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i
Romance and roses,
it’s allfor the money
I hate Valentine's Day.
There, I’ve said it, straight up
front. Now we can gel on to the
story.
Valentine’s Day isn’t even a real
holiday, likeChristmas, Thanksgiv
ing or Super Howl Sunday. It’s a
creature of the greeting-card com
panies to rake in revenue. It has
good company in that regard —
Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Earth
Day.
It’s not that Valentine’s Day is
geared primarily toward women.
Really — what’s the usual
, Valentine’s Day routine?A bouquet
of roses, a nice candlelight dinner
(expensive ifpossible), aliuledanc
ing, perhaps, a moonlit stroll, and
some heavy intimacy on a bearskin
rug by an open fireplace.
Most men would prefer to skip
to the last part right away. As for the
rest, I speak for many men who
would ditch the dinner and roses
and substitute it with a monster
truck rally (since football season’s
over). For gifts, forget the roses,
since they die in a few days. Give
power tools, because when you
need to refinish that floor, or belt
sand that cabinet, how much good
is a rose going to be?
All that aside, I suppxxse it’s the
hokey commercialism, the forced
romance of the whole thinu I ham
the most. Kvery year, like clock
work, we are supposed to become
romantic, as if we aren’t the other
36^ days. The swallows of San
Capistrano should be so regular.
And what do we do? We take out
nauseating personals in the I)N —
the regular personals and theCireck
Affairs ads aren’t bad enough. We
buy flowers from everyone — flo
rists, sororities in the union, Kwik
Shops, guys on the street, Hare
Krishnas in airports, you name it.
Some men, trying to be romantic
and seductive, don’t even buy real
flowers. They buy “panty roses,”
which are lace panties folded to —
you get the idea.
And, of course, there are the
chocolates. Hershey’s loves
Valentine’s Day, and so doesjenny
Craig. Stop and think about it for a
minute, guys (and girls). Here you
are, supposedly celebrating love,
telling your mate how much you
love her (or him), and how sexy she
(or he) is, and what arc you giving
her (or him)? Something tooulge
the waist line, induccguiltandcau.se
zit.s.
Finding a mate on Valentine’s
Day is desperate enough — but
how about leaving one? For the
person you truly cannot sta nd, who
makes you wonder what you ever
saw in him or her, whose voice,
habits and presence makes you
want to throw yourself in front of a
speeding bus, Feb. \4 is the perfect
lime to send a bouquet of black
roses. It’s one Valentine’s Day nei
ther of you will forget. But make
sure you get to the bearskin rug
before you tell her (or him).
All this is bad enough if you’re
actually dating someone. For those
without “that special someone” on
Feb. \4, it is excruciating, all the
gooey romanticism going on and
you can’t share in it. Dating ser
vices, hoping to match the nope
icssiyunmaicnaoie.aisocioaDoom
business this time of year.
For those who think that this is
nothing more than the rantings of
one of the lonely, you’re wrong. I
have a significant other, and we
don t needsomegreetingcard com
pany to tell us to be romantic on
one day — we are, every day, by
our own actions and thoughts. We
don’t need the hype to know we’re
in love. It’s inour hearts, and not on
our sleeves.
Of course, I’ll still probably buy
her that damned bouquet. Just, of
course, to see the way her face
Ughis up when I do. , .
-Sam Kepfield
Love conquers time
Columnist reunited with birth mom
after two decades of separation
Valentine’s Day is a time for
individuals to reflect on the loved
ones in their lives. For me, I reflect
on a milestone in my life when I
was able to reveal my inner love for
a family I had never met.
I was placed for adoption as an
infant, and as 1 grew up, it was
difficult for me to understand why
this event happened. 1 fell 1 didn’t
have anyone with whom I could
identify. That is why meeting my
. (uiiiiij wajuivunv;uitM*
ing from the Lord 1 treasure most.
“Hello, hello, may 1 speak to
Yolanda?”
"This is Yolanda speaking."
“This is your mother speaking."
In an instant, both my biological
mother and 1 began to cry.
I was 21 years old when this
conversation occurred. My adop
tive mother, Mary Avidano, had
sent a letter to the social worker
who had assisted in my adoption.
The Idler included questions about
my biological family. After two
years, the social worker informed
my mother of my biological mother’s
and grandmother’s names. The ar
rival of this letter caused a lot of
excitement within me — the news
was overwhelming.
At first I couldn’t believe I could
possibly be reunited with my rela
tives. I had thought a lot about my
biological mother, and after the
birth of mv son. Michael I had
developed a need to know my
roots. I he letter had uncovered
feelings of fear as well as happiness
in me. What if my birth mother
didn’t want to meet me?
After receiving the letter, my first
effort was to write to my biological
grandmother’s last known address,
which the social worker had given
to me. Within weeks the letter was
See ADOPTED on 7
