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Shortly before my birthday, which also happens to be Valentine's Day, I had planned a special evening for myself and my new boyfriend. We met at university and had been friends for a couple of years. I thought this could be a special night. I prepared a wonderful banquet of culinary delights that he could enjoy despite his strict vegetarian lifestyle. The champagne was on ice. The lights were dimmed. Everything was ready for him to walk through the door.

Time passes. Seasons came and went (okay, maybe it just seemed that way). The champagne is getting warm and the food is cold. Concern turns to anger.

Two hours later, one of my housemates pops his head in the door. He has a message for me. My Honour Student Boy decided it was urgent that he immediately study at the library. On a Saturday night. Which happens to be my birthday. And Valentine's Day. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Sounds like a lame excuse, right? He actually was at the library all night until it closed. So, in essence, I was blown off for statistical analysis. Ouch. 
-- rocyn

In 1997, I was working as a supported living facilitator on weekends. I arrived at my job on Friday morning and stayed until Sunday afternoon, providing in-home care and support for two mentally ill/mentally retarded adult women. As a live-in, I was responsible for the clients' meds, meals, and general well being. I was 21.

On February 10 of that year, I attended the funeral of one of my dearest friends. It was the first time a friend had died, and I was young, and it was really throwing me for a loop. However, missing a weekend of work meant missing a whole week's pay, and I just couldn't afford to lose money. I went to work on that Friday, and my clients started asking if they could go to the city's Valentine's Day party. I really didn't want to, but it was my job. I had to.

I drove these two ladies to the party, held in the basement of one of the oldest, creepiest buildings of the region's mental health institute. The whole institution sits on a hill overlooking the city, and was founded in the 1800s. The buildings are gothic architecture, bricks and spires and iron bars on the windows. Basically, it is the creepiest place in town (and I live in the same town as Stephen King, as a reference point).

Into the basement we go. Plastic cups of punch are everywhere. The basement is decorated with cardboard hearts. The folding chairs are the sharpest, heaviest objects in the room. The room is filled with most of the areas MR/MI clients, and their respective staff.

What happened at that party became a defining moment in my life. Over the PA came the announcement. "It's time for the MACARENA!" (story continues...)

skedaddle on this way please

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