That's A. B is: why is one of these tweetle-dees a guy that I just happened to date for a second several months ago? That's right, we ran into each other tonight. He showed up out of nowhere, just when I took comfort in the fact that I would never see him again.
It made me feel dirty and depressed to see him. Partially because of the flippant nature in how our stupid interlude ended after a couple of over-drunk dates (over-drunk only on the part of him, which makes it even more depressing. 'Hey babe, I'm too drunk to be hot and sexy, but you know you want it.' Right. 'Actually dude, you're a douche bag, and I'd rather lick the dust off my shoes.'). Sigh. And partially because I ended up having sex with him. It was that kind of one-time-and-one-time-only sex where it's over before it begins because it's so awkward and insignificant and lame and fast and regrettable. But that's neither here nor there.
So here they are, looking at her ring and talking about how much it's worth and what she'll do to get it upgraded and blah blah blahbety blah. This is when I started thinking of those stupid advertisements I've been seeing on tv that run to the tune of: 'Love your loved one too much not to show it? Why not give her a diamond?' I feel nauseous even writing this. And no, I'm not a hater because I am single. Actually, I'm pleased as punch to be single. Maybe that's why I usually drop the men I date like hot pototoes--because after a couple dates, they start to make me feel like the world is closing in on me.
And so you can imagine how much I love Valentine's Day. But the truth is, I'm not such a Valentine's scrooge. I think it's cute how there's pink and red hearts in all the retail store windows; and people are not only talking about diamonds, but they're also talking about what they're going to do with their loved ones; where they will go to dinner and such. It's actually quite refreshing: the thoughts of entertainment and love in this god-forsaken economy. But I did set out to talk about diamonds, didn't I?
I did, but I don't care about diamonds. So let's talk about something that I do care about. I care about Hello Kitty. A lot. Over the years, people who are important to me have come to understand my fixation on the Japanese icon, and as a result, have gotten me all kinds of paraphernalia; from t-shirts to toasters to miniature picture frame magnets to ballet-slipper wall hangings to sugar dishes to compact mirror sets from when I was eight years old...and the list goes on. My favorite most recent Hello Kitty acquisition is a rubbery pen (a girl's true best friend, not some fucking diamond) with a little charm on the end of it and, oh of course, a tiny little diamond etched in the charm. Brilliant.
So could Hello Kitty be my valentine? Sure, she deserves it. She has brought me so much joy over the last twenty to twenty-five years. But really, if I had to say who my real valentine would be, it would be Satoko Minagawa. She was this beautiful, gentle, silky black-haired Japanese girl from my first grade class in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was my best friend, and she didn't speak much English, but I loved her. She had me over after school and she taught me to play piano and her mom would make me this delicious Japanese soup. And she gave me Hello Kitty pencils.
I haven't spoken to Satoko in over two decades, but I will never forget her. I wonder if she is in Japan right now. I wonder if she is talking with her husband about diamonds. I'll bet she doesn't even want one, or ever has, for (Japanese) Valentine's Day. I'll bet she still collects Hello Kitty. I sure do. I will forever. If I could send my old friend a telegram, I think I'd ask her to be my valentine. It would probably be on pink Hello Kitty paper. She would respond: 'sure...yes' on a different-colored Hello Kitty paper. And then I would sigh and say to myself: 'Satoko Minagawa is my valentine.' With her, who needs a diamond?
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