Bob’s Version of events
He sent her flowers and the usual e-mail with exploding flowers and chocolate flavoured everything and she still refused to be his valentine.
Geeze, Bob thinks. God. What does it take to make this lady happy enough to go out with me on the most hallowed of all romantic days, St.Valentine’s. Maybe she’s gay and only responds to women. Perhaps she’s allergic to chocolate and perceives my gifts as lethal face disfiguring weapons and ultimately life threatening. I even read the Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus book and learn that I’ve been doing all the right things except in the wrong order and on a different planet.
Flowers are supposed to represent something else (I can’t remember). I think they represent petal or fetal positions and chocolate represents the satisfaction coming with consumption and seems to satisfy some kind of urge (I only know of two urges and one of them is sleep after the first urge is over).
So what’s the problem with her? It’s not like we don’t know each other, hell we even *84#ed the other night. I took her out and went to a great shoot ‘em-up and everything exploding everywhere type of movie, after going out to the best all you can eat for $9.99 (in the reserved smoking section no less) then off to the C.L.’s till closing time, geez. What more could a woman want? It seems like they want this kind of treatment everyday, who can afford to eat out and drink up like that. She must think I’m some kinda Donald Trump or Kevin Costner or one of those sexless guys. Next thing you know, she’ll wanna get hitched then I’ll really have to fork up.
Jane’s Valentine’s Day
Bob’s such an as&*%$. I thought he was going to choke on his 30th chicken wing at the all you can eat for $9.99 (even though he paid for the meals I had to pay the taxes on it. He told me I was doing the right thing, helping out the government and the whole country and all that). He told me not to tip because he was going to carry everything from the buffet. I think he gave the manager and the cook a heart attack when we were done a few hours later. He even spit in my glass of wine and made the waiter taste it so the we wouldn’t have to pay for the pitcher of wine. He doggybagged the deserts and fortune cookies and we ate them at that stupid movie instead of buying real treats.
I should never have told him to read that book. Now he thinks he knows all of a woman’s inner thoughts and can understand them. Where’s Mel Gibson when you need him. I said that chocolates would be fine, not a package of O’Henry bars from Zellers. I’m glad I didn’t mention lingerie otherwise we would never be able to step out the bedroom door for the next week.
I’m kind of hoping he’ll grow up someday and sell that muscle car of his and get something I’ll be able to drive, but he always says looks are important. Who the hell cares anyway, you can’t even see him zooming by at a hundred miles an hour and he never lets anyone inside, not even me on occasion, like last Halloween. And he’s so jealous, but for some strange reason, I still want him to be my boyfriend, even if he’s a little wacko. I should look that up, maybe he’s from Pluto and there are no reasonable explanations for his behavior.