIMER!* If someone mean is out there snooping, please don’t fire my professor just because I live in a fantasy world. He is actually definitely for sure the best Spanish professor I’ve ever had, and I would be very sad if I caused him to be fired because I have an overactive imagination. I would cry. A lot. Please don’t make me cry.

Present for Lindsey

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Lindsey. She had the most amazing, beautiful, intelligent, modest cousin EVER, Emily.

I mean, we were legit bffs.


Then one day, my mom decided to take us to Tennessee to go horseback riding. Actually, it was a free vacation from a time share company, so the trip also included ridiculous amounts of coloring pictures at the kid’s table in the back of a conference room and listening to the nice older couple play “monopoly” in the hotel room next door. But on the second day, there was horseback riding.


Lindsey and I got on our horses and sat delightedly as the nice man on the lead horse taught us how to steer, go forward, and stop. We tugged at our own reins, dutifully following his lessons, fully confident in our ability to control the actions of a creature five hundred times our size.

 

The nice man clicked to his horse and they began to move briskly down the path. Our horses followed lethargically, but Lindsey’s horse started to pick up pace as it rounded the corner toward the petting zoo.


It was at that moment in time that the nice man became the man of questionable ethics (or the mustachioed menace… either or). Why he knowingly gave this demented horse to a small child, we will never know.

“Uh, little darlin’, your horse really likes those llamas over there, so if you could just hold tight to the reins and say ‘whoa’…”


But it was too late.


A wild frenzy radiated from the eyes of Lindsey’s beast like laser beams. While most horses veered off the path in search of fulfilling the unending calls of their stomach, Lindsey’s horse wanted to fulfill his unending llama fetish. Lindsey tugged on the reins and screamed “whoawhoawhoawhoawhoa” until it became some kind of rabid-horse alarm, but her tiny little frame was powerless against such a mighty and determined monster.


Meanwhile, I was laughing hysterically. I would pay for this later, when my horse would lodge my head in the fork of a large branch across the path, but right now I was giggling so hard I could have peed my pants. Lindsey and her horse were far enough from the path that all I saw was a horse trotting towards a cute little llama.

 

Lindsey saw something more like this:

So needless to say, Lindsey was scarred for life. This near-paranoia provided hours of entertainment on my end. That night, she sat wide-eyed in horror as I recounted tale after tale of llama attacks.

I think Lindsey expected it would be like the knock-knock-who’s-there-aren’t-you-glad-I-didn’t-say-banana? joke, where if you put up with the annoying part for long enough,you get a happy ending. But despite a multitude of changes to the story itself, the ending was always the same: the llama’s acid-spit killed the poor, unsuspecting subject of my tale.


For years to come, the word “llama” alone elicited a worthwhile reaction.


Until now.


Because when I got back from my summer trip to Gatlinburg, I brought Lindsey this truly inspirational llama plushie. It even looked menacing. I showed up to the fast food establishment where she works and walked up to the drive-thru window. I bent over and held up my prize so it was the only thing one could see from inside. Then I waited… and giggled a lot. But when she rounded the corner, her reaction?! Only mild surprise! AND SHE HUGGED IT!

I knew it was time to kick it up a notch.


So, Lindsey, dear, here is your new boggart-fuel:

RAWR! *spit* *claw* *death*

Welcome to P.O.R.N.!!!

Why, hello!!! It’s SOOOOOO nice to meet you! My name’s Emily, and I just know we’re going to be the best of friends!!! I’ll be like “Here’s a new post for you!” and you’ll be like “OMG that was so wonderful to read, I really enjoyed that!” and I’ll be like, “OMG REALLY?!?! Lemme write you ANOTHER ONE!!!” And before you know it, you’ll be addicted, and I’ll be super rich and famous. Like a drug dealer, only BETTER. Cuz how many drug dealers do YOU know that get to brag about what they do to the world at large? I only know one, but he got caught. By the po-pos. That means he’s in jail now. And do you know what they eat in jail? Meat that was delivered as liquid. Ew. Noooo thanks. I choose blogger. And therefore, I win. And you do too. Because, since I chose to be a blogger, you totes don’t have to lose your hair and teeth to crack.

We win so much.