Roses, Schmoses!!

In the lexicon of roses, "red" means love. So, women everywhere will be getting dozens of red roses on Valentine's Day. I don't know, but it seems to me that red roses on Valentine's Day has become a bit of a stereotype that's lost its oomph. It's not that I don't appreciate getting flowers. I do. It's just that they mean more to me on any day other than February 14th. Besides, I find it unfair that there's no similar slam-dunk gift for men. Boxer shorts with little Cupids on them are ubiquitous. Someone must be buying them. But my husband Dale won't wear them. Little guys shooting arrows that close to that part of his anatomy makes him a bit squeamish.

The truth is neither Dale nor I are very good at this gift thing. So, instead of giving gifts to each other, we pick something we both want as a joint gift.

One year we bought a martini shaker and glasses. We spent the next month slightly tipsy on Martinis, Cosmopolitans and Lemon Drops. Another year we took a trip. Of all the years we've celebrated Valentine's Day together, my favorite was the year we bought a bottle of great champagne and a bag of those little heart candies with sayings on them. We hopped in bed, sipped the champagne, wrote candy messages to each other on the sheets, and laughed. When the champagne was gone, there was only one thing left to do. That part needs to stay private.

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I say roses, schmoses, who cares? They'll look pretty on the dining room table until they wither, die and are forgotten. I'd much rather have a Valentine's Day experience that will stay in my memory forever. This year I think I'll suggest pancake mix, a bottle of gourmet syrup, and breakfast in bed. I've got a new negligee I'm dying to wear. Seems like the perfect opportunity, don't you think?