V-Day Hangover

Sorry for the lack of posting yesterday. Furious V-Day planning + Boss in Europe = I ain’t sittin’ around here for an extra hour writing nonsense to nobody.

That said I hope everyone had an excellent V-Day. Quite in spite of myself, I did.

It seems no matter how much I try to convince myself that it is a Hallmark holiday created to sell diamonds and flowers and guilt guys into spending way too much money to propose to their girls or buy them an overpriced dinner (which it is) or that you should love the one you’re with and treat them great everyday, not just when the calendar sez so (which I do) or a passive yet cutthroat competition between women in the workplace to see who’s significant other loves them more based on how large, elaborate or odorous a flower arrangement they receive (which I won…this year), I still spend way too much time worrying about getting everything right for the day itself and the lead up to it. Case in point, this year:

At the urging of one of H’s galpals—and by “urging” I refer to a fervent conversation at Taco Nite a few weeks back, consisting of this exchange:

Galpal: So, do you know what you’re getting H for V-Day?

Me: Prolly some flowers. She likes flowers. They are purty. And smellum good.

Galpal: Oh, flowers, huh?

Me: Er…and something else…besides flowers…uh…’cause flowers clearly aren’t enough, right?

Galpal: She really wants a tattoo.

Me: Yeah, we tried to get one for her birthday but she hasn’t mentioned it much since…

Galpal: She really wants a tattoo.

Me: Oh. Well. I guess I should get her a tattoo.

Galpal: Yes. You really should.

Me: Yes. I really should.

Galpal: Good talk. Let’s get some tacos.

--I decided to surprise H with a trip to the Tattoo Asylum in Venice, the premiere inking spot in the self-mutilation capital of the U.S.ofA. I talk to Bill and he says, “Yes, we accept walkins.” Bill sounds clean on the phone and speaks as if he has all of his teeth. “We’ll be there Sunday afternoon,” I say. I keep things very hush hush throughout the week, hinting but not giving any details of the excursion to come.

Lo and behold, Sunday comes and off to Venice we go. H is foaming at the mouth by this point. The girl loves surprises but her anticipation sometimes borders on mania. We park, walk up to the Asylum and I present her with her surprise: “SURPRISE!”

And this is NOT the look you want to see after you yell “SURPRISE!” Shoulders slumped. Furrowed brow. Biting her lower lip. Not good times.

Long story short, we go for a walk to “think about it”, stop in a record store across the street where I pick up Bjork’s soundtrack to Dancer in the Dark and she grabs some Benny Goodman on vinyl, then head back over to the Asylum. We decide to go inside and talk about it. The counter guy (picture any ska kid that used to skateboard in front of your high school, except now he’s forty and still wearing that same newsie cap), who I will call Bill, wisely talked H out of covering up her current tattoo with a design she wasn’t sure about, and cautioned against spontaneous inking in general. I decided against telling Bill that it was a surprise. Bill seems kinda put out that we’re wasting his time. For that matter, so do I. While H looooooooves surprises, I am the exact opposite. I think surprises are sophomoric and manipulative and that the act seldom lives up to the expectation, inevitably leading to disappointment, both on the part of the giver and the receiver.

So we scrap the whole idea, go to Ikea and get a new storage bench and new pots and pretty new napkins and shiny new bedside lamps to replace our broken old beat-ass bedside lamps and God knows what else I agreed to pay for to help assuage my own failed V-Day Surprise guilt. I can tell that I feel much worse about the failed surprise than she does, but I still feel the need to make it up to her. Damn you Hallmark!

Then we go get sushi. H chooses Crazy Fish. We walk right in, no wait. Great salmon. Broccoli in garlic sauce is excellent. Jewish roll is very tasty. Crazy Fish roll is so-so. She pays. Whatta gal.

All in all, after all my worrying and planning and fretting, it was a pretty good time.

Big surprise.