I Ask You...

What would Valentine's Day be without another installment of the adventures of Advo and She-Who-Visits?

Ahh, Valentine's Day. I must just be one of those guys who doesn't have a feel for the day. It always just seems to me like such a made-up Hallmark holiday. Forced romance - now there's a fetish for you! There's such an outsized expectation for such little actual payoff. Plus, there's never anything in it for me except downside. On the one hand, expectation is sky-high. Anticipation leaps from romantic prospect like a nasty jolt from a TENS unit to the sincere offering of effort. If I succeed, I've managed only to do what's expected, whereas the dial-turned zap of failure looms large, always ready to electrocute everything.

Wait a second. I sound like I'm enjoying this a bit, don't I?

Last year I totally missed She's boat when it came to Valentine's Day. I remember the horrible feeling when she called and asked me where her flowers were. It literally took me months to paw dig myself out of the doghouse. I vowed I'd change things this year.

So I started early as I related on a previous post and began sending her store bought Valentine's cards which I personalized and customized. Sometimes I'd paste some song lyrics into the card. On others I would find images of places we'd been or restaurants we'd eaten at and I'd add them. I had fun and some of the cards were really pretty well done. So I sent them off in batches with the total card count coming in close to the day of the month upon which this wretched holiday falls.

I loved making She her cards. I felt the whole process bring me closer to her every time I did one of my little arts and crafts offerings. I pasted an image of a death-by-super-chocolate souffle we'd shared at Capsuto Frères with a description about its "precarious rising" and admonished her to refrain from peanut gallery comments about other such similar "risings". I glued in Patti Smith lyrics about love's angelic, lustful disguise. I made lots of x's and o's.

Then I sent her flowers on Thursday, just to make sure she got them. Red roses, circus roses (red with yellow and orange tips), and yellow callas. My message was about how flowers were fleeting, furiously fun, and completely evanescent. Beautiful, like our time together.

Thursday I was home, cramming more law into a brain that feels it is leaking the Rule Against Perpetuities, Promissory Estoppel, and the Homestead Exemption from every orifice of my tired, tired body. She wrote me a nice email in which she proclaimed the flowers just lovely, but She allowed as to how she liked the cards much better than the flowers. Soooo much effort She praised. "I just loved them!"

"I love pleasing my Valentine", I replied

"Then you should have sent a plant", she answered

Oh, She, you really love me. You met me halfway!

Doghouse

It is my firm belief that Valentine's Day has been put on the calendar so guys like me can mess up. I try to be attentive, but not clingy; dutiful but not sycophantic; caring but not overbearing; funny, but not glib; a sensitive guy, but not a eunuch-like wuss. You get the picture. Then comes V'day ...

"She-Who-Visits" is coming for a visit! Soon! I'm overjoyed! I miss her so much! We've been so much more connected during these past four months. We've had our sweet emails, wonderful telephone chats, and our lovely book club. She recently got a new job on Island Paradise, an idyllic atoll which is far enough away that it can seem a world apart. But it is a place I personally know a little and actually have a major connection with. She left her dream job - the one that took her there - for an office job - a thing she left the New York rat race to escape. Although she likes it, it has stressed her some. And if I'm really honest, she's told me she worked for Company X, but all I heard was she was the high powered assistant to a very successful person who she seems to like very much.

So today my cellphone goes off and it's her! I'm sooooo happy she's called. "It's the end of my work day." she says, sounding tired. "You sound so tired." I say, sounding concerned, but not overbearing. "It's the end of the work week, it's Friday!" I say cheerfully, but sincerely. "Yes, and where are my Valentine flowers?" she rasps.

I'm floored. "But I don't have an address." I say lamely. "Well, it's the only Company X on the island!" she counters. "I'm ... I'm ... I'm ... sorry?" I shoulda, coulda, woulda ... blah, blah, blah. "You're sorry?? Well wallow in it! I have to go back to work." Line is dead.

I immediately google Company X and plain as day there's the address. I google flowers on Island Paradise and find a flower store that tells me they'll deliver in under an hour. I place the order and feverishly text her to please not end her work week for an hour. I call.

"Yes, what now?"

"I ordered flowers, they'll be there in under an hour."

"I'm meeting a friend for a run. Cancel them. I'll talk to you this weekend." Line is dead. God, I hate to disappoint her.

Aarkey did a post awhile back about guys going to the Doghouse. Help!! I'm in the doghouse. Try as I might, I never can stay out of the damn place. And that, dear reader, is why Valentine's Day sucks. It's on the calendar just so guys like me can mess up. I had planned a heartfelt, well-phrased, V'day e-love letter. Which I sent her. Along with a PS and a link to the Doghouse video.
What the hell. Every man in the doghouse is innocent. Hey, work on the folding Advo! And tonight, it's quiche and chai latte. Again.

And Domina mine, I just wanna be your dog.