It’s That Time of Year

Some of you know what this time of year means to me . . . one broken heart, hard memories to face, and the perpetual avoidance of phone calls from one person. Actually, since I have a new cell number I won’t have those calls this year. Woot on that one. These things have nothing to do with the Hallmark holiday. Someone I once hung out with, had relations with, talked to (you find the phrase . . . ) called it "Naked Baby Angel Day." That name has stuck with me, so "Naked Baby Angel Day" it is.

For the Hallmark holiday I have got more bad memories and experiences than I should, and on a disturbing level most of those memories have become funny. In 1998 my college roommates (well MC and Jess—Mellie and I wanted no part) decided to put out a "Wanted Ad for the Ladies of Unit 2." That action alone easily surpasses the other memories. Essentially, those two had watched entirely too many episodes of _The Dating Game_, and they thought it would be fun to run a contest for the best date that year. Mellie got a disturbing one from a certain guy whom I will not name, Jess had her share of swooners, same with MC, and then me . . . I had none. Oh well. Sadly, that story has almost become funny. That was also the year I had a "thing" with Sean.

Sean stood me up on Valentine's Day. I bought myself a really obnoxious hemp bracelet with bells to amuse myself (two of those bells ended up on my charm bracelet), I got a whole lot hammered on Strawberry Boone's Farm (shush! It was Kentucky, after all) and some leftover Cherry Vodka with warm (and most likely flat and stale) Pepsi, and when he came back around I'm not really sure how he apologized. His apology must have been as trite as the relationship since I did not bother to commit it to memory. Though, on a truly fucked up note one night he said to me “You can call me Tim if I can call you Faith.” I shit you not. The rest of that evening did not go well. Let’s just leave it at that.

The Sean saga also has a nasty life of its own. He began as my waiter from Chi-Chi's, and somehow that turned into a six month affair from hell. My favorite memory of Sean, aside from the roommates going to his work to tell him off (still do not know what the hell happened), was when I caught him cheating. He candidly said "Baby, I just couldn't help myself. She was prettier than you." I swear that one is no lie. Perhaps I should note that calling that a personal favorite moment is really sarcastic as hell. Well, to be truthful about the only thing we ever had in common was two am phone calls and massive amounts of booze. To my credit, the night he said that the skills of shooting a rifle and throwing shot put merged for one moment. I threw a full glass of soda across the room and nailed him in the face with it. I could never duplicate that if I tried, but . . . oh, nothing was broke. Not even a cut.

There's a really bad Valentine's Day from 1995, freshman year of college. Wyatt took me out to dinner. Well, he physically took me to dinner, but someone else gave him the money for dinner and flowers. I guess the other guy thought I should at least get something. Well, I got a two for one special on fuchsia roses, and my flowers were very wilted. They didn't even smell good. Wyatt took me to a buffet, and he had a friend drop off the flowers with the front girl. He tried to be coy, going to the restroom, and a waitress with half-broken English delivered the flowers. The table of "old-folks" ooed and awed. I turned red. Now, some of that is actually funny, but I think the other knowledge of him making a profit, the whole two-for-oner, and the having someone else pay still burns a bit.

I've been with someone on "Naked Baby Angel Day" three times. The other encounter involved him mooching off his parents to get a free dinner that night. There may or may not have been a fight that night. That dude was Chuck; Chuck the Fuck as I have been known to fondly call to him over the years.

But my bizarre encounters with Valentine's Day aren't what hinder me right now. Really, what gets my goat (so to speak) is that right now I know today marks the spot. The spot when the date passes and another cycle begins. Every year. For the record, I do think I handle it better than I did six years ago. My brother died on the 20^th, in 2003. The thought has crossed my mind numerous times over the years about "if I had known." If I had known Andy would die on that Thursday would I have found a way to go see him a week earlier? Would I have been nicer on the phone? Would I have answered his last phone call?

I had talked to him that morning. Matter of fact, I had talked to him everyday for more than three weeks. On the way to the 15 Feb protest I talked to him. On the way to see my friend in Brooklyn. In Brooklyn. When the blizzard hit Delaware. When the blizzard hit New York. I talked to him that morning, and I knew something was wrong. I told him I would call the next day after my 8:30 class and tell him when I would be in that evening. I guess he just couldn't wait.

When Andy died that was when friends stopped calling, cards stopped arriving, and I learned very quickly (and in a hard, hard way) that more people than not are fair-weathered Johnsons. Excuses came and went, and I soon began to realize that much like my failed Valentine's Day endeavors many other people in my life were the same. The friends I once had, or thought I had, crossed my life for a reason. Even though I know what kinds of things have been said and done I wouldn't change much; much like I wouldn't change what I did right before my brother died. The crappy boyfriends, and in this case Valentine's Days, served a purpose in my life (as to what that is I am not sure). The relationships might have been shitty, and ended horribly, but they became a part of me none-the-less. I couldn't have saved my brother by answering his last phone call. He wanted out, and no matter how many times I answered the phone and told him I loved him the end result would have been the same.

Yet, this time of year does it to me every year. Usually, I smoke one of his cigarettes. I still have a pack of his. He loved my Planet Hollywood jacket (hey, at 21 that jacket was the bomb!!!), and the last time I saw him in December 2002 he wore it. He smoked two cigarettes from a pack and left the rest in the coat. I found them almost two years later. The night I found them I sat motionless in the middle of my floor. I held those cigarettes, didn’t say a word, and I honestly believe the world stopped for a few moments. I left the floor when the sun rose, and I got up for a shower. That is a long time to sit on the floor starring at a pack of cigarettes.

This year this week has just been horrible. Horrible. My only redeeming factor is that I don’t have to teach tomorrow. I do need to finish the eight and a half year fight with Sprint, taxes, and write . . . but, in light of tradition and what I need tomorrow is a personal sanity day.

Well actually, it’s today.