I'm a romantic at heart... really.
I proposed on Valentines Day; George Strait flowed from my voice box and badly played guitar strings posing as music were produced by my fingers.
We've had a lot of Valentines Day getaways. Memphis. Wild Dunes. Ski slopes in Colorado. Matai room at the Tradewinds. Name a state, Name a hemisphere, it seems as if we've celebrated there.
When it comes to V-Day, I'm not completely at a loss. I understand what's at stake.
However, this year I set a record low. We spent Valentines weekend bunking with our kids in their room. Jaime and I shared the romantic metal double bed, with Colt on the twin bed directly 36 inches above us. Ally and Julia were in the adjacent bunk beds.
Nothing says romance like having your 4-yr old climb into bed at 3 a.m., juxtaposed in such a way that her feet are inches from your nose and her elbows somehow inextricably located near your midsection. (BTW... sharing a bed w/ Julia may be traumatic... but at least the bed stays dry.)
I know, I'm a regular don juan. (i don't know don juan... but apparently that mexican dude has style.)
Now, I'm just like the next guy. I hate the pressure that comes with Valentines Day. Fifty years ago, my grandpa was doing well to remember the day and buy a rose. Today, a rose gets you the cold shoulder unless accompanied by 11 other rose friends, a timely gift, and a thoughtful personalized card. (the card is the jackpot, guys)
But, I have to admit. For the first time in many years, Valentines Day was, basically treated like most other days. In my defense, there's not a lot to do on the island. There are no romantic rotating restaurants located 54 stories atop a coconut tree-shaped building. There are no operas scheduled this year. Shoot... we don't even have a romantic horse-drawn carriages. (there are only about two horses on the island, and I don't suspect they've carried anything other than equine diseases for many years.)
I'm embarrassed to tell anyone what kind of present I bought my wife. It wasn't an appliance. But it was possibly worse. Let's just say it rhymes with "scathing mute." (all twelve readers of the blog are now wasting valuable seconds at work trying to figure this puzzle out.)
I'll do better next year. Note to Self: Time to re-learn that King George song, kick the kids to a grandparent, and fly to Europe.
'nuff said
I proposed on Valentines Day; George Strait flowed from my voice box and badly played guitar strings posing as music were produced by my fingers.
We've had a lot of Valentines Day getaways. Memphis. Wild Dunes. Ski slopes in Colorado. Matai room at the Tradewinds. Name a state, Name a hemisphere, it seems as if we've celebrated there.
When it comes to V-Day, I'm not completely at a loss. I understand what's at stake.
However, this year I set a record low. We spent Valentines weekend bunking with our kids in their room. Jaime and I shared the romantic metal double bed, with Colt on the twin bed directly 36 inches above us. Ally and Julia were in the adjacent bunk beds.
Nothing says romance like having your 4-yr old climb into bed at 3 a.m., juxtaposed in such a way that her feet are inches from your nose and her elbows somehow inextricably located near your midsection. (BTW... sharing a bed w/ Julia may be traumatic... but at least the bed stays dry.)
I know, I'm a regular don juan. (i don't know don juan... but apparently that mexican dude has style.)
Now, I'm just like the next guy. I hate the pressure that comes with Valentines Day. Fifty years ago, my grandpa was doing well to remember the day and buy a rose. Today, a rose gets you the cold shoulder unless accompanied by 11 other rose friends, a timely gift, and a thoughtful personalized card. (the card is the jackpot, guys)
But, I have to admit. For the first time in many years, Valentines Day was, basically treated like most other days. In my defense, there's not a lot to do on the island. There are no romantic rotating restaurants located 54 stories atop a coconut tree-shaped building. There are no operas scheduled this year. Shoot... we don't even have a romantic horse-drawn carriages. (there are only about two horses on the island, and I don't suspect they've carried anything other than equine diseases for many years.)
I'm embarrassed to tell anyone what kind of present I bought my wife. It wasn't an appliance. But it was possibly worse. Let's just say it rhymes with "scathing mute." (all twelve readers of the blog are now wasting valuable seconds at work trying to figure this puzzle out.)
I'll do better next year. Note to Self: Time to re-learn that King George song, kick the kids to a grandparent, and fly to Europe.
'nuff said
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