Old people make me crazy jealous. It is pretty much universally accepted that they’re all kind of losing it, so they can say all the crap that you and I would get scolded or shunned or slapped for. They get a discount at Dunkin Donuts just for not having died yet. And they have old things. Diaries, historical news clippings, love letters, photographs that are real versions of Old Time Photos you get on the boardwalk, cute Pyrex kitchenware. We (the youngs) have nothing.
When an old person dies, you can look through their stuff and find a bunch of interesting, antiquey things with sentimental value and maybe a decent eBay markup. When I die, my kids are going to find a flash drive that looks like a panda and not even know what the hell either of those things are because they will both have died out long before. After I am gone, the only pieces of me to remain will be the junk I hoarded and the emotional scars I left on the hearts of the ones I loved.
But I’ve been doing a little bit, here and there, to try to leave something of substance behind besides the shoebox under my bed that says, “If I am dead, do us both a favor and throw this away without opening it unless you want shit to be weird.” I’ve been saving little things, here and there, so I have a catalog of memories I can look through after my mind has lost itself, The Notebook-style.
I have a box for me, a box for Adam, and a box for August. In August’s box, I put things like birthday cards that he is too dumb to read yet, or the occasional baby picture I remember to order a print of. In my box, I have the veil I made for our wedding, our Christmas cards, our wedding invitation, and the card Adam made to propose to me. Adam has made me amazing cards over the years, that are always funny and always sweet. They’re one of my favorite things to get from him besides something expensive. In Adam’s box, I put the cards I make him for birthdays, anniversaries, and Valentine’s Day. I’m sure this all sounds sweet. Let me present one of my cards for Adam from Valentine’s Past.
I love my husband. And you bet your ass he loves me. And we both know it, and we express it. But we don’t often get mushy about it. We do, however, like to make fun of it and sometimes get gross. Gross is my favorite. When my children and grandchildren are ransacking the house I die in and fighting over the silver, I am most hoping that I get to be a ghost so I can enjoy the moment they find these boxes, and see what weirdos Adam and I were. Zombie cards, frequent exchanges about our mutual affection for the other’s butt, science nerd puns, probably some Lord of the Rings and Star Wars and Game of Thrones references, and an abundance of sexual innuendos are the legacy I plan to leave behind. And zero monies after I spend it all on drugs.
Now the issue at hand is this: Here we are, t-minus some days until Valentine’s Day… And I’ve got bupkiss. I can’t think of anything. No dorky puns, no dirty jokes, zippo the hippo. I’ve even resorted to a Google Image search for “funny valentine’s cards” to try to get some inspiration, and all it has done is shove in my face that I’ve got nothing.
So there, internet. There is nothing coming out of my brain except stupid garbage and I have until Friday to think of the best card ever. Someone gimme ideas. Or someone send me some pizza. Brain food. (extrasaucelightcheesepleaseandthanks)