The first year that The Daver and I celebrated VDay (also hilarious known in my brain as VD-Day–because what ISN’T funny about VD? Answer: nothing, unless it’s your privates. Then it’s really unfunny) was on a Saturday, which means that since it wasn’t TODAY that we first celebrated it, this is our 6th VD-Day. Sounds impressive, no?
3 kids, 2 houses, 2 apartments and a whole mess of pets later, I cannot believe that number is so low.
But we’re not romantical people, Internet. I know, I know, pick your jaw up off the ground, you simply cannot believe that someone who married moi wouldn’t be all about hearts and flowers but it’s the truth. I happen to love this holiday–albeit for very different reasons of which I’ll give you three: pink, red, and sparkly–but Dave could probably do without it. It’s unfair, but I imagine him listening to whiny emo music on VD-Day’s prior to our union, and perhaps crying into something made out of silk.
(It’s a good thing that he won’t read this for weeks or I might be facing the wrath of a dutch oven tonight)
It’s not a likely scenario since I’m fairly certain that he’s never owned anything silk, but it’s my mental picture and I’m sticking to it as dogma. It is my blog, after all, and if my mental picture of my husband includes a bunny suit and a 5-pound jug of sour cream, well, it’s my prerogative.
The only thing that Dave and I have consistently done on VD-Day besides annoy the living shit out of each other by screetching the “It could only be JAAARREEDD” song and ever-increasing decibels is to buy one another roses.
And not just ANY kind of roses: TACKY roses.
No, they’re not real or have ever been grown on anything remotely resembling a plant. I’m talking about the world’s tickiest-tackiest sort of flower. They can’t even just be fake; they have to be fake PLUS.
For example, last year I found a true gem: it cost 39 cents (hello, After VD-Day specials!!), it was covered in fake velvet AND it sang a tinny melody! Even better, the wires that connected the button that needed to be depressed to make the music were fucked up, so the melody–Fur Elise, I think it was–would veer horribly off key at irregular intervals. All it was missing was the heavy, cheap perfume of fake roses past.
With all of the hullabaloo that the last month or so has involved, I was never able to enact my master plan: a rose made of a lacy cheap thong. I’ve seen them before and stupidly never thought to buy them for such an occasion, and now I’m kicking myself for it. Because what else would my husband want for VD-Day but a pair of women’s thong underwear that no woman in her right mind would wear? The level of gross would be too high to put them on my delicate girly bits, even for a laugh. Shit, the material might eat my crotch.
Always next year, right?
Happy VD-Day, Internet! I hope today finds you happy and well and perhaps in possession of a 5 gallon jug of sour cream. Because what isn’t awesome about sour cream? Answer: nothing.
And if you have any ideas for hideous roses for years to come, holler.