This year, I'm on the outside looking in. Except this year, I was on the outside with my caring, considerate, sickeningly sweet boyfriend, looking in at all the women whose husbands/boyfriends/friend with benefits grudgingly brought home some grocery store carnations with a side of KY warming lube. "Hey baby. I brought you flowers. Let's get it on."*
(*Disclaimer: above story did not actually happen to anyone I know. But I'm sure it happened somewhere. Multiple times.)
Valentine's Day was almost uncomfortably perfect. Prof sent a bouquet of tulips to the office on Friday. We went to brunch Sunday at a cozy little tavern, and sat next to the fire. We went to a local vineyard and did a wine and chocolate tasting. Then went to the antique store next door just for kicks. Too bad we vaguely smelled like grandma's attic for the rest of the night. He even watched pairs figure skating with me when we got back to my house, without protesting.
I mean really, don't you want to barf?
But it gets better (worse?). Monday was also our 9-monthiversay. He sent a package of chocolate covered strawberries to the office. A refrigerated Fex Ex package of berries. Hello?!
I wish I could say that it was all him, and I remained stoic and cynical and sarcastic all weekend, but I can't. I bought him a card that actually made me slightly uncomfortable with its sentiment. And gave him a basket of individually wrapped specialty food items, with tags. A jar of bittersweet chocolate: "cuz sometimes I'm sweet, and other times, not so much..." A jar of spicy jelly: "cuz you are hot and sweet." Dave's Insanity Sauce: "cuz I'm crazy hot for you..." It included a heart shaped lollipop. Barf. Retch. Ralph.
Wonder what I'm going to get for St. Patrick's Day?