Pony Up the Cash for Valentine's Day

Ah, the age-old yearly dilemma is about to rear its ugly head again. No, I'm not talking about Punxsutawney Phil - he reared his ugly head earlier this month...I'm talking about something even more newsworthy and guaranteed to make most people wish they could crawl back inside and hide out for another six weeks:

It's soon going to be Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day, which according to the radio station I was listening to this morning, is the day most divorce papers are filed (or something like that)...which makes you wonder why the word "man" is even IN "romance"...but I fear I'm doing a bit of digressing, so I'll take this opportunity to digress a little further.

Valentine's Day, when I was a kid, was all about going to the store to pick out Valentine's Day cards and carefully picking out which of the nicer ones to hand address (first names only - this was grade school after all) to your best friends. The ugly ones were always relegated to the kids you didn't like much at all and had less sentiment than those "Be Mine" candy hearts the richer kids could afford to package up in their envelopes.

We weren't rich, therefore no one ever got candy from me...and we would wait until the cards were marked down and all the "neato" ones were always gone and I was left with the social embarrassment equivalent of wearing "last year's favourite cartoon character" underpants in gym class.

In a word, I learned to hate Valentine's Day early on.

Besides having the fanciest Valentine's Day cards and candy treats, the rich kids in my class always seemed to have ponies. I never had a pony and only once came remotely close to riding one - I think it was too old to do anything except stand there when I was placed on its back. So much for my exciting pony ride as a kid...the imitation "nickel ride" ones outside the Acme grocery store at least moved. But that didn't stop every single person who didn't have a real one...from wanting one.

So, I was thinking today about Valentine's Day and how I'm not going to get anything yet again - as you kinda need a "loved one" banging his head against the wall thinking what to possibly get you to get the most out of his dollar investment..."more bang for his buck" so to speak.

But that didn't stop me...

...hmmm...let me think...horses buck. So do ponies. How about giving your loved one a pony for Valentine's Day? Chances are, if they weren't a spoiled little rich kid growing up on a sprawling piece of land, they never had one, either...but I bet they always wanted one. Now...that type of romance can't be printed on any card...that, I bet, will REALLY move her.

And I know just the place to get a pony. And, I would figure by the looks of the sign, you can save a little cash if you don't want the primo ones. Yeah...why shop for cards and candy weeks before when you can get them half price the day before? Why pay top dollar for a brand spanking new pony - when you can get...a USED one???

Yeah...you heard me. A USED pony.

What they used it for is anyone's guess. I'm kinda thinking it's several years old like the one whose back I was on as a kid...and headed off to the glue factory any day now. And what better time of year to tug on those heart strings of yours? I think the discussion would go a bit like this:

You: "Uh...could you tell me a bit about the difference between a new and used pony, sir?"

Seller: "Well, the new ponies haven't been used. The used ones have."

You: "For what?"

Seller: "Well, they've kinda served their purpose in life. They're old. But since they are ponies they'll never get any bigger as they're ponies. Ponies don't grow into horses, did you know that?"

You: "Uhhh...I thought ponies were baby horses."

Seller: "Nope. Ponies are a smaller variant of horse...and as such they don't fetch as much at the glue factory...or so I've been told. Yep...these here used ponies are headin' there tomorrow if they don't get bought. Just like with aluminum cans, the glue place bases it all on poundage."

You: "You mean this pony here is going to the glue factory tomorrow???"

Seller: "Well, I don't exactly take them TO the glue factory, sir,...I just sell them to the guy who does. I'm not exactly HEARTLESS, here."...

So, just like with the guy who keeps sawing the legs off the next puppy and giving prospective pickers the sob story about how "that one's destined for the pound if no one chooses him" - the used pony man probably doesn't even have any "new" ponies. I mean, who among us with half an iota of sentiment...would choose a "fresh outta the gate" new pony over the one that's destined to make the sticky stuff you lick on that very Valentine's Day card you just bought?

I mean, seriously, could you live with yourself knowing where the glue from next year's card is going to be coming from?

So, I say...pony up the cash...get her something she'll remember - and something she's always wanted since she was a kid. Diamonds are nice...but a used pony lasts...well, however long a used pony lasts.

(Yes, that's a real sign - I've been passing it for years when I drive "the back way" to/from my house. It used to be hand-made...now it's a "proper" sign. I don't know which was funnier...I think maybe the way it is now. And, I have you know, I risked my life to take this photo nearly standing in 55 mph traffic. The things I do for three people to read and comment, I tell ya. And, yes, I blurred out the phone number but left the website name - which makes no mention of ponies, btw...a fact I found quite odd.)

Becoming Unglued

"Mrs. Clayton, Jimmy's eating paste!" Little Suzy's tattletale shrieks broke the relative giddiness of the room and the whole class turned to see for themselves.

There he was...the telltale sign of paste hanging on the corners of his mouth like dingleberries...well, hanging on a whole other orifice; his mouth clamped tighter than that other sphincter, but smelling remarkably better.

"Let me see, James. Open your mouth." Mrs. Clayton's direct order and stern gaze (peering out from behind her black cat-eye glasses which were perched precariously on her hawk-like nose) had absolutely no effect on the kid. He wouldn't, or maybe he couldn't...but he shook his head forcefully back and forth and then a couple gulps later...he'd open wide for all to see. The evidence cleverly swallowed...his fat pink tongue wagging back and forth like an innocent puppy dog's tail. He was triumphant and, like that puppy, clearly oblivious to any wrong-doing.

With the "whiff test" administered directly after, Mrs. Clayton could do no more than to confiscate our group's paste container and we'd have to make do with passing around the industrial-sized Elmer's Glue which always needed Herculean strength to squeeze out a hair's diameter of the stuff on your paper. Even with shoving both a pin and a nail in the top part (over and over again)...the best you could hope for was an inconsistent dotted-line of semi-clotted goop to plop out and sore muscles the next day.

Now paste always had that nice minty aroma to it when I was a kid...I'm not sure if it still does nowadays...but back then it did. Perhaps that's why the paste-eaters of my era treasured it so. And you can rest assured there was always one kid in class who was an elitist gourmand when it came to all things sticky.

Elmer's Glue, although much more fun to play with (when it finally did come out) didn't have the culinary draw that nice white paste had. And don't forget, paste did have that popsickle-like stick inside the cap with which to poke and probe your way to the parts that didn't have any construction or crepe paper bits intermingled with it. Pure, unadulterated paste. Left alone with a tub of the stuff and the likes of Suzy being absent that day...Jimmy could get his fill uninterrupted. Sure, we'd laugh and point...but you have to keep in mind paste wasn't the only thing this kid was "into".

Jimmy had the unfortunate luck to be born a "Barger"..."James Barger" to be precise. Naturally, Jimmy also had reddish hair...all the more to stand out and be different from the other kids - but other than his propensity for paste...Jimmy had another proclivity: Jimmy liked to pick his nose and eat the contents therein.

In the well-oiled machinery of the mind of a five or six-year-old, it doesn't take too much gear-turning to alter "Barger" to "Booger"...and well, the name stuck. Stuck better than a nose-mining paste-oholic on a sub-zero playground in December. If you've never witnessed the sheer amount of "stuff" a nose can leak out of it in the winter in Jersey during recess...well, you haven't truly lived. Usually this is what mittens and coat sleeves were for...but little Jimmy "Booger" would be off by himself with the unbridled passion of a deer with a salt-lick. The kid was an unstoppable, unwavering gross-out spectacle. I'm not sure which he enjoyed more...the taste of paste and snot or the constant attention of his classmates pointing at him and egging him on to eat more paste and snot.

As he went through the elementary grades, Jimmy "Booger" Barger went through his fair share of paste. Paste becoming more and more a rarity with each passing year, Jimmy was eventually weaned off his habit, at least as far as we knew.

The nickname was still in use the year I moved when I was eleven, and while I was never there to know for certain, I'm pretty much inclined to believe it stuck until graduation day...when he could finally venture forth on a new life outside of the Hamilton Township School System.

Memories of youth undoubtedly fade...although some things do seem to cement themselves in our minds. It's silly what we retain in our heads years down the road - and how the simplest things can trigger those memories. You see, lately I've been wondering about poor old James...and whatever became of him -- because there's a boy in my daughter's school who looks strikingly similar.

Oh, I'm not going to blurt out any questions regarding paste ingestion to him...but...I might be inclined to get close enough to catch a whiff of his breath. You know, just for old-time curiosity's sake.

And, if it's minty fresh, eh...perhaps then I'll ask.