As with most holidays, each of my client’s celebrate Valentine’s Day a little differently. Some are young and single, some divorced, some widowed, and some married. So this week has been spent helping some of my little trainwrecks prepare for their special day. Coincidentally, I came across this very illuminating map which proves that maybe we’re all a little train-wrecky around this cherub assassin day.
Cleaning for Valentine’s Day has never been weirder
This week I deep cleaned the Bachelor’s house because he is having a Valentine’s Day party. Funny thing is, the guests will all be girls that he would like to have a relationship (read “relations”) with. He recently started watching The Bachelor, the TV show, and has mistaken it for a dating instructional video. He is completely dumbfounded at “how much play these dudes get.”
So I draped the furniture in red velvet and set up the champagne fountain. He only bought one rose so I assume this will be a single episode. I asked him if his guests knew about the nature of the “party.” “No way, but they’re gonna love it!” he said. Uh huh. I have a feeling I’ll walk in next week to a very confused Bachelor tied to a chair with red velvet and a single rose sticking up his you-know-what.
The Greys were fun. Although I will say that I didn’t know how many “edible” things you could stick on a person. The items on their nightstand read like a package of Jelly Bellies and I put so many candles out I wouldn’t be surprised if some very shocked firefighters burst through the door.
But what would take the proverbial Valentine’s Day cake for preparation, dear reader, is my lonely little artist. She is currently ten months into a one-year vow of celibacy. And she has invited six of her closest girlfriends to help her celebrate her “Valentine-Free Day.” So she wanted my help setting up the house.
It was cute, at first. I scattered rose pedals all over the living room and set up floating votive candles. I helped her set up the make-your-own chocolate covered strawberry bar, and I even helped her put together her little party bags which included a soap likeness of a naked, chubby goddess. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was a fertility goddess, but hey, ignorance is bliss.
Then it started getting a little weird. OK, a lot weird. After I thought we were done, she turned to me and said in her short little squeaky voice, “Now for the coup de grace!”
She goes into her bedroom and brings out a box. In the box are 8×10 cards depicting various pictures of human hearts. Like some are real pictures and some are illustrations. I have no idea where she got these from but my best guess is Amazon. Then she goes into the kitchen and collects all the knives. She then proceeds to stab every picture onto the living room walls, all-the-while yelling, “This is for Brad. This is for Pete…” and so on and so on.
I sat there for what seemed like forever, mouth agape, wondering what would run out first, the box or her list of murderous revenge. Finally, after the last knife was thrust into the heart of Jeff over the mantel, she stood back, out of breath, and looked at her handy work.
“What do you think?” she said, panting.
“They’re gonna love it,” I squeaked, hoping she didn’t notice that my raised eyebrows had left my face and retreated into my hairline.
“Wait, there’s more!” she said and scurried off like a banshee. I looked at the front door, wondering if I should make a run for it. She’s harmless, right? Then my inner voice said to me “Ten months of celibacy.” Oh crap.
Before I could decide what to do she came back into the living room with a gallon of paint and a paint brush. I could see by the drips on the side of the gallon that it was red paint, blood red if you will. She dipped her brush into the paint and started spattering it all over the stabbed hearts on the walls. And the ceiling, and the floor, and most of the furniture. That’s gonna suck to clean up, I thought.
When she was finally finished, she sat down on the floor and looked at her handy work and grinned. “Yeah,” she said, “I think they’ll like it.” Then she looked at me, looking for approval. Since all the features on my face had retreated to the back of my skull, I just nodded in agreement.
“OK,” she said as she pulled herself from the floor. “See you next week.”