There are very few persons, places or things I outright despise.
One of those rare things is St. Valentine’s Day (despite my fascination with what happened that day in Chicago, IL in 1929). I generally believe that cynicism is toxic—but I am irredeemably cynical about this “Hallmark holiday.”
My objection to the holiday was originally rooted in being mystified what purpose it serves:
- Anyone currently in a romantic relationship should not require a specific day of the year to demonstrate her/his affection for her/his partner. I still leave my wife Nell a scrawled “good morning, I love you” note every night before I go to sleep (though now it also encompasses our daughters and our golden retriever Ruby), even after 11+ years of marriage.
- It does not apply to anyone NOT in a romantic relationship—and it may even cruelly exacerbate such a person’s loneliness.
Two things later occurred on February 14 which cemented my disdain for this holiday:
- A college girlfriend broke up with me as we rode the commuter rail back to New Haven, CT from New York City (before falling asleep with her head in my lap).
- In 2007, Nell (then my girlfriend) had a D&C to end a partial molar pregnancy; the pregnancy had not been planned, despite my having spent four years working as a researcher in family planning. In an additional, more bittersweet bit of irony, going through this traumatic experience together (there were months of weekly blood tests to confirm the absence of the molar tissue) actually spurred us to make our relationship permanent; we married that October.
Now, to be fair, I was so entertained by the events of St. Valentine’s Day 2001 (despite—or maybe because of—having recently ended two relationships) that after my friends left my Philadelphia apartment in the wee hours of the following morning, I sat down at my computer to write everything I remembered about that day, intending to turn it into a short story.
I still have an inchoate, marked-up draft of “Valentine’s Day” in my filing cabinet.
Nonetheless, rather than dwell on the negative, I will instead share a handful of funny photographs, newspaper clippings and stories.
This is the sign outside of our pediatrician’s office. Could the street address be any more perfect?
This is an actual street corner in Wayne, PA. And it is only about a 10-minute drive west rom where Old Gulph Road crosses South Gulph Road to become Upper Gulph Road (making it the intersection of Gulph, Gulph, Gulph and Gulph).
After Special Counsel Robert Mueller indicted 13 Russian nationals and three firms, including the Internet Research Agency—home to a group of Russian “Internet trolls,” I began telling Nell (mostly in jest) that I wanted my own “Russian troll farm.”
Well…look what showed up in our dining room Christmas morning, 2018! (Thank you, Nell!)
Who are you calling corny?
As I research and write my book, tentatively entitled Interrogating Memory: Film Noir and My Search for Identity, I have spent hours reading through old newspapers. A joyous by-product of this activity is happening upon truly bizarre or funny articles/advertisements.
This appeared on page 14 of the March 27, 1910 edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer. Maybe all the hours our daughters spend on the iPad or playing video games are not so bad after all…
What always gets me is the mental image of “the excited children danced about the blaze.”
I literally wrote “This just made my day…” when I clipped this advertisement (so cleverly disguised as an actual article its authors helpfully wrote “Advt” at its end) from page seven of the September 30, 1913 edition of the Philadelphia Inquirer.
If only our local CVS would start selling Cascarets so I can avoid the Coated Tongue I so often experience after imbibing Purgative Waters to stop being bilious!
On December 20, 2014. six days after I successfully defended my doctoral thesis in epidemiology at the Boston University School of Public Health, I took our two daughters—then aged six and almost-five—for a drive, what we used to call “an adventure.” Meandering west, we wound up in the town of Hudson (birthplace of former Massachusetts governor Paul Cellucci).
What transpired there led me to write the following Facebook post (edited for clarity).
Call me Doctor Idiot. Earlier today, the girls and I went for a drive. Giving Nell a break, while seeking adventure. Wound up in Hudson, about 26 miles west of Boston. Parked in front of the Public Library at 4:45. [We see that it] closes at 5:00. Plan: use the bathroom [We did exactly that—used the restroom in the library, explored it, then left shortly before it closed at 5 pm], then maybe walk around [Hudson] a bit, eat something. Fine. We leave, and start to walk. Now [our younger daughter] needs a bathroom. Library [now closed]. We run down the hill past the closed diner, the dark gas station…to the McDonalds. While I wait for the girls, I instinctively look at my iPhone. Umm, where is my phone? Seriously, where is my phone?? Let’s see, I had it in the bathroom at the libra-…no, no, you have GOT to be kidding me. Girls finish [using the bathroom at McDonalds], we run back up the hill to the library. Completely dark. Locked. No answer to the frantic banging and knocking. Not open again until Monday. This is NOT good. Remembered the Hudson police officer parked across from McDonalds. So…back down the hill we run. Officer just about to pull out of the lot. STOP, I wave! Explain the situation. Very nice, but he gives me that look…are you serious? They’ve only just closed, I stammer. He hesitates, then reaches for his radio. Pauses. Finally relays my problem to the station. Now, we wait and see, he says. What do I do now? Do you have a car? Yes, parked in front of the library. Swing down here and park in the lot. So…back up the hill one more time. Pile in the car and drive down to the lot. I position my Honda next to his cruiser. No word yet, he signals to me. [While we waited, our older daughter], from the back seat [says]: Daddy, if you dropped it and someone picked it up, they can’t use it ’cause it has a password, so they might just throw it in the trash and it’ll get crushed. Aaarggh, I scream in my head. After 10, maybe 15 minutes, Officer Jesse…S-something starts to pull out of the lot, motions me to follow. I do. He drives to the library, pulls a U-ey, and parks in front. I park across the street and get out. leaving the girls safely buckled in the car. I see no library employees. Instead, three members of the Hudson Fire Department are standing there. Looking quite amused. One of them jangles a key ring. Don’t know if we can get in the front door–but definitely the side door, he says. None of the keys open the front door, so we all troop around [to] the right-hand side of the building. Seconds later, two firemen and I are standing in a foyer. The door in front of us has a number lock, but there is an unlocked door to our right. Leads to the Children’s section, downstairs. Firemen #1 walks into the dark room just ahead of me, holding a flashlight. Which bathroom? I point across the way. We walk inside, and he turns on the light. I don’t see my TARDIS-encased phone at first, and I start to panic. But then I see it, right where I had set it down. At that moment, the building alarm goes off. The Hudson Public Library has a VERY loud alarm. We head back outside, closing the doors. In the alley, I shake every hand I can, thanking them profusely, if a bit incoherently. How can I repay you guys, I ask. Oh, forget about it (for some bored firefighters, this was *fun*). You can make a donation to the library (check—[I sent them $50 that night]). Then I ran back up the alley, across the street to my patient girls. Gave them a big thumbs up. Sat down in the front seat, started the car…and got the hell out of Hudson!
We have not returned to Hudson since then.
Until next time…
 One would actually resume not long after—only to become the most tumultuous relationship of my life, before ending for good in 2004.
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