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The illustrated romantic
Feb. 14th, 2005 03:38 pmI've always imagined myself to be a romantic.
For a long time, that was an impossibility, as I was painfully shy with girls. I still am in some cases. Yet, I would try. Extensive testing proved that boxes of valentines, including Snoopy, Scooby Doo, Space 1999, and the A-Team ("I pity the fool who won't be my valentine"), have little effect in eliciting compassion from popular girls towards brainy geek types. Not even with grape blow-pops! The nerve.
But time wore on, as did my experiences with that oddity known as girls. In high school, with some relationship experience under my belt, I decided that mere preprinted valentines were, as my research showed, just not where it was at. It was time to get creative.
My sophomore year of high school, I was dating a girl from Baton Rouge. Misty, a sweet (and sometimes naughty) creature was the recipient of my affection that year. For V-day, I labored over what I could give her that would just blow her away. The solution? Well, she collected...uhm...clowns. I didn't get it either. Still don't. Clowns it was, though, so I set out to expand on that theme. I found (count 'em) FIVE clowns, all of which held a valentine heart in their hands. In retrospect, I had a John Wayne Gacy valentine theme goin' on, but hell, it was love, right? So I got all five of the wretched things (two figurines, two plush, and a clock), wrapped them individually, and hand-delivered them on Valentines Day, no small feat as she lived sixty miles away. I think I got a kiss on the cheek.
The following year, I was sort-of-kind-of seeing this girl (again from another town) who I knew from forensic league tournaments. She was an adorable girl, nothing but wonderful innocence. For her, I created a very complicated package, filled with all kinds of chocolates, and topped with a homemade valentine. She was pretty impressed, and showed her appreciation at the following tournament. No, not that way, you pervies.
Senior year was the year of Adrianne, a most turbulent time in my life, marked by flaming fights with my parents, a downward spiral of my grades, and an illustrious introduction to the vampiric goth scene in my hometown. Adrianne taught me a great deal about love, physical and otherwise. Adrianne was, however, a total anarchist and iconoclast who hated anything remotely commercialized. For her, and in check with the Lestat-inspired group we hung with, I created a series of messages, basically a scavenger hunt, wherein she had to decipher riddles from one location to find the route to another. Each note was handwritten with calligraphy pens in scarlet red ink on yellow parchment, and aged with various scorch marks and other odd pseudo-effects of time. I had some rolled and wrapped in silk ribbon, others enclosed in old wood boxes, and, the real prize, a mahogany jewelry box lined in velvet. In the end, she found me, dressed as Lestat might have, if he had been a mid-80's pre-goth geek. I also had a single red rose. Oh, the lovin' I got from her that night. *sigh* Good year for Valentines, that 1986 was. I don't think I ever topped that one for effort. Or for reward, actually.
College arrived, and with it, the much higher expectations of the female of the species. In 1988, there was Stefanie, a tall blond with azure eyes and a smile that turned me to jelly. She could have controlled me in so many ways but just never knew it. Maybe I should have told her. Anyway, Stefanie was a special creature to me at the time. We shared a ballroom dance class, so the most obvious of notions occurred to me. I took her to dinner, treating like the lady she was (is?) and followed up with a frozen treat at this wonderful ice cream parlour near campus. Afterwards, I took her to the architecture building, hustled her up to the roof, and put some slow romantic music on a jambox I had snuck up with us. Then, we danced. It was a slow and loving and warm and wonderful waltz. The night was clear and cool and quiet, barring the tinny sounds of Handel drifting from my radio. We kissed the good kisses under a lovers moon, then I brought her back to her dorm. Good night, that was.
The next great valentine was with Tracey. Tracey was a hard one to figure out. I wasn't sure where our relationship was at the time, blossoming, I suppose. I created an enormous (and I do mean BIG) valentine of butcher's paper and crayons and ink and marker, and laid out on the window of her car, so that when she left for class, there it would be, in all it's titanic glory. I scored big points for that one. I wonder what happened to that valentine? Hmm. Hope it didn't end up wrapping fish.
Tracey's was the last of the great valentines. She was also my favorite. I'm now a bitter cynic on St Valentine's great day, disillusioned with the premise of love and commercialized sentiment. Slowly, as I bring my heart back into the light, perhaps I'll find that romantic again, hiding somewhere in the dark ether.
Chocolates, anyone?
For a long time, that was an impossibility, as I was painfully shy with girls. I still am in some cases. Yet, I would try. Extensive testing proved that boxes of valentines, including Snoopy, Scooby Doo, Space 1999, and the A-Team ("I pity the fool who won't be my valentine"), have little effect in eliciting compassion from popular girls towards brainy geek types. Not even with grape blow-pops! The nerve.
But time wore on, as did my experiences with that oddity known as girls. In high school, with some relationship experience under my belt, I decided that mere preprinted valentines were, as my research showed, just not where it was at. It was time to get creative.
My sophomore year of high school, I was dating a girl from Baton Rouge. Misty, a sweet (and sometimes naughty) creature was the recipient of my affection that year. For V-day, I labored over what I could give her that would just blow her away. The solution? Well, she collected...uhm...clowns. I didn't get it either. Still don't. Clowns it was, though, so I set out to expand on that theme. I found (count 'em) FIVE clowns, all of which held a valentine heart in their hands. In retrospect, I had a John Wayne Gacy valentine theme goin' on, but hell, it was love, right? So I got all five of the wretched things (two figurines, two plush, and a clock), wrapped them individually, and hand-delivered them on Valentines Day, no small feat as she lived sixty miles away. I think I got a kiss on the cheek.
The following year, I was sort-of-kind-of seeing this girl (again from another town) who I knew from forensic league tournaments. She was an adorable girl, nothing but wonderful innocence. For her, I created a very complicated package, filled with all kinds of chocolates, and topped with a homemade valentine. She was pretty impressed, and showed her appreciation at the following tournament. No, not that way, you pervies.
Senior year was the year of Adrianne, a most turbulent time in my life, marked by flaming fights with my parents, a downward spiral of my grades, and an illustrious introduction to the vampiric goth scene in my hometown. Adrianne taught me a great deal about love, physical and otherwise. Adrianne was, however, a total anarchist and iconoclast who hated anything remotely commercialized. For her, and in check with the Lestat-inspired group we hung with, I created a series of messages, basically a scavenger hunt, wherein she had to decipher riddles from one location to find the route to another. Each note was handwritten with calligraphy pens in scarlet red ink on yellow parchment, and aged with various scorch marks and other odd pseudo-effects of time. I had some rolled and wrapped in silk ribbon, others enclosed in old wood boxes, and, the real prize, a mahogany jewelry box lined in velvet. In the end, she found me, dressed as Lestat might have, if he had been a mid-80's pre-goth geek. I also had a single red rose. Oh, the lovin' I got from her that night. *sigh* Good year for Valentines, that 1986 was. I don't think I ever topped that one for effort. Or for reward, actually.
College arrived, and with it, the much higher expectations of the female of the species. In 1988, there was Stefanie, a tall blond with azure eyes and a smile that turned me to jelly. She could have controlled me in so many ways but just never knew it. Maybe I should have told her. Anyway, Stefanie was a special creature to me at the time. We shared a ballroom dance class, so the most obvious of notions occurred to me. I took her to dinner, treating like the lady she was (is?) and followed up with a frozen treat at this wonderful ice cream parlour near campus. Afterwards, I took her to the architecture building, hustled her up to the roof, and put some slow romantic music on a jambox I had snuck up with us. Then, we danced. It was a slow and loving and warm and wonderful waltz. The night was clear and cool and quiet, barring the tinny sounds of Handel drifting from my radio. We kissed the good kisses under a lovers moon, then I brought her back to her dorm. Good night, that was.
The next great valentine was with Tracey. Tracey was a hard one to figure out. I wasn't sure where our relationship was at the time, blossoming, I suppose. I created an enormous (and I do mean BIG) valentine of butcher's paper and crayons and ink and marker, and laid out on the window of her car, so that when she left for class, there it would be, in all it's titanic glory. I scored big points for that one. I wonder what happened to that valentine? Hmm. Hope it didn't end up wrapping fish.
Tracey's was the last of the great valentines. She was also my favorite. I'm now a bitter cynic on St Valentine's great day, disillusioned with the premise of love and commercialized sentiment. Slowly, as I bring my heart back into the light, perhaps I'll find that romantic again, hiding somewhere in the dark ether.
Chocolates, anyone?
