Stupid Cupid

I bet Valentine's Day is actually more of a joke than Hallmark CEO's let on.  I'm sure that today, of all days, is when blonde, cherubic, Cupid takes a twelve pack and goes down by the lake to get drunk and fish.  I'm sure his arrows are used to pierce trout rather than the hearts of star-crossed lovers. 

On the other hand, I had a very lovely night where I wore my brand new $3.97 sweater (red with a cowl neck!) and Harry took me to a really nice Italian restaurant in downtown Bridgeport.   We had some really good food after a mere 10 minute wait and watched as a young couple got engaged.  It was really sweet and I, feeling like a dweeb to no end, pointed and smiled like I was special.  I guess I was since I was sharing in an intimate moment of Dick and Debbie (that's what I'm calling them since they were and are still perfect strangers to me!) and witnessing the beginning of their new lives.  Or the end - depending on how you look at wedding planning...

Harry helps me get to the car by skiing down the hill shouting "Pizza! French Fries!" a la a Southpark episode where Kyle learned to ski emulating fast food.  We hopped in the car (I kinda slid in while screaming "Harry GRAB MY ASS!" - I needed him to support me in case I slipped and fell back out... or something...) and started to maneuver out of the tight spot when - I smelled something. 

"Harry!  Did you-?  YOU DID!"  He cackled like a true man - proud of his gas - while watching me struggle to find which button lowered the window.  Yes, I was willingly taking on hypothermia in order to escape the noxious odor. 

The window wouldn't roll down.

It was frozen. 

I laughed/cried as I pressed my face against the cold glass and writhed in agony. 

A woman exiting with her takeout stared at me.

So, yeah, if you see Cupid, stab him in the back for me...