I Vote 'No' to Proposition Dating Rule: 'No Stalk'

I superiorly wish someone could explain how exactly these bullshit rules and terms ignited regarding the infuriating and heartbreaking world we call dating. Like waiting two days to call someone after obtaining their number? What? Not taking leftovers home from a first-date dinner? Um, no. No stalking unless you're a stalker? Fat chance. And oh! Okay okay, one of my favorites: don't, under any circumstances, call a person after you have been 'dumped' by this someone, because that's desperate, and yes, stalkerish; and of course it violates one of aforementioned rules of ridiculousness. But we'll talk about the latter of these two: the ends of things. 

Before we all get happy and clear, let's review the term 'dumped'. Wow, what a racket. This is such a horseshit way to describe the end of a relationship. It implies that the one person took the other person and, quite like that wonderful image in 'Slumdog Millionaire,' hoisted this other person into a pond of straight up fecal matter (actually in the movie, the boy fell into it, he wasn't hoisted, but the image was nasty either way). Unfortunately, society doesn't account for the fact that it's not exactly easy to 'break-up' with a person, and that sometimes ending a relationship can be just as hard for the person that's ending things as it is for the person who's being ended upon, if not harder. 

For the record, I would never sling someone that I cared about into a pile of excrement, or trash, or anything that wasn't pleasant to land in. The truth is, I care deeply about the people that I date. That's because I'm not an ignorant asshole and I try to consider others; and I actually put a bit of thought into choosing my flavor of the quarter or season or year or whatever you want (Depends on how good they are in bed. I'm kidding! Kind of).

But who cares right? That's just a silly way to explain a transpiring of events: being dumped. The bigger picture is, we tend to be trapped in these stupid boxes about how we perceive what's sane 'etiquette' when we take the plunge and let another person into our intimate little lives. The other night while I was having a bar chat as I often do (being a bartender not an alcoholic), a friend said that it wasn't 'healthy' that I thought nearly every day about a guy from my past. Not healthy? What the fuck is healthy? 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I can say I'm happy, and kinda mean it, I think I might be kinda healthy. It's natural to think about people who have impacted our lives. Also, I imagine that typically we don't fall in love, like the real kind of in love that we can't shake, but a couple times in a lifetime. And let's not forget that I'm among one of the few hopeful (not hopeless) romantics who still abound in this depressing world. Who knows, maybe after all of the fantastical masturbation fodder this person has offered me, he'll like show up at my door out of nowhere and offer to service me in real life. Of course I mean that I think about him in a rational, concerned sense, and not (always) necessarily a sexual sense. But now the tangents are just becoming tentacles on an octopus. 

Stalker behavior, as people see it, typically in women, is when women want to stay connected to a man. So, of course, they beg and plead and message upon message and show up at doors and cry and cry some more. Why is it usually the women and not the men? I mean don't get me wrong, I'm a woman, and I'm telling you I get it: there are some crazy bitches out there. These are the types of women who need filing cabinets for their emotions. I get all of that. And men: You have to deal with them, and I am quite sorry for that. Better you than me. 

But let me step up to the plate for my gender. Nobody had an individual say in how the great power of all the lands decided to divvy up the emotions and logics. Women got the short end of the stick with emotions (because they are judged for expressing them in volatile ways) and men got fucked when it comes to needing to, well, get fucked. It's nobody's fault. Let's just all get along. Let women stalk a bit and sometimes just chalk it up to: she cares about me, and she's a complicated individual. By the way, why must men always get all machismo when another dude starts up fighting shit in public, typically around drinking? I'm here to say: that's AS big of a turn OFF as stalking. 

What men might not realize is that it sucks for women to deal with men and their inability to express emotions. Like if you feel a way about something, why not just say it in a diplomatic way? Why fucking ignore it (the problem), or ignore her (the woman who cares what you have to say)? Emotion good. Emotion part of man and of woman. Emotion don't mean any harm. I mean come on. 

Men might not have been conditioned to express emotions, lest they look like faggoty fools, but jump into the new millennium, guys. Check out what's gaining stead with the ladies: that's right fellas, a realized man. A man who isn't afraid to cry (at the very least during a break-up, fuck it's hard, how bruised must you be to avoid tears during that??), or watch an intensely love-infested movie, or articulate calmly and admit being wrong, or listen even if you don't get it, or hell, I don't know. All of it's good. Better than ignoring issues and women who challenge you altogether. Shite, again the tentacles of tangents. 

I'm just saying I find it interesting that people judge my stay-in-contact impetus (through my thoughts or through my actions) as unhealthy, 'stalker' behavior. Though frankly, I've spent a lot of time perfecting my ability to not give a fuck what other people think of me. I'm an exception to many rules. My parents have been divorced for some 27 odd years, and yet they are best friends. 

So if I want to call a guy out of nowhere, regardless of whether or not I broke up with him or he broke up with me, it's potaytoe potahtoe, who cares? We're just two people in this wacky universe, and at the end of the day, we're all starving for connection. We all die to have someone ask us how we are. If I think about someone and I want to know how they are, I don't consider these shitty dating laws, I call them (or text or email or telegram them) and ask them. What's stalkerish about that? Isn't that like, I dunno, compassionate? I ain't scared of no pesky emotions.

Of course there's a flip side to that (isn't there fucking always?), which is: unfortunately many people don't take break-ups too well. Rightly so. They suck. And to be on the receiving end of them, can tend to, let's say, suck. So good; or not so good as it would go. Anyway the past several days, I've been thinking about a guy that I was with not long ago. We dated for a few months. He was hot, but not the kind of hot that you think of in terms of a life partner. It happens. 

Anyway, this guy, we'll call him Justin, was more into me than I was into him. That happens too. And make sure you understand: I do have a seed of humility; I'm not one of those heartless bitches who takes pride in saying 'he was all up in my shit'; it happens. In fact, my heart was pummeled into tiny little fragments, like baby platelets of glass that would feel absolutely smashing to digest, not too long ago by a different guy named, um, Rex, so check mate on my ass regarding that one. 

So I got to the point where I felt it was unfair for Justin that I hem and haw about where we were. After what I had learned from having my own heart broken, I knew it was a better idea to stop seeing each other; to make it easier on me because I needed space, but also on him because I was simply being a flake, and who deserves that? 

But the problem is, feelings don't go away. So I was thinking about this Justin; three months or so have passed give or take, and I decided to call him. So I texted him and asked if I could get together with him. No response. So I called him and left him a message because a real man (or woman) will actually CALL and not simply email or text, telling him I was thinking of him and blah and blah. I said that I understood where he was, but if he should change his mind about talking to me...blah and blah. No response.

Hmm. I feel his pain, I do. I'm sorry, I want to support that break-ups are hard. But being closed off to another person, with good intentions, opening up to you, I feel, can only impact you in a negative way in the future. But c'est la vie. Some people like Justin have more of a fatalistic view on things. Some people like him hate women who break up with them, and never want to talk to them again. Fair enough. Potaytoe potahtoe. 

For my part, however, I can't imagine ever not responding to someone that I once upon a time cared about. And so this all got me to thinking. So I reached out to another one of my exes to ask how he was doing; you know, the one who smashed my heart to baby platelets of inedible glass. Don't worry I'm over it. He hasn't responded either. HA! 

Stalker behavior? Do I give a fuck? I have a good heart, and I think that's all that matters. I'm out to hurt nobody; and in the end, the only person who really has the ability to hurt us is the I in us that makes us us. I say screw rules and ill-placed little dating terms. Happy spring romance! May you not deal with many break-ups and feel a new need to stalk. 

More on screwing...and screwing the economy and marriage

And so right, I'm saying the problem is that marriage doesn't work that way. We can't just be married some seasons, and not married others. What I'm proposing--I brought the idea up to my parents; my dad laughed, probably mostly because he understood my wish; my mom simply listened, probably hoping, like she always does, that I'll just get on board with the idea of 'commitment'--is that we are only married, like on a schedule. You know, like college courses. The schedule would read MWF: 'married', or TTr: 'not married'. 

Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for instance, I'd have a husband. We'd live together. We would talk. We would laugh and share and fight and have good sex and awful sex. He'd wash my hair in the shower, I'd wish to god he didn't snore. I'd put on my fucking headphones to drown out the sound, but not be able to sleep on account of the earpeace digging into my ear while my head was pressed into the pillow. He'd wonder why I did yoga first thing in the morning. I'd wish he wasn't such a slob in the bathroom, and wonder why he didn't do the dishes as quickly as I would (meaning why does he leave them stacked up for days?). So on and so forth. 

Ah, but then, the dawn would set (or the dusk, depending on how much 'in love' we felt on any given day), and the next day would come. The 'not married' day. Say it was a Tuesday. He would go back to his cave, or apartment, or fancy condo or shack, and I would be SINGLE and alone and independent and free. Free from worrying about him. Free from confrontation. Free from having to cook for two. Free from compromise. Free from the sound of the television if I weren't the one to turn it on. Free from having our things mixed up in the closet. Free free free. Everything in the apartment mine mine mine.

You might say to me: But Jinnene, it already happens this way, it's called dating, being in a committed realtionship without kids. Fine, call it what you want. But are we really committed if we're not married? And what if we want to have kids? I guess that's an entirely different topic altogether. My parents would tell me--that's where my little fantasy remains what it is: mere fantasy. To have children, we all probably agree, man AND wife need to be around MWF, TTr, and even on SaSu. That adds up to all the fucking days in the week! Good grief.

So about the economy. We talk about how shabby it is and I talk about how I'm tired of hearing about it. I'm tired of seeing everyone in this constant state of depression. I mean I understand it, but it's still, well, depressing. So what does this have to do with sex and marriage? Well I guess it doesn't have anything to do with it, other than the fact that it-the shitty economy-is a contemporary concept. It's a 'today' thing. But there's another 'today' thing, which is: there are a hell of a lot of women like me, who don't know if they need to get married and have sex all the time with one man...like...ever.

But this poses a problem. If we stop marrying because women are unsure they should keep marrying just for the sake of it, then our economy continues to tank because we're not perpetuating households and putting windfalls of cash back into the market. Furthermore, we're not bringing up responsible, educated families. The very fabric of our society: our family values, are being smashed to smitherines. And I, me, in my selfish regard to keep the TTr schedule, or the TTrSaSu schedule of being all about me me me and not all about man man sex sex compromise, am contributing to this crumbling of household.

Alas, what can be done? My dad would agree with me, and god bless him for doing so, that I or we or anyone, can't just 'couple' simply because it's good for the economy or society. We have to do what's good for us. What's good for me is holding out for true love, if it even exists. God I hope it does. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep my M-Su schedule, that is--M-Su: 'married', participating parties: me and my invisible husband called myself. Hmm, yeah, I think that's what I'll do. May our dear, frail little economy find the mend. 

Oh and by the way: now there are only 14 days until spring, and it's daylight savings time tonight. Hail hayzoose, the winter is about to shrivel up and die...or at least for another two months until next winter as it goes in Chicago. Hugs and happy flowers. 

I Love the Funny Little UPS Guy

So last week, I received a rather large package from UPS. If you're interested, it beheld a small black table I painstakingly assembled and put under a mirror in my hallway. I'm trying to be more and more 'upper-crusty suzie-homemaker' regarding my decorating capabilities. But that's neither here nor there. 

So Thursday night, it was raining really hard. I was expecting said package. I'm not sure what I was doing while I was expecting it; perhaps I was playing with my new Hello Kitty toys recently received from a slew of my students. Or writing something bizarre. WHO knows. The buzzer sounded. I ran downstairs, careful not to trip on my baggy 'lounging' pants in my excited, fumbly haste. 

'Hello,' the cute little uniformed Asian man said to me as I opened the door. 'You're Miss Foster?' 'Yep,' I said through a smile, politely taking his automated signature tablet, scrawling something on it that moderately resembled my name. But then I felt bad. The package was huge, and as he was fumbling for it, I suddenly wanted him to get out of the rain. 'Do you...want to come in...or something?' And I meant it, but not only until I actually asked it did I realize how absurd it sounded. Of course I just meant would he like to step in the entryway while we worked it (the transaction) all out. I mean the poor little man was drenched. 

But then he said something that I'll never forget. He said something that made me love UPS. He said, quite dryly: 'I could...but what would Mr. Foster say?' 

Frankly, I love anyone who makes me laugh...but it's little Asian men that make me laugh unexpectedly while it's pouring rain in winter that really get me. I love UPS, I really freakin' do. 

It's Spring--Screw the Economy

All I'm saying is: isn't the talk of our ratty economy getting tired? And fine, I'm lying in this title. It's not technically spring, I get it. But in 16 days, it will be. And what do we think about when spring rolls around? That's right: sex. Well, it's what I think about anyway. Some bar friends used to tell me that I talked so much about sex while I was bartending because I wasn't getting any. But I think in essence, I talked about it because it's sex, and it's interesting.

I just really wish I could take a poll. I wonder if people have sex less during the winter. I stayed holed up in my lair this winter. I did a lot of reading and a lot of writing, and very little sexing. I really can't say I missed it. But now I kind of do. And with this said, I don't think marriage is very practical if you ask me. If I only miss having sex during certain seasons, I'm hell fire to make shit of a wife. 

'Honey, I'm really needing it.' 

'Is that right? Stick it out until March, we'll talk then.' 

'But honey, it's like December 15th.' 

'Oh, maybe we should break up and try to get back together when I'm fired up for sex again.' 

Sigh. If only.

More on all this soon...

7:00 in the Morning: A Crack Addict and Cold Rain

A couple of my closest friends think it's hilarious that I recently took a job cleaning condos around the city. I don't know, maybe they're right. I guess it is kind of funny--the thought of me as a maid. Perhaps it's not like enough of us middle (me) or upper-middle (not me) classers don't think of people that clean as some type of servants. So that's what I've been reduced to become in this doggy-dog piece of crap economy: a servant.

I can't lie: labels and status and status through labels do nothing for me; they really never have. So if me partaking in a min wage manual labor job makes me a servant, then I guess that's what I am. It must be what I am, despite my lofty aspirations of becoming a comfortably paid writer/educator and my expensive, extensive history with higher education and degrees. Jinnene the molly maid servant.

What I laugh at regarding this job, however, is not the irony involved in the labels. No, it's that I didn't foresee that it would be perfect fodder for my writing pursuits. I mean, the women I encounter as co-workers at the tiny cleaning company are the pricelessly unlikely types to cross my path if not for this job. But you really can't understand what I mean unless I tell you.

Wednesday, 7:16 or so in the morning. It's February 11th, and it's shitty as hell outside. Rainy and cold and dank and insipid, especially when you know the entire day will consist of lugging a cheap, cumbersome vacuum cleaner, mops, a huge duffel of cleaning supplies, and a bucket with even more supplies up and down a variety of twisty, pisser staircases, or down a variety of different streets, all the while, the whipping streams of rain biting into your face as you think: By joe, my friends were freakin' right--this is hilarious: I am a servant and my life officially sucks.

But before all of that, you meet up with Audra, your partner for the day (daily cleaning teams are comprised of two people). Audra is 1/2 mexican and 1/2 black. She is overweight and has a giant, silver pierced stud protruding from her lower lip. She wears glasses and has a warm smile. You have no problems with her, yet you wouldn't exactly ask her out for drinks. You're not soul mates or anything. After all, you and she speak in completely disparate languages: she employs a vernacular that consists of saying 'mines' for 'mine,' 'dat' for 'that,' and 'husband' for 'boyfriend,' but maybe the latter is a cultural thing. Either way, you are from opposite sides of the tracks, and you don't know what you'd care to share with her.

Unfortunately for you, as it's 7:16 in the morning and you've barely gotten through 1/4 of the hazelnut coffee in your stainless thermos, Audra disagrees. You see, even though you've only known her for a couple of days, she wants to bare her soul with you. She proceeds to tell you, once you've gotten into her car upon departing the company's office in Lakeview, about how she had a 'rough' night. Turns out her 'husband' has been addicted to crack for five years. She and he have been living together in a tiny, scrapped-up studio apartment on the south side. He's been lying to her about smoking crack, and she has (unknowingly) been driving him to the sights for his drug intake, thinking these sites were places where he would work and make money to help her pay the rent.

But not so. Instead, he would use the small sum of money that he did make selling newspapers on street corners to scrap for crack tablets; Audra even spotted these tablets, or 'white pills' as she called them, in an old cigarette box while she and he fought in the street yesterday. Their fight consisted of her suspicions of what he had in the cigarette box, knowing it was crack and asking him to show her, he denying that the crack tabs were in the box, saying it was only cigarettes, and to keep out of his shit. Only after she wrestled with him, she took possession of the box, shook the box, and out into her hand, popped these 'white pills'.

She's telling you all of this, with vivid detail. You're thinking about how she would make a really fucking aces writer; that she calls up some pretty interesting details. She's not like the large majority of the population that flap the jaws incessantly, spouting out snippets of stories that are nauseatingly boring. No, Audra knows how to select her particulars, and she cooks up a good tale. But then again, you've never actually talked to the accomplice of a crack addict ever in your life; and for a second, you wonder which is more true: that you have lived a sheltered life, or that you really know how to choose your life adventures.

Either way, you're also thinking: thank GOD ALIVE that this not my life. Thank GOD ALIVE I was born into less suffering (not that Audra is suffering because she is who she is, but she sure makes less money than you ever have, and you can only imagine that to be associated, if not in love with, someone who is addicted to crack, someone who is 48 years old, by the way--to Audra's 24 years old--can only bring about its own string of suffering). One more thing you're thinking: this is going to be a long fucking day. You think this because you've only been in the car for 15 minutes, and listening to her story is exhausting.

You think this again (that you're exhausted) after Audra turns to you and says: 'See, Ja-neen, I rilly think of you as ma friend...because you listenin ta me rot now. Yeah...you ma friend.' She's nearly in tears. She doesn't know what she will do because she just kicked the 48-year-old crack addict out of her tiny tattered studio, and then he broke in in the middle of the night. And she kicked him out again, but she doesn't feel safe; she thinks he'll steal her things, or bring dangerous people around. And on top of this: she loves him and she's heartbroken. How could she not see that he was using? Jesus Christ.

That's what happening with her. But you're thinking: Fuck, I hope she doesn't ask me for my phone number before the end of the day. And that thought, that you feel that way, that you don't want to be her friend, depresses the hell out of you. Still, you keep your cool and do your best to give her advice. You're parked on Harrison street in Audra's black Pontiac Sunbird or whatever the shit it is. It's raining like hell and you really don't want to clean; you barely slept a wink last night thinking about your own problems (who knows what they are). It's raining and you're telling Audra that she should disassociate herself completely from the addict. You say that he won't learn anything if she continues to offer him a pillar for support. He will never learn to clean up if he doesn't figure it out for himself. And furthermore, she's only hurting herself by allowing him to pull her down.

You can't believe this. Again, your friends were right: how hilarious. And reader, you might not see the humor in this. It's certainly not funny that there are people out there who love users. For god's sake, who hasn't cared about someone who has had a drug problem? But oddly enough, a crack addiction, at least to you, seems like such a high grade of rock bottom (ironic choice of words), if only because of its highly addictive, not to mention physically damaging, nature.

Eventually, as you consult the red numbers of Audra's digital clock, you tell yourself what you have told yourself many many times since you started this job: it's just a job. One day, you will be writing what you love and teaching what you love to people who care (much like you do already, but now it's only part time, and you wish you could do it full time). Right now, you need this gig. But later, one day, you might have some beautiful condo (not unlike the ones you clean), and you'll be free of these bullshit min wage jobs that consist of cleaning toilets and inhaling noxious chemicals and having chats on crack. One day. One day not too far in the future. But for now, the goal is to pay your bills. And you will. But first, you need to work. And that's what you're about to go do.

And the Award Does Not Go to: Mr. Douche

Previously, in Satoko's article, I mentioned the term 'douche bag'. I don't know what the literary protocol is on that term; that is, do we write it as two words or what? But now I'm just being neurotic, so we'll move on. 

So right, I described this guy who I dated for a second as such. A 'douche bag'. But this morning, as I was delivered from the world of sleep to awake, I realized that perhaps it could be useful for future endeavors if I try to become more sensitive as a writer. So I'll define the term 'douche bag'. 

A 'douche bag', or 'DB' as some like to call it, is typically a guy, if not always. He's usually someone who thinks, like the 'tweetle-dees' (another loose term I cooked up to replace 'douche bag') at my bar last night, that diamonds are important--and that knowing about them is important--only because women like them; only because they have great monetary value; only because they represent a certain level of status. For instance: if you see a woman with a giant, obnoxious rock on her finger, you automatically assume that she has a husband who has a lot of money (regardless of whether or not he got that money legally). Or you assume he's a douche bag, or a sentimental douche bag, because he saved for years of his life to give this diamond to a girl who will end up leaving him in a couple short years. But now we're deviating from the point.

A douche bag is someone who, like my aforementioned date, thinks that he understands people. He thinks he knows the most important things about the world. And fine, in his own, individual reality, I suppose he does. But he doesn't, oops. He's someone who thinks people at bars or restaurants want to hear what he's saying, even though they've never seen him in their lives. In truth, they simply want to have a drama-free evening out with their significant others, or close friends. 

Douche bags typically like to make money for the sake of doing it. For instance, I'm sorry to say, but while bartending at Whiskey Blue for years of my life, which is situated in Chicago a mere set of steps from the notorious Board of Trade, I have served countless traders. And from where I was sitting (or standing, as it would go), many (and a painful amount of many, like so many it was more close to MOST) traders are douche bags. My dad would agree. If only because they make more money than they need to make, and it fucks up the economy. Right on, dad. I love you.

Douche bags don't really take a look at themselves. I know this is how a lot of us are. And I understand that it's scary; scary as fucking hell, to really delve into your soul and see what you are. To try to find meaning in life's events, or people's actions, especially if they're you're own. But if we're interested in trying to make the world better, I don't see that we have another choice. Unfortunately, many of the douche bags will never see this. It's sad. But now I'm moving onto another topic.

The thing is, at the time of these dates with Steve we'll call him, I knew he was what I would call a douche bag. I mean for Christ's sake, the dude was wasted and I had hardly had a drink. What was he trying to prove? Or hide? Or was he just an alcoholic? If so, that's another story entirely. Douche bags can tend to be tacky on dates, that's another thing. They also can tend to assume that the women they are with actually want to sleep with them, if only because they are so stuck on themselves, they can't see it any other way.

So that brings me to my next point. Douche bags think a lot about themselves. A shit load. But people don't like people who think about themselves and only themselves. It demonstrates a level of ignorance and lack of compassion. These people cannot be trusted, like many politicians, because they are not really thinking of the interest of the common man. It makes me nauseous and sad. And I said in Satoko's (god bless her) article that it depressed me to see 'Steve' last night; doing so reminded me of the number of douche bags out there. 

Still, I hope for the best for Steve and for other douche bags. Maybe one day they will see the light and stop doing things that are void of great meaning when considering the bigger picture. Maybe not. Either way, I'm infinitely grateful to have been born a woman, and not a douche bagette. Douche bagettes exist too, but that's another article. Anyhoos, I just didn't want you to assess that I wasn't a conscientious writer. I mean it's not like I called Steve a douche bag for no reason. 

Satoko Minagawa is My Valentine

Before I get started here, might I just say: I really don't see what the appeal of a diamond is. As we roll into that crusty hallmark holiday people know as Valentine's Day, I hear about these things more than I'd like to acknowledge. Tonight I am bartending at the swank spot that I occasionally do, and these two tweetle-dees at the bar are fawning over my dear friend's wedding ring (she's sitting there keeping me company). She continues to mention how in several years, she's going to get it upgraded. My question is: who the fuck cares?

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?