Dispatches From Hellpeckersville-On Valentines And Vanilla Extract

Ah, Valentine’s Day at chez triv, it has never really been candlelight and chocolate covered strawberries if you know what I mean. From our first date when Cleetus told me I was “surprisingly” attractive, to his over the top romantic marriage proposal (not right now, but sometime before the end of the year, so I can take you off on my taxes!) we just aren’t hearts and flowers kind of people. He usually gets me flowers, a card, we order take out, so that I don’t have to cook, and we’re fine with that. Anything more is too much pressure, sets expectations too high, then people wind up disappointed, crying and fighting, and who needs that? Not me, baby!

This year? It’s the little things. The little things that will build up until you just want to go to bed and pretend the whole damn day never happened.

The day started off on a sour note. When I got up, Cleetus was not home, and Baboo was kinda ticked off that he was left behind. Dan needed a hair cut, but he was sure that Cleetus was stopping for Valentine’s gifts after, and he was wildly upset that he wouldn’t be there for that. When Cleetus came through the door with flowers (good) and a Whitman’s candy heart (oh! bad) I became a trifle upset as well. I believe that Baboo, had he been along for the ride, may have remembered the half a dozen times I’ve blathered on about how Whitman’s was the shit when I was a kid, but is actual shit now. I often accuse Cleetus of listening to me as if I’m Charlie Brown’s teacher, and here is my proof. Although I would have much preferred a cheaper and better quality bag of Lindor truffles, I tell myself, just lump it, eat the ones you like and share out the rest. he got you candy,the flowers are nice, it’s the thought, blah blah, blah….hey! No card? WTF?

Let it go, I tell myself. Things around here are stressful enough. You know, screw it. It’s small stuff, don’t they say don’t sweat that? Yeah, they do. Just then I hear a ruckus. It is comming from the living room and OMG, Dan has melted modeling clay from the top down the front and down into the Amish fireplace. I knew that damn flame element was from the devil! We can’t just pick it out either. The damn thing has to be disassembled. Dan is crying, Cleetus is bellowing, I’m going at the clay with a butter knife, and Mom? Oh…she’s at the dining room table eating my entire box of candy.

Oh, come on! No, Whitman’s ain’t my favorite, but it was all I had. I had eaten exactly one piece before she got at it. By the time I got back to the table there were about five pieces left, she kindly offered me one, and I took it. What would you do? Then I noticed she had been putting half chewed and disagreeable bits into the heart shaped lid. Ew.

Dinner time rolls around, and not being all that flush, we decide on the pizza joint down the street. Everybody but Dan wants cheesesteaks, so I say that I’ll have pizza with Dan, I like pizza, and they make a really good one. Naturally, in keeping with how my day is going, everything shows up piping hot, except the pizza. This suits Dan just fine because room temperature is his preference wrt pizza, it isn’t mine, and had I not been waiting an hour and 15 minutes on a busy Saturday night at that point for my food, I’d have sent it back. Fuck it. Cold pizza it is.

I should have just retired to my room right after that, but I didn’t. I would have found out the next thing eventually anyway, but no, I had to get it as the cherry on the shit sundae that was my day. My Dad walks into the kitchen and asks, “Hey, did somebody move that vanilla you were making?” Wha???? Did somebody what? Hey…where is it?

I guess a little back story here would be helpful. Just shy of six months ago I bought a quantity of vanilla beans, some of them grade b, for making my own vanilla extract. Vanilla beans are kinda pricey, but if you don’t buy them in a grocery or specialty store one or two at a time, you can get a dozen beans or so for the price you might pay for one bean at a supermarket. So I chopped up a dozen beans and added them to eight ounces of vodka and I’ve been shaking that bottle once a week or more for just shy of six months. Now it’s gone.

Slowly, it dawns on me what has happened. The week before Cleetus told me he was tossing my sister’s booze. She had some rum and I don’t know what else out there with barely anything in them. We don’t really drink the hard stuff, so I said okay. He threw out my vanilla right along with it. Never even bothered to look, ask, or anything. He tells me he thought it was something she was making, he says he’ll buy me more beans. BFD! Five and a half months!! For nothing!!! GAH!!!!!

Next year I’m not coming out of my room~