A rose by any other name would still make it look like someone loved me
Valentine’s day is nothing but a fabricated capitalist cash-grab designed to trick men into spending their hard-earned money on teddy bears wearing bowties that will, in less than two years, be cluttering the toy bins at Goodwill, passed up by every thrifty toy-seeking child because the teddy bear is cheap looking and bowties are ugly. Stores cram their shelves with meaningless shiny pink heart broaches and milk chocolate cupid statues in an attempt to convince both women and men that everyone else is buying this shit and that love can only exist in a relationship that includes a sparkly rose Pez dispenser. It’s all a load of soulless, tacky, soon-to-be-discounted crap.
That being said, I’d really like a teddy bear.
At work, I sit at my desk as the pale, hunched mailroom guy trots by again and again with bouquets of roses and mylar balloons and chocolate-covered-fruit arrangements and engagement rings encased in carved ice. They’re all going to the department of pretty girls down the way, easily distinguished by the pink and purple ribbons strung from the ceiling and the high pitched squeals of glee that bounce off the oversized heart balloons every time a new box of love-shaped cookies is delivered.
In the last 10 years I have received a total of one item for Valentine’s Day: a single rose. My third Valentine’s Day with this particular boyfriend and he had finally realized that maybe he should make some sort of loving gesture. I allowed the rose to dry out so I could keep it forever. A month and a half later I was crumpling it into dust and grinding it into his ball cap cos he had dumped me for a 19-year-old Brock student.
Needless to say, I have long abandoned my Grade 4 dreams of discovering the Heathcliffe valentine addressed to me from question-mark-inside-a-heart was actually from (insert undisclosed boy’s name as I am still too shy to reveal my 1993 crush). I have accepted the fact that I am not worthy of even the smallest romantic gesture.
But then came Valentine’s Day 2012. Upon arriving home from my day spent slumped over a desk, I unlocked my humble tin mailbox, expecting to find a No Frills ad selling single-serving Michelina dinners and a note from Xtreme Fitness saying maybe I’d be pretty enough for flowers if I lost 14 pounds. But instead my mailbox contained a baby-pink envelope embossed with a couple of hearts. My own heart fluttered. I had already received my annual you’re-a-great-daughter-and-I’ll-always-love-you-even-if-no-other-man-ever-does card from my sentimental Pops. Who could this love-filled treasure be from?
I immediately thought it must be from one of my endearing girlfriends, determined to bring me joy on such a dicey day. I glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to “My Long-Lost Love.” I, of course, was suspicious. The envelope did not say my proper name and my address had been printed on via computer. But then my gaze was drawn to the top right-hand corner of the happy pink rectangle. There lay a real stamp. A real Canada stamp with a picture of three dirty raccoons peering over a log.
No junk mail company would take the time to affix real stamps to each piece of garbage they sent out!
Clearly this was a prank from a friend, who had printed the envleope so as to disguise her handwriting. Or maybe it was sent from an old flame determined to present me with a classy envelope free of smeared, man-scrawled ink. Or perhaps this was one of those cute novelty mailouts where one can go online and have a secret valentine shipped to a friend. Perhaps this was a touching note from my computer-savvy uncle. Or a menacing plea from my now dormant stalker, which, while horrifying, would at least mean someone was thinking of me.
And that’s all that mattered – that on this day, when every other girl in the world was drowning in a sea of sugary cherry-flavoured chocolate filling, someone – ANYONE – was thinking about scruffy little me.
I tore the envelope open like a pitbull might tear into an unattended child. I pulled out a cheerful card, on which was printed a blue jay singing the words “Miss you!” in a dialogue bubble shaped like a heart.
My mind raced as I considered all the people who might miss me. An old pal from high school? A floor-mate from university? Or maybe my ex finally realized the 19-year-old he left me for DOES look like Eddie Izzard in drag and needed to express his regrets. I flipped the card open and was greeted with a poem.
Roses are red,
violets are blue,
here are two offers
from epost to you.
The valentine went on to note that I had not logged into epost.ca for a while and should do so to rediscover the benefit of managing my bills online. It also said I could take advantage of deals such as $25 towards a subscription to Maclean’s Magazine.
The only thing that could have been more depressing would be a valentine from my cat, and even then I would have been impressed at his ability to compose a sentence in modern English and sign his name with a pen. If I had not already written Valentine’s Day off as a giant marketing scheme I would have marched upstairs, chugged a bottle of merlot, then smashed it in half and plunged the jagged rim into my own neck. Epost is now using what is essentially a huge marketing scheme as a vehicle for its own, smaller, more evil marketing scheme. The matryoshka doll of marketing ploys. A post-modern venture into exploiting exploitation.
So I wrote a letter back.
Dear epost.ca,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I know this may hurt
But sadly we’re through.
Epost, thank you for the thoughtful Valentine’s Day card. What woman needs a romantic gesture from a man when she has an entire corporation begging her to come back to them? And the Macleans offer, I feel, is your way of telling me I am both smart and successful. Which is much more important than being lovable or pretty.
That said, I’d be lying if I told you I had thought of you even once since the last time I logged into your website to view a measly paycheque from my last job. In fact, I even found logging in at that time slightly annoying.
I’m even a little insulted at your attempt to buy back my loyalty by offering me money towards a magazine subscription. I know you’re privy to my paycheques from when I was temping during the recession, but I’ve got something better now and I don’t need you, or anyone else, to help me manage my bills or buy my reading material.
Thanks, by the way, for waiting three years before checking up on me. I don’t think you give a damn about my bill management. This little valentine you sent reeks of corporate desperation. Maybe if you had put this sort of effort into Valentine’s Day 2009 I never would have left. It’s too late, epost – I’m gone. And I’m never coming back.
Also I noticed the card you send was not a Hallmark. Their marketing scheme tells me that means you don’t actually care.
Sincerely,
Laura
I thought about ripping epost’s cruel advertisement of a card into shreds and tossing it in the blue box. But instead I brought it to work and put the card up at my desk so all the pretty girls down the way would think I got a valentine, too. I may not be special enough for a synthetic mass-produced teddy bear, but I at least want people around me to think I’m special enough for a card. Even if I know I’m only special enough for garbage.
(For the record, my boyfriend did get me a Valentine’s card this year, which I received after the epost debacle. Yeah, I know none of you heartless bastards care.)
That being said, I’d really like a teddy bear.
At work, I sit at my desk as the pale, hunched mailroom guy trots by again and again with bouquets of roses and mylar balloons and chocolate-covered-fruit arrangements and engagement rings encased in carved ice. They’re all going to the department of pretty girls down the way, easily distinguished by the pink and purple ribbons strung from the ceiling and the high pitched squeals of glee that bounce off the oversized heart balloons every time a new box of love-shaped cookies is delivered.
In the last 10 years I have received a total of one item for Valentine’s Day: a single rose. My third Valentine’s Day with this particular boyfriend and he had finally realized that maybe he should make some sort of loving gesture. I allowed the rose to dry out so I could keep it forever. A month and a half later I was crumpling it into dust and grinding it into his ball cap cos he had dumped me for a 19-year-old Brock student.
Needless to say, I have long abandoned my Grade 4 dreams of discovering the Heathcliffe valentine addressed to me from question-mark-inside-a-heart was actually from (insert undisclosed boy’s name as I am still too shy to reveal my 1993 crush). I have accepted the fact that I am not worthy of even the smallest romantic gesture.
But then came Valentine’s Day 2012. Upon arriving home from my day spent slumped over a desk, I unlocked my humble tin mailbox, expecting to find a No Frills ad selling single-serving Michelina dinners and a note from Xtreme Fitness saying maybe I’d be pretty enough for flowers if I lost 14 pounds. But instead my mailbox contained a baby-pink envelope embossed with a couple of hearts. My own heart fluttered. I had already received my annual you’re-a-great-daughter-and-I’ll-always-love-you-even-if-no-other-man-ever-does card from my sentimental Pops. Who could this love-filled treasure be from?
I immediately thought it must be from one of my endearing girlfriends, determined to bring me joy on such a dicey day. I glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to “My Long-Lost Love.” I, of course, was suspicious. The envelope did not say my proper name and my address had been printed on via computer. But then my gaze was drawn to the top right-hand corner of the happy pink rectangle. There lay a real stamp. A real Canada stamp with a picture of three dirty raccoons peering over a log.
No junk mail company would take the time to affix real stamps to each piece of garbage they sent out!
Clearly this was a prank from a friend, who had printed the envleope so as to disguise her handwriting. Or maybe it was sent from an old flame determined to present me with a classy envelope free of smeared, man-scrawled ink. Or perhaps this was one of those cute novelty mailouts where one can go online and have a secret valentine shipped to a friend. Perhaps this was a touching note from my computer-savvy uncle. Or a menacing plea from my now dormant stalker, which, while horrifying, would at least mean someone was thinking of me.
And that’s all that mattered – that on this day, when every other girl in the world was drowning in a sea of sugary cherry-flavoured chocolate filling, someone – ANYONE – was thinking about scruffy little me.
I tore the envelope open like a pitbull might tear into an unattended child. I pulled out a cheerful card, on which was printed a blue jay singing the words “Miss you!” in a dialogue bubble shaped like a heart.
My mind raced as I considered all the people who might miss me. An old pal from high school? A floor-mate from university? Or maybe my ex finally realized the 19-year-old he left me for DOES look like Eddie Izzard in drag and needed to express his regrets. I flipped the card open and was greeted with a poem.
Roses are red,
violets are blue,
here are two offers
from epost to you.
The valentine went on to note that I had not logged into epost.ca for a while and should do so to rediscover the benefit of managing my bills online. It also said I could take advantage of deals such as $25 towards a subscription to Maclean’s Magazine.
The only thing that could have been more depressing would be a valentine from my cat, and even then I would have been impressed at his ability to compose a sentence in modern English and sign his name with a pen. If I had not already written Valentine’s Day off as a giant marketing scheme I would have marched upstairs, chugged a bottle of merlot, then smashed it in half and plunged the jagged rim into my own neck. Epost is now using what is essentially a huge marketing scheme as a vehicle for its own, smaller, more evil marketing scheme. The matryoshka doll of marketing ploys. A post-modern venture into exploiting exploitation.
So I wrote a letter back.
Dear epost.ca,
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I know this may hurt
But sadly we’re through.
Epost, thank you for the thoughtful Valentine’s Day card. What woman needs a romantic gesture from a man when she has an entire corporation begging her to come back to them? And the Macleans offer, I feel, is your way of telling me I am both smart and successful. Which is much more important than being lovable or pretty.
That said, I’d be lying if I told you I had thought of you even once since the last time I logged into your website to view a measly paycheque from my last job. In fact, I even found logging in at that time slightly annoying.
I’m even a little insulted at your attempt to buy back my loyalty by offering me money towards a magazine subscription. I know you’re privy to my paycheques from when I was temping during the recession, but I’ve got something better now and I don’t need you, or anyone else, to help me manage my bills or buy my reading material.
Thanks, by the way, for waiting three years before checking up on me. I don’t think you give a damn about my bill management. This little valentine you sent reeks of corporate desperation. Maybe if you had put this sort of effort into Valentine’s Day 2009 I never would have left. It’s too late, epost – I’m gone. And I’m never coming back.
Also I noticed the card you send was not a Hallmark. Their marketing scheme tells me that means you don’t actually care.
Sincerely,
Laura
I thought about ripping epost’s cruel advertisement of a card into shreds and tossing it in the blue box. But instead I brought it to work and put the card up at my desk so all the pretty girls down the way would think I got a valentine, too. I may not be special enough for a synthetic mass-produced teddy bear, but I at least want people around me to think I’m special enough for a card. Even if I know I’m only special enough for garbage.
(For the record, my boyfriend did get me a Valentine’s card this year, which I received after the epost debacle. Yeah, I know none of you heartless bastards care.)
posted by Laura @ 1:27 p.m.
4 comments
