"I Love You!" - Three words that can mean so little!

Here's a colyoom from 2007 that dares to ask if there is anything less romantic than Valentine's Day!

Thanks to Allan Cavanagh at Caricatures Ireland

  
I love my woman. She loves me. She knows it and I know it and lots of other people know it too.
Sometimes quite out of the blue I become burdened in the chest region, and I have to tell her I love her. Sometimes it's when leaving or returning from overseas; after joyous acts of kindness; intimate moments... there is no definitive list.
The point is that there are certain moments when saying 'I love you' is perfect, and there are an infinite amount of other times when it is pointless.
So harsh. So cruel. So 'male', I hear the females out there cry.
Well yes, as male as male can be. But did you ever wonder why men tend not to say 'I love you' as much as women?
Did you ever consider that it may be because, for us, those three words really mean something?
To us men it seems like women play for some kind of Fantasy Love League, where each time they say 'I love you' they score a point, and when their partner says it back to them they score five. Every text, phone call, trip to the loo for a peeper, all can entail the need for profound emotional exchange.
It used to be all too easy to try and pin it down to old-fashioned stereotypical behaviours, but they are outdated. Women these days are out there, sisters doing it for themselves, so surely they do not need the same constant reassurances that their more constrained predecessors longed for.
To us blokes, the constant reiteration of the Three Little Words does nothing more than diminish their power. It's not that we are incapable of feelings. Despite appearances to the contrary, we do not lack the full emotional panorama.
It just looks that way because women have for centuries carpet-bombed the Arena of Lurrrve with their very particular version of romance.
Take Valentine's Day. Please, take it. (arf!)
Is there a day out there more lacking in romance than the fourteenth of February?
Don't you dare accuse me of being bah humbug about this. I am absolutely not attacking romance, but rather launching an assault on Valentines Day, that killer of romance, murderer of amore.
Valentine's Day is to romance what New Year's Eve is to spontaneity.
Each of those occasions carries obligation: a list of places to be, acts to perform, clothes to wear and for god's sake be happy.
Can there be anything worse, or indeed more pointless than being forced to be happy?
Well, yes. Being forced to be romantic, because that, to me and I suspect millions of other men, is impossible.
Just because we don't fit into the framework of romance as constructed by women, we are considered devoid of romance.
But what, pray tell me, is romantic about obligation?
What is romantic about having to do something on a certain day?
What is romantic about everybody doing the same things - eating chocolate drinking champagne eating heart-shaped food in suddenly pink restaurants -at the same time?
Absolutely nothing. To this male, Valentine's Day is something you do to keep 'Her Indoors' on board, and if that makes me sound horribly unromantic, then you couldn't be more wrong.
I love romance. I adore being romantic, and I'm saying that as a bloke who loves beer and football, a man who prefers to wake up with someone who has different bits.
Being romantic gives me a thrill of excitement that I hope will be imparted to my woman.
Sometimes romance is about being thoughtful, thinking what she might like, or love to do, and then planning it, and presenting it as a surprise.
Other times, romance is a random and sudden act of love or kindness that exhibits consideration and, ideally, a special and insightful understanding of herself, executed in a way that nobody else could.
Romance can be a tingle; something unique - perchance an occasion on which to utter those Three Little Words, and give them back the power that they deserve.
I love you.
And look, see here! See what I have done to show you that this is true. See this romantic act or gift or evening or drive or meal or act of love. It shows you that I mean what I say when I say I love you.
So yes, we men know what romance is, and we know what it is not. We know it's not about having to do anything. Romance is not an obligation, and it can never be a duty.
Romance is pure unadulterated pleasure, a selfish excitement at the thought of the smile that will be implanted upon the face of your loved one.
So don't be disappointed if we men don't conform to your own very female construct of love and romance.
We love the power of love so much we do not want to go on and on about it. We do not want to say it 40 times a day, precisely because it becomes pointless and worthless, and then, well, then what is left?
We do not love romance when it is ordered from us like dinner from a waiter, yet given the chance, we are full of it. Just because our notion of romance doesn't come in the girly wrapping paper that you dreamed up in your collective minds' eyes, it doesn't mean men are incapable of it.
Just let us do it our own way.

Go ahead Google - Make my profile!

Thanks to venturebeat.com

Unlike many others I don’t care about Google’s plans to follow my use of You Tube, Gmail and Google to build a profile of me based, as they say, “ on interests expressed.”
Do I feel threatened by their methods?
Do I feel intimidated by the fact that yet another distant powerful corporation is scrutinising my web browsing habits?
Not in the least little bit. In fact, I say “Go ahead Google - Make my day!”
Why?
Because one of the main things I use Google for is to help me solve crossword clues.

Take a look at those advertisements that you can see over on the right of your screen. They are Google’s attempt to match products to the needs of my colyoomistas.
Or so they reckon.
Trouble is, those Google bots which crawl over this colyoom’s text pick up such a varied amount of subject matter that they come up with ridiculous combinations of commercials. Right now as I look there are adverts for house sitting in Ireland, a place to buy turbans and lesser-known cancer therapies.
Perfect if you’re a Sikh living in Longford who’s going on holiday to visit someone in hospital.
Is that you?
If so, well done Google!
In the same way, as a crossword solver, my use of Google paints a profile of anyone Google wants me to be. Anyone, that is, except the real me.
In the last few days I’ve looked up the collective noun for a group of Bishops; a selection of downy and furry fruits; the history of sherry; Iowa; the Holy City of Mecca and Neil Armstrong.
I’m not a big user of You Tube, but browsing facebook postings I occasionally watch funny shorts - the most memorable recent one being a naked farmer who willingly threw himself into his own baling machine, emerging with head and all four limbs sticking out of a bale of straw. You had to see it to enjoy it, but Google will have added it to my You Tube ‘expressed interests’, alongside the ubiquitous talking dog and 4 songs I posted myself, from the unique and little-known 80’s band Non-Stop Jeep.
I don’t use Gmail, but hell, surely Google have enough on me by now. I’m attending a Bishop’s conference in Iowa, chatting to astronaut Neil Armstrong about the great pilgrimages of Islam, whilst drinking sherry and eating apricots, watching men made of straw singing songs about Thunderbirds and French volcanoes.
Perfect. Build that profile! What an interesting guy I sound!
You’ll never know the real me, the one others care about. Yes this colyoom does sometimes delve into deep and delicate matters, but there are always more personal issues that remain private. No amalgam of browsing interests will ever reveal a true picture of my personality, my soul, or most important to you, my true purchasing preferences.
As long as I continue to solve crosswords with the help of your lovely search engine, you won’t have a clue - unless you put up an ad for crossword books!
Is there already one there?