Cantankerously Yours
Valentine Promises
By Wendell Abern
Dear Hopeless Romantics,
Yeah, I know. Hearts. Flowers. Candy. Poetry. All that other sentimental garbage. Well, I have sent valentine cards and good wishes in the past. This year, I’m not falling into that saccharine trap. Instead, I am making promises; more importantly, I am extracting some.
Below, I have named some people on my “Promises” list, and — when necessary — given a brief explanation as to why I have named them.
1 – Dr. Nestor Galvez.
My neurosurgeon. For years, Dr. Galvez has given me Botox injections for my hemi-facial tic. Fourteen jabs, every three months. At my next visit, doctor, I promise to walk in, tell you, “You’ll hardly even feel this,” and then break your kneecap.
2 – Halle Berry.
If you promise to make a trip to South Florida sometime this year, I promise to let you have your way with me while you’re here.
3 – Tiffany.
The beautiful runway model disguised as a store manager at my local Publix. I promise to stop making scenes at your checkout counters if you’ll promise to do something about thoughtless shoppers who send cashiers to customer service for their cigarettes.
My latest encounter was with an ugly obnoxious shrew disguised as a sweet little old lady.
Me (to Obnoxious Shrew): “Oh, I get it. You make us wait in line here so you won’t have to wait in line over there!”
OS: “Who are you, Shorty? The checkout police?”
Me: “No. Just a customer fed up with rude, inconsiderate shoppers.”
OS: “Oh, go back to your tree and make some cookies.”
In all fairness, Tiffany, I did not hit her back. I am, however, still somewhat abashed at the fact I was decked by a 93-year old great-grandmother.
4 – Gary & Karen Gonzalez.
Close friends from my congregation, River of Grass. G & K, If you promise to stop harping about my complete disinterest in vegetables, I promise to add both zucchini and eggplant to my diet. On my 90th birthday.
5- Harriet.
One of my bridge partners. I promise to concentrate harder if you’ll promise not to yell, “Oy vay!” every time I play a card.
6 – Dr. Darby Sider.
My Internist. Last time you weighed me, I asked for a second opinion. Which you did not grant.
If you promise to stop criticizing my girth, I promise to cut down from three cheeseburgers a week to one. And I will replace the missing burgers with healthy substitutes: cheesy double-beef burritos and pepperoni pizza, both of which contain all four food groups. (Note: I have it on good authority that you have been conspiring secretly with Gary and Karen Gonzalez and other vegan-leaning zealots. Won’t help.)
7 – Nancy from New Jersey.
If you promise to come visit me again soon, I promise to watch only the shows on TV that you prefer. As long as they include basketball games, gory thrillers and soft-core porn.
8 – My kids in Chicago.
A recent newscast named last year’s most annoying words, or combinations of words. As you know, no words annoy me. However, because I am technologically-inept, some intimidate me. In fact, phrases like “toggle switch” and “camshaft gear” actually scare me.
Ergo, if I promise to never use words the newscast listed, such as, “you know,” and “whatever,” promise me you will never use words like “I-pad” or “gigabyte” to me. Or the terrifying word that sends shivers up my spine: “skype.”
9 – Dolly.
Another of my bridge partners. I promise to never again listen to anything you tell me unless you promise to stop talking in pronouns only.
Following is a brief replication of your recent dinner with Joyce, Joan, Harriet and Jerry: “The waitress found us a round table, and I sat down first, but then she didn’t want to sit near the aisle, so she asked if she would mind sitting there, but you know her! Well, they finally agreed, but then you should have heard the argument over whether whitefish is better than grouper! This one says, ‘That tastes too fish-y,’ then she says, ‘But we’re eating fish!’ and I think they finally agreed on salmon.” (Meanwhile, I kept waiting to hear pronoun, “he,” so at least I could identify someone, but apparently Jerry couldn’t get a word in edgewise.)
9 – “Sleek, Svelte and Sexy at Sixty” on “Dating for Seniors.”
If you promise to send me a recent photo proving you are currently a Miami Heat cheerleader, I promise to send you a photo of myself, proving I am a six-foot four hardbody.
10 – Jon Frangipane.
Editor, publisher, friend, and my private piano tutor. Jon, every time I attempt to play a short run or long arpeggio, I can hear you yelling, “Don’ lemme hear that thumb! Don’ lemme hear that thumb!” I promise to work diligently on the pieces I’m currently learning if you promise to stop threatening me with a thumbectomy.
11 – Dale.
Another of my bridge partners. I promise to think carefully before every play I make, if you promise to not yell out, “WEN-dull!” in a voice that makes me feel like a twelve-year old caught looking at Playboy.
* * *
I had intended to include a few pithy and vitriolic valentine promises to various members of our congress, who are (as I write this) still debating the cliff we’re about to hurl over. Then I thought … well, yeah, I could extract some promises, but why would I expect politicians to keep them?
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].