I hope everyone has a wonderful Valentine’s Day tomorrow, whether you have plans to spend your time with someone special or with something special (i.e., chocolate).
In a stunningly altruistic move, I told LCB not to bother with gifts for Valentine’s Day this year. After deep reflection, I’ve decided the only thing I really need or want in life, at the moment anyway, is a manservant to chip away at all of the remaining projects to be completed in our new house. However, since there doesn’t appear to be a manservant store on our small island, I’m not holding out much hope. And since LCB is buried deep in work right now, the romantic dinner we had previous planned will likely be replaced by Hamburger Helper with the small people, with LCB gagging down his portion at his desk in his office.
Interestingly, while catching some of the Valentine’s Day commercials over the weekend, I was struck by how out of touch I am with the rest of America. I can’t imagine, for instance, how many times I’d have to be dropped on my head before I’d start wanting some of the things being advertised as ideal Valentine’s Day gifts. I’m sure many people must love these ideas, as I’ve seen them advertised in years past, and even have friends who enjoy these sorts of gifts, but I am just not feeling it.
So, I made a point to share my feelings with LCB, lest he get distracted by all the clever marketing being thrown in his general direction and buy me a gift anyway. I’ll briefly share a couple of our conversational highlights:
1. For the love of all that is good and decent, do not buy me a giant stuffed teddy bear for Valentine’s Day. That would just be weird. I’m sure some women would love one, but I would not be one of those women in the commercials we’ve been seeing of late that squeals with delight and then cuddles with the bear in the matrimonial bed. Oh, no, no, and more no.
And, if you for some reason drop yourself on your own head and buy the one that’s $100 + another $100 for shipping, handling and processing, you’d better come up with a good sales and marketing package to resell it on eBay and get your $200 back so you can use the money to buy me a few hours of manservant time. If you’re shelling out $200 or more, I want a manservant that paints or resurfaces hardwood, even if you have to resort to mail order to find him.
2. For the life of me, thankfully, I can’t fathom you doing this, but just so we’re painfully clear, do not buy the headsie-footsie pajama thing we hear tell of on the TV either. Yes, I’m the woman who bought Hello Kitty PJ pants last year, but that’s entirely different and something I’ll likely never do again anyway. So if you respect my womanhood at all, you’ll just walk away. Seriously, I’m one of the coldest people I know who grew up in the North, and I can’t imagine the circumstance that would cause me to wear a hood to bed.
Especially, don’t buy the pink one that looks strikingly similar to the pink bunny costume Ralphie gets from his aunt for Christmas in the movie A Christmas Story. I have no intention of wearing something that would make me look like “a deranged Easter Bunny” or “a pink nightmare.” And since, also by intention, none of my current responsibilities involve acting as Master of Ceremonies for a Noah’s Ark Reenactment, especially avoid the zebra-print one as well.
Simply put, unlike the lovely ladies on the headsie-footsie-whateversie commercials when they receive their “gifts,” I’ll be a chasm away from anything resembling enamored.
Update: I wrote this post this morning, while getting ready to leave our old house (where we just spent a long weekend) and drive back to our new one. Then, my son started puking (Yay! Ill-timed puke!), and so this post and most other things were set aside as I dealt with my puking child and got him safely if uncomfortably from point A to point B. Now, here it is nighttime, and as I was just getting ready to post this, on a whim I checked the site with the $100+ bear.
The bear is sold out.
The only viable explanation in my mind, then, is that it’s a miracle bear that stops your child’s puking.
Guess that would be a plausible explanation for the squeals of delight.