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2.16.04 Dead Stupid

My little orchid plant is barren now. The one blossom, that has been hanging on with the tenacity of Al Sharpton in the primary race, finally gave up the ghost on Sunday. Which was the perfect metaphor for my whole stupid VD weekend. Yep, surrounded by wilting flowers, kamikaze cupids, and bleeding hearts. Ah.

It’s the little things that matter the most. Reading the article about Michael Moore in the latest NY and learning that he used to live in Cleveland Park when he lived in dc. Ha! The populist powerhouse settling down in a neighborhood lousy with schmucks. Passing through there the other day, I noticed that its main shopping strip has gotten another chi-chi shot in the arm--the Mickey-D’s closed, apparently not upper-crusty burger enough for the poshy posh. Anyhow, that’s the kind of thing that J. and I could chuckle over together.

Actually, I found myself at quite a decent party on V-day. Strangely, my cousin showed up among the guestry, but that’s another story. I should have left the evening at that—a few entertaining conversations and free gin. But no, I accompanied A. back to the bar for a nightcap and that’s when I got maudlin. Sitting at the bar alone, A. having flitted off to socialize with more engaging company, this guy says to me, “You look so miserable. There is no reason a girl like you should look so miserable on Valentine’s Day.” Question: What is more pathetic? a) That I was sitting at the bar alone and miserable (VD notwithstanding); b) That I was sitting at the bar alone and miserable, those several gin drinks having stripped me of my immunity to the irrational expectations fueled by VD’s insipid commercial power; c) That I was sitting at the bar alone and miserable on Valentine’s Day, and this guy chose the quoted cheesy observation as his pick-up line.

So then A. came in and we laughed it up about how lame I am. He reminded me of how winsome language is among the Brits. VD was proclaimed a “dead shtupid” holiday and we moved quickly on to other topics.

B-more tonight. The recent bouts of ennui suggest that I may not escape town without some nostalgia stops. Domino's sign aside, it's bittersweet on that waterfront.

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