On Valentines Day.

In my youth, I prided myself on my standing within the ranks of the ill-educated prepubescents who would silently rebel against the institution of Valentines Day. Valentines Day, street name Singles’ Awareness Day. Capitalism’s Hannukah. A day of redemption for the poor blokes who effed up Christmas.

So, thinking I was making a statement and people actually gave a Danish, I’d don some not-so-gay-apparel (all black, to be precise) and display, somewhere on my person, “Get a Room – Boycott Valentines Day!”

And that was that.

If you were to ask me whether or not I still share those sentiments, I’d have to shrug my shoulders and give you an “iuno” face. While I will vehemently argue that Valentines Day is just another day for America to attempt to get their money in the black before tax season (which I might almost call noble, given our current economic status), I will say this. Though people make cliches of phrases such as, “Valentines Day should be everyday,” I will be the first to admit that there are times when I am thankful for the one-time annual occurrence of Valentines Day. Because of the hustle and bustle of the world in which we live, it’s easy to forget the ones who have given to us emotionally, physically, spiritually, etc. I for one make it a point to remind my mother (with whom I occasionally have rocky moments, given the bagajillian similarities we share) how much I love her, appreciate her, look up to her. I am reminded to give her a hug or ask her if her finger is okay because it was “ipit” last night. If there is any good in Valentines Day, and mind you– I say “if,” then it is such that was previously discussed.

I can’t hate Valentines Day, not entirely. I can choose not to participate in the mass media hooplah, the “Got it at Jared!” or the “Every Kiss Begins with Kay.” I think I’ll pass on the chocolate, the roses, the ballads (though I can’t say they wouldn’t be nice, especially on the receiving end). I don’t have to agree with what everyone says Valentines Day is. Instead, I think this year (and in the years to come), I’ll opt to simply go about the day and make it my own.


Momsie and Popsicle

Soliciting: A Date.

Someone interested in joining me for a night at the Hobby Center?

Friday, February 15 through Sunday, February 24
Friday & Saturday Performances – 8:00 PM
Sunday Matinee – 2:00 PM

Zilkha Hall
Tickets – $45, $35, $25

For tickets please call 713.315.2525 or click here.

At the bloody peak of the French Revolution, Sir Percival Blakenely gathers his friends around him and persuades them to join him in a “private war” against the inhumanities of the bloody French regime. They will call themselves The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel and work through disguise and diversion to save as many innocent English lives as they can while battling the tyranny of the French government. As they wage their war, the French soldier Chauvelin is ordered to apprehend the Pimpernel, and Percy must keep one step ahead of the guillotine while trying to protect his identity from Marguerite, his beautiful wife. The Scarlet Pimpernel is a thrilling and romantic adventure based on the famous 20th-century novel, and Frank Wildhorn provides a score that is both moving and passionate, a fitting complement to the intrigue and swashbuckling action you will see on stage.

An as a completely irrelevant side note:

Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods;
Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards;
Keep the blossoming buckwheat fields, where the Ninth-month bees hum;
Give me faces and streets! give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs!
Give me interminable eyes! give me women! give me comrades and lovers by the thousand!
Let me see new ones every day! let me hold new ones by the hand every day!
Give me such shows! give me the streets of Manhattan!

On surprises.

If there is one thing I have looked forward to most in my life (sans family, children, and all that general, predictable stuff), it’s a surprise. And I mean a surprise. The “I didn’t see it coming!,” or “How did you get in here?!,” or “How did you know…?!” The embarrassingly wonderful kind that merits a general outcry. The gut-wrenching, jaw-dropping, mind-blowing kind that makes you think, “How did something so beautiful happen to me?”

I’ve only been surprised once in my life, and that was so long ago I fear it may not count anymore. Everything else I’ve been able to “call,” “sense,” “foretell”… come on, boys, I was an English major. Foreshadowing was a major part of my coursework.

I will admit (because admitting is telling the truth, and there are no lies with me) that there have been days where I’ve said to myself, “Self, because of where I am and what I am doing today, it is the perfect opportunity for someone to sweep me off my feet and put a sparkle in my eye.” You couldn’t miss with the sort of planning I do. Hell, if I was someone’s boyfriend, I’d be freaking awesome. At any rate, I’m certain I’m not the only woman that does this… am I?

I guess the crux of it all can be summed up with a quote from my favorite surgeon/nymphomaniac: “Here it is, your choice… it’s simple, her or me, and I’m sure she is really great… but *insert name here*, I love you, in a really, really big pretend to like your taste in music, let you eat the last piece of cheesecake, hold a radio over my head outside your window, unfortunate way that makes me hate you, love you. So pick me, choose me, love me.” And as an addendum… surprise me. Wow me and make me love how you love me. It doesn’t even have to be love, because let’s face it– I’m a kid, you’re a kid– we’re just two crazy kids who need to know that people care about them. Look for the bare necessities– the I-love-you-you-love-me reciprocity. Take care of me. Surprise me. Love me.

Woof Watchers.

I have a one-year-old dachsund/terrier mix named Jack Brodie Fortin, and he is the apple of my eye– the sunshine of my days, even. I do what I can to be the best mommy I can be to my little canine, including paying copious amounts of money per year for his pet insurance, mixing McDonalds’ Chicken McNuggets into his dog food, and buying him Isaac Mizrahi pet polos.

I have since learned that all my lovin’, while well-intended, may actually be detrimental to his health.

What I’m saying is, I think I am killing my dog.

Prior to my arrival at home last night, my sister gave me a ring as I was in the car. “Jill, I think there’s something wrong with Brodie. He’s acting kinda weird.” She explained it might have been because my father, with whom he shares a special kinship, had not been able to spend time with him that day. I agreed, especially since dogs are such creatures of habit.

I discovered another possible reason after arriving home.

After raising such a ruckus after my 6:30 p.m. violin lesson showed up, I noticed his energy levels drop exponentially. In addition, I observed him giving up after fighting a bear given to me by a certain ex-boyfriend of mine. He surrendered to a stuffed animal. He then proceeded to chew through half a piece of rawhide and turned in early.

Then it hit me. My dog is becoming one of “those fat people,” except he’s not even a person at all!

He has all the signs! He’s gaining weight, scarfing down his food, begging for more, and setting his lazy bum in front of the television or in between the covers for the better part of each day. He’s less excited about going outside or exerting himself in any way, shape or fashion. How did it get here?!

And I realized, “I have no one to blame but myself.”

Is this how the parents of obese or overweight children feel? How is it that we can love our little `uns into lives of high blood pressure, cholesterol and hypertension? I shake my head at myself. Next time, I’ll be sure to think twice about buying him that extra box of treats or giving him that last table scrap

Shall we forego formalities?

Greetings and salutations.

Really, what you see is what you get. Unimpressed? I apologize.

I swear I’m brilliant, only not by society’s standards, implying therefore that you may not hold me in such regard either. At any rate, I’m beginning to wonder whether or not graduating a year early was a choice ill-made.

I’m ready to discover the world without being forced to view it through a particular lens. I welcome those who share the same sentiments. Hello, my name is Jillian. I am a thrillaholic.