My Answer To Valentine’s.
And where I might have gone wrong.
“All you need is love. But a little chocolate now and then doesn’t hurt.” Charles M. Schulz
Valentine’s is a day when you show you care, usually with a heart-shaped box of chocolates — which definitely shows you don’t. A typical assorted gift box is about 210 calories per serving and fourteen percent fat (right up there with bacon).
In other words, your wife or girlfriend needs a box of chocolates like you need a dress. Which is why I’m not giving my wife a box of chocolates and she’s not giving me a dress.
Instead, I’ve decided to be absolutely practical this year. I intend to remedy her many complaints, starting with the television remote. She claims I’m a remote hog. That’s about to change. From this day forward, we’ll each have the same amount of time with the remote — on one condition.
I supply my own batteries, she supplies hers. If she doesn’t have any — or forgets the rules and says, “Why isn’t this remote working?” then the remote must be surrendered to me.
Her hair is starting to flatten out again.
Just so you know, I did the same thing last year with the car’s battery. It was hard at first. My wife didn’t know the first thing about positive and negative poles. Good news, though.
Her hair is starting to flatten out again.
Secondly, she wants to go south for the winter. All our retired friends are down there. “Why are we freezing up here?” she says.
Well, she’s right, of course. So I booked us a week at the North Pole. My reasoning is simple. After a few months in Mexico — at great cost, I might add — we’ll still be coming back to the cold.
A week at the North Pole is the reverse. You come back realizing our winters are balmy by comparison.
I also explain that skin carcinoma increases with age, peaking at sixty-five. Do we really want to risk that at this stage in our lives? Especially after her hair has finally flattened out?
The third involves compliments. It seems I don’t mention my wife’s looks nearly as much as I should. To that end, I’ve hired a singing telegram. He’s going to sing “Killer Queen” with these lyrics: She’s a killer queen, skin like vanilla ice, eyebrows at an enormous price, guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime.
I’m sure my wife will be impressed, even if it does mean having some shirtless guy with a leather armband, sashaying around our front steps.
“Oh, she’ll like that,” the singing telegram messenger says, doing Freddie Mercury a bit too well. I’m sure my wife will be impressed, even if it does mean having some shirtless guy with a leather armband, sashaying around our front steps.
I realize this last one isn’t practical, but I still feel my wife is worth the extra expense. She has had her hair sticking straight up for the past year—and she’s possibly going to the North Pole.
She says she isn’t, of course.
“You’re out of your frickin’ mind,” she says. “All I want is to be sitting on a beach, listening to the waves, having a mai tai.”
It does sound nice, doesn’t it? I still think she’s not giving the North Pole its due. Nobody comes back from there saying they hated it. Whereas, lots of people come back from Mexico with Montezuma’s Revenge. My wife has a very delicate constitution.
I’ve been to Mexico. I shat my pants.
“I’ll get shots,” she says, which is her being absolutely naive.
I’ve been to Mexico. I shat my pants.
“Then we’ll go to Florida,” she says.
“The carcinoma capital of the East Coast?” I say. “Why don’t you just throw me in front of a bus right now?”
“I’m tempted, believe me,” she says, “but I’m not going to. It’s Valentine’s and I’ve spent a lot of time picking out a gift.”
“Sweetie, you shouldn’t have,” I say.
“And I want you to put it on now.”
She hands me a colourful box and pushes me into the bedroom. I come out minutes later, forgetting to look in the mirror.
“It’s a rather long shirt,” I say.
She’s at the front door with the singing telegram. He looks at me, I look at him. “Well, well,” he smiles. “Colour me surprised.”
Off he goes with more strut than a crippled peacock.
“This is a bloody dress,” I exclaim.
I look in the hall mirror.
“This is a bloody dress,” I exclaim.
Well, the joke’s on me. obviously. I can tell that by my wife’s hysterical laughter. Now she’s trying to stick a flower in my hair.
It seems fifteen percent of women buy flowers for themselves on Valentine’s Day. Are all these flowers going in their husband’s hair? Anything’s possible, I suppose (I mean, I can’t be the only one suggesting the North Pole).
Maybe we’re all standing around in dresses, wishing we’d just bought them a heart-shaped box of chocolates.
We wouldn’t be wrong. According to research, 57 million people buy over 36 million boxes of chocolates each year. I think that proves they know a lot more about gift-giving than I do.
Besides, it’s a lot cheaper than a singing telegram — or a trip to the North Pole. Which my wife still says is ridiculous.
Let’s hope I can return the dress.
“We’re going south,” she says.
Let’s hope I can return the dress.
Nope, she’s swallowing the bill.
“That’s very unkind,” I say.
She gives me a raspberry and a polar bear hug.
