Tag Archives: relationships

Con Artist

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“I hope you can rise above” the crumpled up note at the bottom of the recycling bin says. I hadn’t taken out the recycling in a couple of weeks, so the note has been sitting there for a while. I pick it up to read it again.  The words haven’t changed. They sound just as empty to me now as they did then.

Rise above what? I want to ask out loud. The fact that he took advantage of me? The fact that he made himself comfortable in my home for two months, omitted to participate financially in any way, racked up long distance charges on my phone when I specifically asked him no to, and then made me out to be “all about the money” when I brought up his financial responsibilities?

He sure did talk a lot. That’s what con artists do, they say things; they promise all kinds of things without ever actually being too explicit. The make tenuous plans in some fictitious future that they include you in, so you’ll be led to believe they intend on being your friend for a long time and that whatever is going on in the now is just a small fraction of a much larger whole. But the joke is on you, because all along,  they’ve been on the take and all along, there never was a friendship to begin with. You just happened to be there for them to step on; another stone for them to climb up to wherever it is they think they might be going to. The sad thing is, all too often, it’s creeps like that who manage to make a success of themselves. That would be because they have no principles holding them back at any stage in the elaborate little games they play on people.

Rise above what? The fact that all along I was acting in good faith? The fact that I shared my life and my things and trusted that everything would be fine in the end? That he’d do the same for me if  and when the need arose? Rise above the fact that a person who called himself my good friend used up all my emergency cash, left me with an empty fridge, depressed, alone and completely broke on the week of Christmas without so much as providing a loaf of bread or the small christmas tree he promised or god forbid a call on Christmas day (!), and then said it was no big deal that he had helped himself to my petty cash since I was spending too much money on myself anyway… Meaning what? That I didn’t deserve to be able to buy my own staples when I needed to?

I made a huge mistake (no hyperbole there!) by assuming that because I had known that person for a long time, and because we had had good laughs, and because we had remained friends over time—albeit we hardly actually ever communicated—I could somehow trust him to be a decent human being. But when push came to shove all I ended up with is a lousy note that said: “I hope you can rise above”. He just had to add insult to injury. Because somehow through it all, through his uses and abuses, I had no right to actually call him on what he was doing. Because the words and the tone I was using were too ugly and we must not ever use ugly words or raise our voices, even when all decent limits have been breached and all we are actually saying is the plain truth.

I wish I could say I’m none the worst for wear, but I’d be lying. This whole thing sure has been playing a number on me. I’m mostly angry at myself for letting myself trust someone who wasn’t worthy of that trust to begin with. Also for wasting so much energy on someone who clearly doesn’t deserve a single iota of my attention. I want this year to be about so many other much more important things!


Mistakes, We’ve All Made a Few

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I want for this day to be over with already. I’ve never equated being alone with being lonely before, probably because as an only child, I’ve always had a knack for entertaining myself with whatever happens to be on hand. But I have to say truly and honestly that there is no other lonelier day to spend a day alone than Christmas day. I did wake up late this afternoon feeling quite excited about a vivid dream I had just had and thought: “wouldn’t it be the best Christmas gift of all if this dream actually prompted me to write a novel??” But then when I switched on the voice memo application on my iPhone and started taking verbal notes, those dream sequences which had seemed so full of story potential just fizzled away into random incoherent sentences.

Eventually, I decided to surf around the net to distract myself from all the unpleasantness going on inside my head. For some unknown reason, I had a Wikipedia page about Chlöe Sevigny up on my web browser. I’ve seen her in the movie Boys Don’t Cry and in the HBO series Big Love, but other than that I can’t say I’m a fan of hers, or that I know anything much about her and her body of work. I’ve never quite understood why she acquired fashion icon status (though I do know she was one of the original icons of all things fuggly back in the early days of the very funny site Go Fug Yourself). Reading on out of sheer boredom and curiosity, I found out that she sparked controversy with her lead role in a 2004 movie called The Brown Bunny, which involved Sevigny performing unsimulated fellatio on co-star, writer, director and producer Vincent Gallo. After the film’s release at the 2003 Cannes Film Festival, the William Morris Agency dropped Sevigny as a client, one source stating: “The scene was one step above pornography, and not a very big one. William Morris now feels that her career is tainted and may never recover”. Ever the trouper, Sevigny went on record after the Cannes screening saying “It’s a shame people write so many things when they haven’t seen it. When you see the film, it makes more sense. It’s an art film. It should be playing in museums. It’s like an Andy Warhol movie.” I viewed the scene in question—all in the name of research of course—and I must admit that I couldn’t help but wonder what drug cocktail might have convinced Miss Sevigny that taking part in this project might be a good idea. That being said, I will not join the ranks of Sevigny-bashers based on that performance. Not today. Instead, I wish to thank Chlöe Sevigny for the fact that she still continues to make a living as an actress and a public figure, and to this day defends her performance in a project which would have been best left to die in Vincent Gallo’s mean little egomaniacal head.

Mistakes, we’ve all made a few. On this lonely Christmas day, I can always console myself with that fact that in this, I am far from being alone.

My Old Friend C

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Lovely dinner with my old friend C tonight. We’re the same age and have known each other for over 22 years. Back in the day we’d hang out at the coolest clubs then go for a bite to eat at equally cool eateries and flirt with life’s possibilities. She’s as friendly and thoughtful as ever, she looks great as ever, her routine remains unchanged with daily swimming at 6:20 a.m., which keeps her toned and slender. She has plenty of style and always looks well put together. She’s never flashy or obvious, but your know the jewels are the real deal, the watch is the kind people get mugged for, and the handbag has been copied all over the world and happens to look much like the version I bought, only hers has a plaque on it engraved with the designer’s name. As a 40th birthday gift, her loving husband of almost 20 years surprised her with a trip to Paris this winter, while their three attractive children remained at home with their grandmother. There are yearly family trips to an almost deserted Caribbean island to visit the grandparents, who set up residence there some years ago. There is a beautiful weekend chalet up north designed by her husband and decorated with style and to which I’ve been invited many times to spend weekends hiking, canoeing and swimming. I’ve always found reasons not to go, feeling like I don’t belong to their world—why would they want the likes of neurotic & depressed old me over there? How I’ve wanted to hate C over the years. But it’s just not possible—she happens to be a very sweet, very likeable girl. How I’ve yearned to be just like C. But I guess I just happen to be a different creature altogether. What’s really funny is that while I’m feeling sorry for myself, I know there are people who feel much the same way when they compare themselves to me—we’re always somebody else’s C.

Again and Again

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The alarm clock rang this morning, so I pressed snooze. And again. And again. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00 p.m. and I’d spend the whole day in bed again. My excuse this time is that I had a dream so strange and so upsetting that every time I started to come out of it, I’d try figuring out whether it was for real or not and what it could possibly mean and fall right back into it again.

One thing I was trying to understand was why I’d still keep having dreams about my ex D when it’s been over ten years since we broke up now. He’s married with kids. I’ve got my cats and my mood disorder. The dreams are always more or less the same: I’m staying at his apartment while he’s gone away to a business trip so that I can pack up the last of my things and move away for good. As I make my way around his apartment, I look back on our relationship and try to find clues as to why things went wrong for us (and discover plenty of them). But this time there was a huge twist because in this dream he came back home wanting to work things out and shortly after he dies in my arms after a terrible accident. I kept trying to save him and he kept dying over and over and over again. It was incredibly upsetting. I woke up crying a few times and went back to sleep hoping the dream would change it’s course by the time I woke up again. But it didn’t. It just kept getting stranger and stranger and he just kept dying again and again. Now that I know the outcome of all this—he dies in the dream, I wake up more upset and feeling stranger than ever, having missed out on another day of school—I do realize what I should have done was get out of bed first thing this morning, go to school and leave it all behind me.

Some things I’ll just never understand.

Little Beasts

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Mimi Quad_0446
My #1 girl Mimi consented to strike a pose for me tonight. It’s funny sometimes just how different human and animal thinking can be thought. Yesterday, I finally got fed up with my bed-cover looking like it was made of cat hair so I laid a towel around the area where she usually likes to lie. Now she sits on that towel looking so proud of herself, as if she was on her own private little throne. Meanwhile, I just see an ugly towel on my bed which really doesn’t fit the rest of the decor. But until I figure out something prettier, the towel stays.

My ex-boyfriend, whom I split up with well over 18 months ago, is still sending me countless text messages, mostly saying how much he loves me still and will I be his girlfriend (I haven’t figured it out if he means that seriously or if he’s trying to be funny). The other day when he texted me for the umpteenth time asking whether I loved him, I made it clear to him, gently—and for the umpteenth time—that he could forget about us getting together as a couple ever again. Words more or less to that effect. But kinder. Sort of. Today I got an email from him—not his usual M.O.—no title, so when I opened it I saw a large picture of a girl that… for the first moment I thought might be me (but no, some other equally blue-eyed beauty) and his question: “Is she pretty? She wants to date me…” Really?? Is this for real?!? I nicely replied that he should be my guest and go fuck himself too while he’s at it (or something equally charming). I know that text message is coming any time now “What did I do?!?!?! Why are you being so nasty to me?!? What did I say?!?… etc etc” It should come any minute now. Anyone want to place bets?

Today for the first time in years, I came very close to adopting a puppy. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a picture of him that I could show you, but trust me, he was a-dorable. Black and white with black patches on his eyes and a lovely pink little nose, much like my Mimi has. I was at a boutique and his owner and I were both in the changing rooms while this little dog kept sneaking into her cabin, then mine. I didn’t mind at all of course, especially considering how dog-crazy I’ve been in the last year. We started chatting (with the girl—not the dog) and as is turns out she came into possession of him just a couple of weeks ago when she was out on the Plateau at 3 a.m. and some random guy walked up to her claiming he had found the dog wandering the street and was looking for someone to take him in. Then she said “I really love him, but I’ll have to find him another family” why?? “I’m young [she is], I want to travel and I’m not ready for the responsability”. Fair enough. A few decades ago, when I was around ten years old or so, that would have been enough for me to say I’ll bring him home right away! I’m sure my mom will understand!”. But thirty years later, it’s the landlord’s permission I need, so I have to play it a little bit differently. So we’ll see. There’s no obligation for me, I have her coordinates and she has mine, if I decide I’m ready and this is the puppy I want and I get my nerve up to ask, and the landlord says yes (that’s a lot of if’s…) then it may happen. Either with this dog, or another one. So it’s a big MAYBE, but nice to consider all the same.

While I was at the boutique I got a couple of lovely notebooks. I’m crazy about pretty journals and I always keep a nice selection on hand. These two are hardcovers and the blue one with the butterfly says “Begin” while the green one with the bird says “Go Slow: Life in Progress”. I liked that. I asked to get 2 for 1 and got it! Heh, you don’t ask you don’t get, right? Click on the pic to view a larger version. The colours are much brighter than what I was able to get in no-light conditions.

Finally, not beast-related at all, unless you count the goats that the cheese comes from. As I’m writing this I’m having my delicious beet, apple, fennel and Greek feta salad. I got a picture of it tonight in my kitchen which is a far cry from anything you’re likely to see in Bon Appetit or Gourmet (and I won’t even mentions Martha Stewart Living). Doesn’t look like much but it sure does pack a punch flavour and texture-wise. Yum! That along with a nice cold Grolsch goes down mightly nicely.

Cheers!

It’s All Robbie’s Fault (aka On Drama)

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Robbie Williams’ waxwork at Madame Tussaud needs to be replaced
periodically as is frequently damaged from all the handling by fans.

There is something I left out of the picture in my post yesterday. When I said there was no drama in my present life, I was conveniently airbrushing out an element which is a constant source of drama. I guess I’m getting so used to it being there that I forget it’s there to begin with. The “it” I’m referring to is actually a “he”, as in, a real person, and more specifically, my most recent ex-boyfriend. I may have mentioned him here and there but I don’t blog about him often since one of my concerns is he’ll read something I’ve written about him here and get hurt and then make… a big drama out of it. We’ve been broken up for close to 18 months now (!) so you’d think we’d have both moved on with our lives, right? If only.

Ugh. Just even writing about it now is draining me. Maybe because as I’m writing, I’m getting a series of text messages from him, one after another and another and another. Usually, I get texts from him about every other day or so. Asking me how I’m doing. Telling me how much he misses me. That he’ll love me forever and ever. That we were made for each other. Saying I’m the most beautiful woman in the world. The most sexy woman in the world. The best thing that’s ever happened to him and to mankind (ok, I’m reaching a little now, but you get the idea). It’s all meant to make me feel good I guess. And maybe it does make me feel better on some days when I’m feeling really miserable about myself, or when I decide, for the 25th thousand one hundred seventy third time that I’m better off alone and alone I will stay for the rest of my life. Somehow then, knowing that someone out there still wants to be with me, even when I’ve been the biggest bitch in the world to him, well that makes me feel sort of better. SORT OF. Though not in an entirely healthy way. But days like today, when he pushes the envelope and asks “Do you love me too?” I just lose it. You wouldn’t think the simple question “do you love me” could provoke such wrath, but somehow it drives me to start cussing and swearing like a truck driver, and still he comes back for more. “Thank you Master, on more please” which only makes me angrier still.

Have I tried to put an end to this nonsense? How about just not giving a response, you ask? How about telling him to get lost once and for all, or else? Check, yep! And hey, I tried that ages ago but what should I tell the cops?: “He stalks me via text messaging and tells me he expects nothing in return?”. Ugh. And you know what? The way I see it, it’s all Robbie Williams’ fault. Here I was pining for him while listening to one of his ballads and watching his videos over and over again one day, and then the next day I ran into the ex who just happens to be extremely attractive if you happen to like the Robbie Williams type. One obsessive behaviour led to another person’s obsessive behaviour. Poor S. Doesn’t he understand it was about Robbie Williams the whole time? Well one thing is for sure. If Robbie and him are also similar as far as personality goes, I can pretty well predict Robbie and I wouldn’t have much of a future to look forward to, no matter how much money he may have, aside from his exceptional charm of course. I can’t decide whether that makes me feel better or worse.

One thing that did make me feel good today is all the responses I got to my post yesterday from you lovely readers telling me how much you appreciate my blog the way it is. I won’t respond to each comment individually as there are only so many ways of saying “thank you, I truly appreciate it”, but do know it IS deeply appreciated coming from readers well known to me and anonymous as well. That’s a big relief because unlike you mum, I don’t have much of a gift for making stuff up that’s worthy of being called “fiction”, so that option would have ended up being even more trouble. No, my specialty is telling the truth, and nothing but. Usually gets me in trouble too, but what would life be without a little drama, right?

Photo source: unknown

Domestic Affairs

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The second my cleaning lady walked in, she started laughing, pointed at my belly and squealed “OH MY GOD YOU GOT FAT!” I did briefly consider firing her on the spot, but coming from Chona, I had to laugh too. I hired Chona a dozen years ago when I was sharing a place with an ex-boyfriend in Old Montreal. The first time she came over was also the first time I’d ever conducted a job interview, and I didn’t know what I was doing. I suggested we go for a coffee at a quaint Polish restaurant nearby. We were sitting across from each other in an uncomfortable silence and straining to make small talk, my goal being to suss her out to figure out if I could trust her not to steal from us. I started asking leading questions about her life and could barely make out her answers—her English had a strong Filipino accent and her vocabulary was limited back then —but I caught on that she was working night-shifts at a chips factory which was convenient for her she said because it freed up her daytime so that she could take care of her small son and her husband, who was in a seemingly interminable process of recovering from a back injury. The contrast between her lifestyle and mine was so extreme that my mind was doing cartwheels and somersaults to appease the monumental sense of guilt I felt. I asked her repeatedly if she really wanted this job and whether she could manage so much work and asked how she could possibly get any sleep with a schedule like that. She said she’d manage and not to worry about her. Clearly, she was hardworking and in need of the extra cash. I asked her whether she was free to start immediately. She wasted no time and within a couple of hours she had the whole place gleaming and there was a pile of bills and coins she’d dug out neatly laid out on the table.

After the split with the bf I kept a few good pieces of furniture and moved out of Old Montreal which was out of my price range. I decided that a good cleaning lady was even harder to find than a decent boyfriend so I retained Chona’s services even though I couldn’t afford to have her come as regularly, though she usually made herself available whenever I needed her help. When I called her last week, it had been more than a year since I’d seen her last. She casually mentioned something about being off work for the past month and that it would give her something to do. I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask why the break from work and wondered about her asking me if it was okay to bring her son along; she’d brought him a few time when he was younger which was understandable, but now he was well into adolescence I couldn’t imagine why he’d require supervision.

When she was done laughing about my belly, she told me what happened to her: she had fallen and broken her spine, and after many months of intense physio was able to walk again, but was still unable to bend or reach for things or do anything as strenuous as vacuuming and washing the floors. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before? We could have put this off, I would have managed!” “That’s why I have my son with me, he’s going to help me clean”. He was standing there behind her, a gentle giant with a sheepish look on his face. Suddenly I felt as if my home had been turned into a sweatshop where I was exploiting disabled immigrants and their children and hearing her repeatedly calling him and barking orders at him with a voice that I did’t recognize truly completed the horrible picture that had formed in my mind. Seeing how sloppy he was with the floor washing, I was of course annoyed and tempted to make a comment, but I was relieved to see that he was a regular teenage boy. “do you get him to do this kind of work often Chona?” “Eeryday he helps us around the house, sometimes does groceries too!”. She said this with a touch of pride, but also seemed to take this for granted. “Count your blessings—most kids here would be very rude about telling you where you can put your chores”. And then as I was giving her her day’s wages: “I still can’t believe you said that I’ve gotten fat.” “But it’s true! I’ve never seen you with a belly before,” “Me neither, trust me” “but you’re not going to stay like that right?” Right. Someone once suggested not to be too familiar with the help. I should have listened.

Old Friends, New Enemies

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A few weeks ago I decided to check the inbox for my blog correspondence having forgotten all about it for a while. I found an email from my old friend K—we hadn’t spoken in over six years—but she explained she had discovered my blog and had been reading it for a while before finding the courage to send an email to Fritz (as instructed), in hopes he’d pass on the message. Lucky for both of us, Fritz was agreeable that time and pretty soon K and I were planning a dinner together, which I had offered to host so we could make use of my new barbecue. I also lured her with the promise of a good bottle of wine, she offered to bring desert, and the date was set. As those things go, I got to market a little bit later than planned—to pick up all the ingredients I needed—anxious not to forget anything as I thought I’d attempt a new recipe. And then getting to my favorite butcher shop last and seeing how short on time I was, finally decided to get pre-marinated flank steaks à l’orange and keep things simple. Running around with my nose on my list I was in equal parts anxious to forget something and also anxious to get back home on time so K wouldn’t be greeted by a locked door, which I feared wouldn’t quite send out the right signal. But of course that’s exactly what ended up happening, because of my propensity for forgetfulness (as in: “what was I doing right now?”) and the unpleasant business of a taxi which showed up unreasonably late. K was standing up on my second floor front porch, holding a bunch of flowers with that familiar big smile on her face. “You haven’t changed a bit” “Neither have you” and then we hugged and kissed each other on both cheeks, while the cab driver very generously brought my grocery bags up the stairs without rushing us or saying a word.

From that moment on, I don’t think there were more than five seconds of silence for the rest of the night. We’d always had a lot to talk about, and of course now we had all that catching up to do. There was not a lot of talk about what caused the separation, we just agreed we were both going through a lot of issues in our own lives and drifted apart. We must have been talking for an hour when I realized all the groceries hadn’t been properly unpacked, the flowers were still sitting there in their wrapper, and more importantly, neither of us was holding a drink, which is when it hit me that I had completely forgotten about the “great bottle of wine”. That’s the kind of thing I would do. Luckily I had a few Grolsch beers in the fridge, which granted, wasn’t quite the same as a great bottle of wine, but was still better than past-due apple juice or water. We kept on chatting for another hour or so, by which time I thought I should get dinner started. I went to fire up the barbecue with K standing right beside me, and when I opened the gas tank valve there was a loud and somewhat scary sound of gas escaping. I was perplexed, since everything had been working fine until the day before, which was the last time I’d used it. We tried this and that to no avail when finally K discovered the holes in the hose which, judging by their size and location, could only have been chewed up by a squirrel who had apparently decided the hose would make a good midnight snack. What are the odds? In any case, dinner was saved thanks to a great cast-iron pan, a few changes to the menu and two easygoing gals who wouldn’t let such things ruin a perfectly good evening. I did manage to somehow ruin the salad dressing—the only part of the meal I actually prepared—but the steaks were delicious, and desert—a homemade chocolate-caramel mousse—was positively sinful. We talked on and on and both of us agreed we couldn’t possibly catch up in just one night. A good thing.

The next day I called the store where I’d purchased the BBQ and they offered a new hose at cost, which I think is swell. I still have to pick it up and I’ll have to come up with a protection device from the mad saboteur of course, lest he should try his shenanigans again. What will he be up to next? Will he end up skewered and barbecued? Have I mentioned I used to like squirrels?

What Bad Days Are Made Of

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There are some days when it doesn’t take very much to get me in a bad mood. Lately, days like that seem to happen when I’ve woken up very late in the afternoon—by then I’ll have woken up several times throughout the day and in a state of half-consciousness, I’ll have chosen the escape into more sleep rather then getting up and living my life. In one of my recent conversations with my dad, we agreed that I was using sleep to escape the way some people go to drugs and alcohol—or any other addiction, come to think of it. And just like any other addiction, indulging in the thing feels great while you’re at it, but when you inevitably come up for air, you feel ashamed, self-loathing and you’re stuck with the cost to pay. In my case it means feeling exhausted for the rest of the day, reduced daylight hours and feeling like a big loser.

Today happened to be just that kind of day, and as soon as I fired up my computer I found an email from my ex. That would be the most recent ex who is still convinced I’m the woman of his life, even though I’ve supplied him with plenty of evidence to the contrary by now. I’ve been a royal bitch to this guy. I’ve been patient and kind too, but truly, I just can’t stand the person I am when I have anything to do with him. That was more or less why I took my distances from him to begin with. Of course I could point the finger and make a long list of very good reasons why he’s responsible for our demise as a short-lived couple, but at the end of the day, it was the loss of respect I couldn’t stand anymore. The loss of respect I had for myself. Of course there are always many versions to a story. He remembers the good times over the bad. Must be nice to go through life that way, but I tend to take a more realistic view, which tends to leave romance in the lurch, that much is true.

The email: an anecdote to reiterate that he can’t stand Australia, Australians and that “awful” Australian accent. Followed by a mention of how much he misses me and when are we getting together? So innocuous, and yet it ended up causing a short-circuit in my brain after too much time spent mulling it over. Why say something like that if he wants to get back together? Is it a game? Is he being cruel? Is he just plain stupid? Can someone actually be that moronic? I love Australia. I’ve seriously considered moving there. I felt right at home in Sydney and got along famously with our new family members there. The ex knows all this, it all happened shortly before we met. While we were together he spent a very long time digging and questioning until I finally came out with it and said that yes, I had had a fling while I was there. I felt angry about being coerced like that. It did not lead to higher understanding. Just more strife and accusations and resentment.

I came to question everything I took for granted about personal boundaries, love, romance, sex, intimacy, commitment with that relationship. That wasn’t the first time, far from it. I’ve always been willing to put all that into question, only this time it came at a time in my life when I was learning—the hard way—that I had to take care of my own needs first and foremost, that I had to learn to actually like and respect myself, as a matter of survival, that I had to listen to my own voice first and foremost. All that was just too much to think about today. I suddenly felt exhausted. Lied on the couch, didn’t wake until late tonight. Hoped I’d wake up with a new outlook. Now I just can’t help but wonder: where’s that big bitch when I need her? I think I’ll be keeping her close by for next time I need her. Hopefully she can keep me awake.

Love, unrequited

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You can’t surf the web these days without constant reminders that Valentine’s day is just around the corner. I’ve never been a big fan of Valentine’s day, no matter what situation I happened to be in. If I had a boyfriend, then I didn’t want to make a big deal out of that one day of the year, because I always thought love and romance should be celebrated all the time, and that making a schedule for romance was preposterous and just asking for trouble.

I find the fake sentimentality of the Valentine’s marketing season offensive; the bad chocolates sold a the pharmacy and cheap half-wilted flowers on every street corner depress me. If you’re trying to save money, surely there’s a more genuine way to express loving and caring to that one special person? And if a person has several “special persons” to buy gifts for, then I don’t want to hear about it, though I hear florists have all sorts of tales to tell on that subject. On another register, remembrances of loopy handmade paper hearts brought back from kindergarten, asking our mothers “Will you be mine?” always make me wish we’d kept things simple like that well into our adult years.

When you’re dating, Valentine’s makes for an awkward time. No matter what stage you’re at, inevitably it’s bound to give rise to the “what now” question. Say you’ve just met and don’t know if the other person wants to pursue… is this the time to get into that conversation? If you’ve been dating a while, what now, should you take things further? What if she expects him to mention the “M” word and the only thing he can think about is sex with her wearing a naughty outfit, or he gives her a little box containing the key to his house instead of the coveted ring? Those situations can give rise to tears of disappointment and bitter recriminations in no time. That would dampen any mood. I certainly wouldn’t want to be a guy on February 14th on any year. Who wants to deliver on so many unspoken expectations?

Married couples: I wouldn’t know what it’s like for them, but it’s a safe bet to say that if the marriage is solid, no matter what happens or doesn’t happen on that day is not going to have an impact on a healthy union either way. But if things are shaky, that must make for one difficult day to get through. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear there are as many couples who decide to get married as there are who opt to get a divorce on that same day. If you’ve just broken up and the wound is fresh, seeing those pink and red hearts everywhere feels like so many darts aimed straight you (here I speak from experience), and we wish we could vanish, mind, body and spirit so we wouldn’t have to suffer through a day celebrating all that is out of reach for us.

Which brings me to… Love unrequited. Most all of us have experienced it one way or another. As much as it hurts to be the lover rejected, there is also pain involved in being the rejector (unless you’re a sadist of course). Whether you continue communicating or whether you don’t, you know that no matter what you’re hurting the other person. But if the other persists once you’ve made it clear that there is no hope for love to blossom, then you just have to show some tough love and say what needs to be said — yes, even at the risk of sounding cruel and uncaring.

I say Valentine’s day could be a day to celebrate Love unrequited — maybe consolation prizes could be handed out to the candidates with a “close but no cigar” kind of theme. I don’t know if that idea will catch on, so in the meantime I’ve created the following collection of candy hearts that you can special deliver to all those admirers who just won’t quit no matter how many times you haven’t returned their calls. They’ll be sure to appreciate the gesture.

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To make you own candy hearts, click here.