Fuck Valentines Day

Story from Valentines Days past, one year I was separated by land and sea from my man, who had a thing for guns, and to make up for it, he sent a picture of himself shooting a gun, only he had replaced the gun with a photoshopped bouquet of roses.

And you think your Valentine's Day plans suck.

Sometimes I think that maybe I don't have bad taste in men....

....And then I remember that I dated someone with a Jedi braid.

Not okay.

Shirt Curse.

Men, us ladies are pretty damn easy to please. We want jewelry. We want flowers. We want hand written love letters.

We do NOT want: iTunes gift cards, chocolate (especially TWO boxes of chocolate when we don't really even like chocolate), the Glee soundtrack, a tank top you made for me, a mix cd with the song “Bad” by U2 on it ( Sample lyric: If I could through myself /Set your spirit free /I'd lead your heart away /See you break, break away /Into the light /And to the day ), socks, play doh, birthday dinner with you and your brother and your best friend (what?!), a chocolate rose, massage oil (given on a first date, by a white rapper.) (Beat that sucka)

While women might be not so picky about what they get as gifts, men are quite straight forward (or at least the ones I've dated)

They do not want shirts.

I have a shirt curse.

I give a man a shirt (dress shirt, t-shirt, sweatshirt, what have you) and they break up with me.

A lot of people have said I'm over thinking it, but this shit has happened at least 4 times, It's a scientific fact. Gift of a shirt= pain and rejection for me.

The shirt curse started off innocently enough. I had been dating Rick for a good month, we were pretty rock solid, he was sleeping over pretty much every night and he had in fact given me one of the best presents I have ever received as a grown woman, Rick gave me the wondrous present of my first orgasm. Feeling generous, I decided to extend my gratitude and purchase him something when I went down to the states on vacation. Now, these were the good ol' days in which Abercrombie and Fitch was really popular due to the LFO song, “Summer Girls” (you know, Rich Cronin (RIP) sang about his love of girls wearing Abercrombie and Fitch, the colour purple, cherry coke and other gems... really quite the classic), and being from Canada, Abercrombie and Fitch was still one of those things you had to go down to the states for (now it's for the orange Fanta, mini pints of Ben and Jerrys and Pinkberry). Anyway, a girlfriend and I ventured down to the states and while we were there happened upon an Abercrombie and Fitch. I figured since this Rich Cronin guy was singing of its joys, maybe Rick would enjoy it as well. Boy, was I ever wrong. Not only did I shell out like $99 American for this stupid sweatshirt (which in those times was like $200 Canadian), but I also came back to Canada without a boyfriend. That's right, we broke up before he even received the stupid thing. Rick felt the shirt vibes and just peaced out. So now I was boyfriendless, but now owned the most expensive sweatshirt in the world. (which also happened to be about 5 times my size)

The shirt curse actually lay dormant for a few years after that, making me think that it was gone for good. That's the things about curses, everything is going so well, that you forget that they are there, and then you slip up. And this time, I slipped up good.

Narcissistic and borderline evil ex I dated for 2 years. 2 years exactly. I bought him a t-shirt for our 2 year anniversary. BAM! BOYFRIENDLESS! To make things even more awkward, the first time I ran into him (aka the worst thing to ever happen to you ever) he was wearing the shirt. I gifted him a fabulous t-shirt, he gifted me my singledom.

Since then, the shirt curse has reared its ugly head a couple more times, and now I know not to buy a man a shirt ever.

Moral of the story? Shit son, have you not been listening? Shirts, no bueno.

(Thanks http://printliberation.com/ for the amazing shirt... please bring it back into print.... I will buy it...for myself, not for a boy)

The Googler.

“You should Google him before the date” my roommate wisely told me, “just to make sure he isn't crazy”. “That's ridiculous” I responded “Plus, whenever I Google people I know, nothing ever comes up.”

Famous last words.

To set this scene of this tale of woe, I should mention that I had just gotten out of a 2 year relationship with a man I can only describe as narcissistic and borderline evil. My shattered ego was still somewhat piecing itself back together and I was hoping that online dating would somehow pull me out of the hole of self pity and self loathing I was in. I hoped that it was boost my ego, and worst case scenario, would give me a few good stories to tell (as if I needed more). In my insecure state, I started talking to Manny. I think what initially drew me to him was his adorable dog (pets always suck me in). I thought to myself “Well here is a totally normal dude who has this adorable dog... How bad of a person could he be?”. Note to self: any man can own a dog. Look at Michael Vick.

He set up the date: on Halloween. At a theme park.

Men, please take note. If Manny did anything right in his life (apart from adopting such an adorable dog... seriously, this dog was cuuute), it was setting this date up. Not only am I a huge fan of Halloween (he even added the “Just think of how fun our anniversary would be...”), but I am a sucker for fun and creative dates. No more dinner and movies! Take us out to do something crazy and fun. Manny's date planning skills were awesome. We had a blast. Not only did we bond over being scared (both of rides and haunted houses) but it also gave us a lot of time to bond and talk on the way to and from said theme park.

But Manny did not mention everything.

I left the date feeling pretty excited. Not only did I have the first date since the big breakup, it went well! I had fun! This dating thing wasn't as bad as I thought it would be! I was patting my own back all the way home.

About a week later, I was bored and fiddling about on the internet when I remembered the conversation that the roommate and I had had about Googling Manny, and thought to myself, why not?

I Googled.

Not only did I find out that Manny had a blog, but Manny had a blog that detailed his time in prison. For violent (and possibly gang related) crimes.

Moral of the story? Always, always, always Google.