The Most Dangerous Day

Well, I survived the most dangerous day for any married men; Valentine’s Day. (Shudder!) Tell me, what criminally insane mind thought that day up? Billed as the day to “express your undying, unbridled, passion filled love for your one and only soul mate; rendering meaning and purpose to your otherwise pathetic and meaningless single life”. The fact of the matter is, as the entire Western world knows this to be the gospel truth akin to that of Beta tape's superiority over VHS tapes, this day was created by a diabolical female executive of an Easter Block, Communist greeting card company; expressly for the sole purpose of undermining the Western Democracies' dominance by showcase how inept the entire capitalist system has become. How did they plan to do this dastardly deed, I hear you ask. Simple, by making it humanly impossible for a husband to practice the essential tenet of a capitalistic nation; go forth and freely purchase the gift which will set your wife's heart aflame by your masterly use of the superior male romantic essence. This disconcertion of the natural order of matrimony, sows the seeds of discontent in the idealized "Ward Cleaver" American home, thereby bringing an end to the Western lead world as we know it.

Let me tell you, I have had some monumentally disastrous Valentine’s Day gift misshapes. Personally, I believe an award should be given on this day to husbands who show great effort and style, yet bewilderingly still miss the mark. The award is for all the heartfelt gifts which fanned the flames, sadly not of passion, but of an indignant wife.

As an example, I submit the tale of a gift I gave to my wife a few years into our marriage. (An extremely delicate span of time during any marriage. Husbands must carefully construct the "Man-dom" of their home during this highly impression laden time. Failure to do this correctly could spell total doom and destruction.) This was a gift innocently given from my heart. The idea for this gift came to me as the heavens opened above me, a bright light engulfed me, and the answer washed down upon my being in a vibrant glow. (Ok, so I don’t buy that either. Truth is, the heavens did open up as freezing rain of Biblical proportions crashed violently down on my head as I tried valiantly to run to my car without squealing like a little girl. On coming headlights from the other husbands escaping work engulfed me momentarily, a split second before I was bathed in an unseasonal, icy cold, February, parking lot, puddle water bath. Over and over the puddle bath splashes broke against me, leaving the taste of deicing salt in my mouth as I tried to shout obscenities at the overtly amused drivers. There was a “vibrant glow”, one that comes only from the rage seething forth like the froth on an overheated Chevy small block, straight six, engine devoid of coolant. I drove home, dripping road gunk and puddle water run-off all over the driver’s seat. )

 

I pulled into the drive way of my home, put the car into park and the weight of the entire cosmos crashed down, crushing me under its Atlas-smashing weight, as the realization that it was Valentine’s Day and I was devoid of a gift for Farah. Fear ripped through my soul, burning away any semblance of sane thinking left in my feverish brain. The “fight or flight” instinct ground the gears of my tortured mind as I power slammed the car into reverse. Squealing tires created the dense white smokescreen crucial for my hasty get away! I speed like a man possessed to the one place I knew to be safe. Like Quasimodo, still drenched and hobbling my way to safety, I called out beggingly, “sanctuary”, over and over as the electric doors parted and I entered the loving orange glow of Home Depot.

“Think man, think!”, my panic stricken mind rambled. Calming myself, a plan slowly started to percolate and take shape. With the right bits of PVC piping, wires, duct tape and assorted odds and ends, the perfect gift could be created, sure to warm the heart of any skeptical wife on Valentine’s Day. I races around, searching for all the parts I’d need when I ran into Stan. 

Stan was the best friend any Valentine’s beleaguered husband could have, or want to have. Stan had been working in hardware since he helped gather parts and dispense advice on how to build the world on the day of creation. No one knew where Stan came from, no one really cared to ask. All we beaten down husbands cared about was that Stan was there! She was the greatest help when time was of the essence. (Yes, her name is Stan. Look people, no husband running for his very life from a home project crazed wife cares two hoots why a lady is named “Stan”. All we know is that’s the named on her orange vest and she has untold wisdom and salvation when we desperately seek protection.  Many a marriage has been saved by Stan, the Sage of Home Depot.)

Whenever a home project had to be completed, she saved us husbands. Stan always has the wisdom to prevent husbands from taking the "walk of shame". ( Come now, you do know what the "walk of shame" is don't you? It's the moment after your wife has opened her Valentine's Day gift, it's a total dud, and you are left alone, listening to your baby girl say, “Ooooo, Mom won’t let Dad in the bedroom…again. Justice is swift and harsh to all “Mom Rule” breakers! Ah yeah!” All-the-while, your sons hide there faces in shame at the dismantled and destroyed illusion that was "Man-dom".)

After an emotion filled, blubbering plead to Stan, all was resolved. The solution presented itself and I was safe to return home. Words of wisdom had been dispensed; Stan had not let me down.

I went home; stealthfully went into the office and gathered destruction paper and crayons. With Rembrandt-ian talent, I wielded the Elmer's Glue and glitter.  Skillfully, I crafted the best Valentine’s Day card ever created on this cursed day. No preschooler could have done better. The card said:

 

Roses are red, 

violets are blue ,

My heart is filled with thought of you .

Home projects go undone ,

But I don’t want to hog all the fun .

I’ll share the laying of the laminate floor,

I’ll even share the installation of the new front door.

Happy Valentine’s Day, we’re home makeover fools ,

 

I bought you your own pink “Bag-O-Tools”.

I was bracing my self for the on rush of kisses and unbridled affection not known since our honeymoon; I spread my arms for the embrace forth coming and puckered my lips…nothing happened. Slowly opening my eyes, I saw the woman DNA stance: weight on one leg while the other leg is bent at the knee, arms akimbo, the look of fire, instantly singed my beard and removed my eyebrows. Then came the passion filled explanation of "romance”-which this was not, and “shameless covering of one’s posterior”-which this was. I was next enlightened as to the vast difference between cards which are “artistic” and cards that are “autistic”.

Needless to say, my Valentine’s Day gift that year was not the great gift I thought it was, go figure. (As I saw it, tools are always a perfect gift, and I proved I had listened to all the endless hours of “communication” What finer "togetherness" can there be then that created over endless sweaty hours of remodeling? The tools did work there magic in August when I was let back in the bedroom. )
 

Other unfavorable, yet best intended and thoughtful, Valentine’s Day gifts include: vacuum cleaner, (not sure what made me think a Hoover was romantic? Let’s not dwell on this too long.) ; emergency roadside kit, (I was concerned with her safety and wanted to promote my faith in equality of women. Beside, it was all pink.); couple's breast pump, (she was pregnant, I thought it was considerate and here again, I was trying to create “togetherness”. The box said it would enhance “togetherness, intimacy,a loving partnership”. Don’t believe all you read. ); Cupid shaped Chia Pet, (admittedly, a gift born out of desperation); compound, crosscut, adjustable, lazar-enhanced, miter saw, (Ok, that was just a cool! Impulse buy.), Victoria’s Secret: "Win Back What You Lost From Valentine’s Day Gifts of the Past Gift Box", (…with a bow to propriety and my own modesty, it’s best I not elaborate on what was in the “Box-o-Love” and merely say it failed with a cacophonous thud all my deafie  friends could appreciate.)

No, this year was different. I went out early in the morning, filled with the desperation of a big game hunter with an empty trophy wall. Skillfully I had laid subtle questions, worded with such shadowy reconnaissance, sure to glean the information I needed. Out I scurried to bag the elusive prey.

Let’s just say this year’s gift won’t be shelved in the far end of the basement with all the past Valentine’s Day gifts. After many rears of near misses, I was finally able to score with the gift I gave Farah this year. How sweet the victory lap was around the living room when her face lit up upon unwrapping the gift. No walk of shame this year!