You Knew It Was Coming – V-Day Post

13 Feb

I’ve been doing so much work surrounding Valentine’s Day lately, that I’ve almost forgotten what it’s actually about. To me, it’s no longer a “Hallmark Holiday” – it’s become a holiday full of reproducing rabbits, energy supplements, and these videos:

For Valentine’s Day this year, He and I mutually agreed that our thousand dollars trip to Cuba will be our gift to each other (and the Cubans, heyo!). For Valentines’ Day two years ago, we agreed that our driving trip to Florida would be our gift to each other (and our hosts, my aunts, heyo!). Last year we agreed that our gift would be a dinner out with His mother, who was visiting from New Brunswick and decided that Valentine’s Day was the best day to meet up with us, even though we rarely saw each other as we were living in different cities at the time. I’m pretty sure she just wanted to keep us from boning. But she did pay for dinner. Heyo!

We’ve never really been the dinner-reservations-months-in-advance-rose-petals-on-the-bed-type-of-couple. [Note: He has never been the couple. I wouldn’t mind being that couple.] But I mean, it would be kind of nice to do some of that stuff once in awhile, right?

I think sometimes I don’t give Him enough credit though. He’s not big on Valentine’s Day, and we don’t even have an anniversary (which is a whole other blog post, probably on a night when I’ve tried out all eight of His Alcoholic Airmiles suggestions). So in honour of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to tell the most romantic story that exists, just to show that He does bring his A-game. But only when He feels like it.

I had just received a terribly haircut. I mean terrible. I have curly hair and for whatever reason, this doink of a hairdresser cut it super short, so I couldn’t even ponytail the damn thing. I wrapped my neck scarf around my head I was so embarrassed and I cried the entire way home. And by home, I mean His home, where I stormed upstairs and started on a beautiful rant about old fights that we had already solved, about everything I had ever been pissed about basically. I yanked off the headscarf really dramatically and just went at Him. He was nice enough to suggest that I go down to my apartment, take a shower, and see how I feel. I’m glad He didn’t start to go back it me, it could have ended up like this:

Anyways. I went down, showered, and my hair still looked like it did when I was in 5th grade and my Dad gave me a mushroom cut. Then there was a knock on the door. I was too short to see out the peep-hole, so I opened it – but no one was there. I went to go back inside, and there was a ballcap on the handle with a note inside that said “You can wear this until your hair looks better.”


I started to feel a bit bad at this point for my going off on him. I mean, sure my hair looked like ass, but I guess that’s no reason to bring up things that had happened over two years ago… or before we were dating… just as my guilt begins to kick in , there’s another knock on the door.

It’s a bag containing a bottle of rye, and another note. Oh man… does he ever know me well. I went straight to the kitchen to get a shot glass (obvi). Maybe if I got drunk and fixed my hair myself, it would look better. I was probably just reaching for the scissors when there was another knock – this time it was a bag of gingerale (for the world’s best rye & gingies) and a container of Pillsbury cinnamon roles (the week before we had been arguing – I wanted the rolls, he wanted the cookies). It was the best.

Okay. Enough was enough… clearly I was being a total idiot and He was even going out of his way to be super nice and cute about it, just to show what an ass I had been. My guilt was tripping me to Thailand and back at this point, and I kept calling Him but there was no answer. I even went up to his apartment (we lived in the same building, just separate floors), but He wasn’t there.

Finally – another knock on the door. This time it was a bag of lemons. Alright – the rest I got, but lemons? I decided to hang around. Sure enough, about 20 seconds later, out comes Gerard Butler with a 26er of tequila. Hence the lemons. We proceeded to get very drunk, to the point where I forgot I even had hair to be sad about.

So there you have it ladies. If you have a guy who doesn’t quite dig Valentine’s Day, but you’re craving some romance… I wouldn’t worry. He probably has some grand scheme up his sleeves for some normal day of the year when he’ll sweep you off your feet. I suggest berating him heavily and calling his ex-girlfriends dirty names to induce the labour.



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