2638. Valentine’s Day Massacre

You’ve no idea how enraged Brianna’s parents were.

“We did everything right,” said Ruth. “We did everything by the book, and look at us now. Brianna is all of seventeen and has got a Valentine’s Day card. FROM RUSSELL. Where did we go wrong? Russell’s heterosexual. Can things get worse? Yes they can.”

“We brought Brianna up to respect transsexuals. How humiliating is this? I’m almost too embarrassed to be seen in public. Everyone will know. I told you she should have had that operation when she was seven. And now this Russell Hetero-raving-sexual sent her a Valentine’s Day card.”

 “Oh my God,” wailed Olga. “Have you seen this Russell fellow that sent the card? He’s white. We brought up Brianna to respect black people and now she gets a card from a white racist. Our standing in the community plummets by the minute. This is soul destroying.”

“Oh!” screeched Winston, Brianna’s third mother. “We brought Brianna up to respect other cultures and now she gets a Valentine’s Day card from someone who’s not a foreigner. Come here Brianna. Come here instantly!”

“Brianna,” said all three, “we brought you up properly and you’ve become racist, homophobic, and xenophobic. From now on we disown you. You’re on your own, you disgusting ungrateful personage. You have shown no respect. Get out of the house.”

“I forgot to tell you,” said Brianna. “I’m pregnant.”

2356. My Valentine

Look, I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day. It’s yet another thing invented by sales people to make a buck or two. Those who sell chocolates and roses and cards must be making a packet. They’re swimming in dough. So for that reason I don’t support such superficial observances.

My friend, Sandra, commemorates Valentine’s Day. Her boyfriend always sends her a dozen roses; although he never lets on that it’s him, but we all know it’s him that sends them. Sandra is always over the moon and goes sloppy and it’s pathetic to see her go on and on about love and nonsense. She’s like a wet dishcloth when it comes to love – all a bit slimy and yucky. I’m not surprised she would commemorate something as phoney as Valentine’s. I’m not into bogus things like that.

This is the second year that no one has sent me flowers.

2051. Will you be my Valentine?

Betty got a Valentine’s card in the mail. It was the sweetest card. It read “Will you be my Valentine?” Betty had never received a Valentine’s card before.

Betty was forty-six years old. She had always regarded herself as a bit of wallflower. Spinsterhood, she had determined, was going to be her lot in life. And now this…

She sat in her corner armchair (next to the canary cage) and glowed as she read, and re-read, the card. Who was it from? The canary sang its heart out. There was a knock on the door.

There at the door were twelve red roses. There was no delivery person. Clearly the anonymous admirer had left the roses there himself. How wonderful is that? He must live nearby if he is able to deliver and disappear. But who was it?

There were only two “eligible” bachelors she knew of who lived nearby. There was Hermon Vociferich and Julian McDougall. Both rather handsome. Both rather rich. They lived together. She had always thought they were gay, but she had no reason to think that really. And now, clearly, one of them thought she was worth looking at twice.

Valentine’s Day passed. The next day came and went, and the next day, and the next. Nothing happened. Betty felt sad. The years passed. Betty’s canary was long dead.

Tomorrow the St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital is springing a surprise afternoon tea for Betty’s sixtieth birthday. It’s a charity she has volunteered a lot for over the years. Betty has always been wonderful! No one knows that she volunteers to help fill a big gap in her heart.