Friday, February 15, 2008
Yeah, yeah, nothing says love like a bundle of decapitated vegetation. Does it seem odd to anyone else that it's become tradition to proclaim everlasting love and commitment with a dying or dead gift? Not the best symbolism, if you ask me. Which you haven't. But my husband, smart guy that he is, has. And he listened.
Fancy restaurant meal:
Yes, I know, nothing is more romantic than wooing and soliciting family members to babysit, having a protracted passive-aggressive argument because we both want the other one to "pick" the place, and overpaying to be wedged between the asses of other packed-like-sardines suckers waiting for three hours to eat at a crowded restaurant where we will be rushed through our meal so the next group can hork down their meals. But it's just not in the cards this year. I'd rather go some other day, preferably at an off-hour, when my husband's Sean Connery impression and my son's overly specific narrative about bathroom habits will garner a minimum of glares.
Yeah, right. I don't think I've made too awful of an impression -- of those of you who have had the misfortune of seeing me attempt dancing in real life, I've only done it once in the presence of each of you. But let me assure you: the falling-on-my-ass-under-some-guy's-groin incident, the guy who assumed I was drunk because I was performing no moves ever in style (nay, in existence), the ten-steps-behind attempt to learn a salsa move or two, and the clubbing-dancing experience that I dare not expound upon in mixed company -- these are not flukes. Dancing + me = disaster. Dancing + me + my husband = disaster times two.
Frilly, foofy, girly stuff:
You know, everyone thumbs their noses at gift cards, because it "doesn't take any thought." But seriously, how much thought and consideration would my husband be showing if he got me fancy earrings or a spa certificate, knowing I'd far prefer a gift card to Border's? And pink anything = blech.
What my husband did get me this year:
Know this guys: You could spring upon your lady a tropical vacation, two dozen roses, pearl earrings that were perfect for her tastes, and a thousand-dollar shopping spree (and even be willing to go with her), and she'd still want to know where the card is. And for the love of ever getting some Valentine's Night, don't just sign your name. Fortunately, my husband knows all this, and even appears to thoroughly mean all the sweet, poetic things he writes in the card. Plus, I know he picks out all cards for me with our son at his heels:
"Dad, let's get Mom this one!"
"I don't think she wants the Incredible Hulk."
"What about this one?"
"Or the Fantastic Four."
"Oooh! This one!"
"You know we're not picking them out for you. Mom doesn't really want SpongeBob."
"But the one you picked looks boring ... Hey, why does the guy on this card look wet? And he has a banana over his..."
"Hey! Where's the SpongeBob card again?"
I don't know who could help but appreciate the effort put into such a gift.
A living plant (roses):
Do I find the line in my card "I bought you a live plant because I see our relationship thriving and growing" kind of cheesy? Sure. But not nearly as much as I find it sweet, and exactly what I wanted.
Spontaneity is great for trips and romantic gestures and such, but it's highly overrated when it comes to gift choices. Thankfully, my husband knows this. He also knows exactly where to find really good dark chocolates. And that he'd better not eat them all after buying them for me.
He worked Valentine's Day, so it's likely that after coming home late he would have rather just konked out, or maybe drowned his stress in a few mindless hours of computer gaming. But he listens to me talk about writing, and David's latest misadventure, and lovey dovey stuff. He's cool like that.
So recap: Card + healthy plant + chocolate + my husband listening to me prattle = (to quote a certain Steve Martin movie) That's all I need.
What I got him:
A funny one, because one of our greatest bonds is that we can make each other laugh until I make this really ugly-doofy face and he makes this sound like a donkey with emphysema. But also with a message from me, containing the very true but pretty sappy sentiment that (don't tell anyone) he really wants.
Because there's really no guy-department equivalent to stuffed animals and heart-shaped everything.
I promised not to discuss a certain funny incident involving someone's boxer short collection. So I can't talk about any of them. Not the ones with a character whose name rhymes with Schmopeye the Tailor Fan, who has an affinity for a certain greenery; not the ones with a certain fluffy blue, gluttonous character whose name rhymes with Schnookie Fonster. And definitely not the ones with the glow in the...
Promise. Immunity. Right. Never mind.
David got us both cards and goodies. My card has about a thousand hearts, and a handwritten message that says "I love you Mom. You take me on walks." Aww.