You’re Stupid, Cupid

I’m that girl. The one that wears her heart on her sleeve, the archetypal hopeless romantic. Yet Valentine’s Day is one Hallmark holiday I absolutely abhor. I associate it with rejection, and have done ever since I was at school. As I’ve got older it’s got worse. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a hearts and roses kind of gal, but I’ve never been the recipient of such on this particular day – not in thirty-two years. As some people feel Bah! Humbug about Christmas, I feel Cupid should shove is heart-shaped arrows up his arse, sideways.

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Every year while at school, the prefects would come go door-to-door to every classroom handing out anonymous cards and trinkets to the chosen. Some of the girls I was in high school with would go home with bags full of goodies. But not me. Not a single one.

In late 2014 I met someone who was in the process of getting divorced. We had fun together and I found my affection for him growing.

Then in January 2015, scarcely six weeks after his divorce was final, he tossed me aside like yesterday’s news after meeting someone a decade younger than me at a party he partnered me to.  But wait! It doesn’t stop there…

A mere two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, he asked her to marry him, and as has become the norm in this day and age, the announcement was broadcasted on Facebook. I was gutted. So was his ex-wife of almost 21 years. Both she and I have moved on, and while I can’t speak for her, the day is still one to which I attach a negative connotation, so for now, until someone changes this Misfit’s mind, I’m going to abide by these images:

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I Really am a Misfit…

…I realized this in quite a humourous way last night.  It’s amazing how when you hear someone retelling a story you’ve told, just realize just how nutty you sound.

Last night at Ewan’s “The-thesis-study-is-finally-handed-in” surprise sausage barbeque, Carmen’s friend, Marion (whom I have also befriended) was telling a few of the group that she thought I was a bit strange when we first met.  A group of us went out for coffee one evening after work, and there was Marion, unfamiliar to me, but a friend of Carmen’s, so someone awesome, simply by association.  I knew all the other people that were there, and they knew me, so I didn’t think twice about telling them about the tragic passing of Mom’s much loved canary.

Now, most of my friends will tell you that I love animals, but that I seriously suck at taking care of them.  Not because I don’t want to, simply because I’m so scatterbrained, I sometimes simply forget.  I am not a good pet-sitter either, pets tend to die on my watch, as was the case with said canary.

Mom and Dad went away for a few days, about a week, the destination is irrelevant.  The fact is they weren’t home, the canary was, and it was left in my capable over-30 hands…or so they thought.

I remember sitting at work updating orders when the proverbial bucket of ice-cold water was poured down my back!  Shit, I’d forgotten to feed the canary, for about three days running. Oh well, if it’d survived this long (never assume anything!), what was another hour or two, right?  When I eventually did get home, after first stopping at the mall for something, and then at a friend for a quick coffee (which lasted about two hours), I trotted off to the back porch to check on the canary and well…it was dead (as most of you probably expected by now).  I was quite distraught – not because it was dead, but that Mom wasn’t around to bid it farewell and bury it, so I did what I thought (Marion obviously didn’t) was the next best thing, and I wrapped it in clingwrap, and popped it in the freezer, right next to the frozen chicken pieces.  Birds of a feather…

The day before my folks were due home, I broke the news as gently as I could that the canary had chittered it’s swansong and was now in the Big Aviary in the Sky.  Mom was understandably upset.  What upset her even more was that I’d frozen the carcass.  “Now mom, it wasn’t a carcass, it still had all its feathers and everything…” I told her that I wasn’t going to bury the poor little creature until she got home.

The day of the burial arrived – Mom made me dig a tiny little grave at the rose-bush and I placed the little popsicle in the ground, clingwrap and all.  Mom thumped me upside the head and told me to use my brain – plastic is not biodegradable!  So I picked it up, grabbed the ends of the plastic and shook until the canary popped out with a soft thud into the ground.

Our rose-bush is still growing like a weed…and the flowers are canary yellow too.  Coincidence?  Nah!

So, as I sit here, rereading this post before I publish, I realize just how loony I must have sounded regaling this true tale to someone who’d just met me.  I guess I really am a misfit…but I love myself just the way I am.