Pabst Blue Ribbon after Pabst Blue Ribbon, a late Alpha King, something called a Dipper-Dapper, two of those, a meeting of the minds with whom we enjoy meeting, to drink beer, converse, enjoy our Saturday night. The clock strikes twelve, Valentine’s Day commences. The party goes on, people meeting people, the two of us laughing at nonsense. Our numbers fluctuate, the dunk contest sucked, Apollo Anton Ohno won a silver medal, it’s time to go and it is very, very cold outside, the mile and a half back to our place not so great a distance, really, but man is it cold…

Jolt awake. The clock says 5:41. Not happening. Roll back over. I thought I passed out on the couch? 8:30 now. No, thank you. 9:15 and I’m still not so sure today should begin. Dreams come as a flash of images before my mind leaps back to consciousness, the experience disorienting. Sleep feels nice, being awake not so much. 10:05. Not just yet. It’s comfortable in this bed. 10:55. Okay, it’s time. Anyway, she’s already up, so that’s it…

She makes breakfast without asking what I want. What I really want is a time machine to go back to last night and drink only six Pabsts instead of ten. Six I could manage. Ten is making me half blind. As far as food goes, what I want is a bagel sandwich. One poppy seed bagel sliced and toasted, with cream cheese, a cooked egg, a broken up piece of turkey bacon, and a cup of yogurt. I’ve become so domesticated. That’s what I want, but whatever she makes will be fine. I’m on the couch, setting up our computer to watch last Thursday’s episodes of our favorite television shows. “It’s ready,” she says. I take a deep breath and go into the kitchen. She made bagel sandwiches, toasted, with cream cheese, one cooked egg, and a broken up piece of turkey bacon on each. Perfect. Happy Valentine’s Day…

Both of us on the same couch, laying down, milking our hangovers for all the laziness they may beget. After the delicious breakfast and TV on the Internet, we scanned Netflix for ten minutes looking for something to watch. We can’t agree on movies. We never agree on movies. For some reason, I feel like being challenged. She, much more reasonably, wants to sit and stare and laugh from time to time. A fight is bubbling, the boiling beginning to start, until I decide on the first season of Lost. I’ve never seen it. This satisfies her. Almost four hours later, we’re in similar positions on the couch at the end of the fourth episode as when we started the first. These early episodes cohere to the current season remarkably well…

Lunch time. Muscles atrophy without use. Necks develop cricks. Shoulders get tired. Time to eat something. We unwrap ourselves, and everything hurts, except for my head. The worst is definitely over. God bless the Zone Out…

Thanks again, Valentine’s Day. For the third time in four years together, we spend a portion of this completely unholy, in-the-name-of-commercialism-and-for-no-other-reason “special” day screaming at each other at the top of our lungs over something to do with misunderstandings and unrealized expectations. Her headache probably has something to do with it. My lack of good sleep definitely does. A fracture develops that takes some minutes to patch-up. Luckily, we don’t have anything else to do today…

Once things are better, I need a nap. We should check out from each other for a while. She cues up more TV on the Internet and dons headphones. I am counting on the Olympics to take me where I want to go, off to Dreamland, if just for a little bit. The Luge sort of does it, but the speeds at which these men fly down the chute, the renewed sense of danger after that guy died last week, and the general curiosity that flares while watching something with which I am unfamiliar prevents my body from turning the final light off. I scan channels. No one is showing much of anything useful against the Olympics and the Daytona 500. Wait, what was that on CBS? Golf. Perfect. Goodnight, setting sun…

Awake ninety minutes later and everything is cool. Time to go to the store. Two things to note here. One: a remarkable amount of men are looting the cards and flowers section, this at 6:45 on Valentine’s Day. Jesus, fellas. A tiny bit of advance preparation would save you so much stress. Two: all of the best Organic Spinach is gone, validating its prominence among the healthy-eating set. Supposedly you can’t eat too much of it. I grab a bag of slightly less tasty Spinach and some food for the coming week. She grabs lasagna fixings and lunch for next week. This grocery store is much more crowded than it ought to be…

I haven’t driven my car in over a week on account of a vicious snowstorm, remnants of which weigh down the hood, roof, and trunk of my baby. It drives off-balance. Bertha is her name. Poor Bertha. She’s an old girl, but she’s got a lot of soul…

Wolves and grizzly bears patrol the vast expanses of Yellowstone National Park on public television while she’s in the kitchen prepping the lasagna. Things aren’t so bad, right? This poor coyote bastard just got ripped to pieces by an angry wolfpack unimpressed by his attempt to siphon chow off of their carcass, and my girlfriend’s in the kitchen cooking lasagna and garlic bread. What were we fighting about earlier? I don’t remember…

[Section edited for content. Gentlemen never tell, and anyway it’s none of your business.]

The lasagna was delicious. Italian-seasoned Turkey meat with spinach and ricotta cheese. Garlic bread. Man alive. While eating we watch Undercover Boss, a new show on CBS where CEOs go undercover within the ground levels of their organizations to meet the grunts and see things through their eyes. Interesting concept, what every infantryman wants, a boss to take an interest in finding out how things actually are on the ground floor, not how they are when the CEO shows up to inspect things and the whole scene is a production to make him or her happy. More importantly, this lasagna is incredible. We both agree that if our bosses at our last jobs would have come around just once in disguise, so much would have changed for the better. But such things don’t happen in real life, because corporate assholes don’t care about the facts on the ground. So it goes…

I am stuffed, I am sleepy, she is eating chocolate, there is nothing on television, and she does not have President’s Day off. It is time to go to bed. For being broke, tired, and angry for a portion of it, today, it must be said, was a damn fine day, as so many of them in our current arrangement are.