Shoot that poison arrow - a note to my husband, never delivered

"Shoot that poison arrow", the song goes, and I always think of it about this time of year.  I hate Valentine's day.  I've had damn few good ones, and the bad ones always put me in a blue funk for several days.  It's stupid, I tell myself, to get upset over a fake holiday.  Then again, all holidays are man-made creations, so why single this one to get so upset about?


I guess it's because it's another reminder that you just don't understand me.  I make handmade cards.  I write poetry.  I give candy.  I cook, bake, and otherwise do things I know will please you (and the kids, too).  If I get anything, it's a store-bought card picked up in the last few hours of Valentine's day, purchased, no doubt, out of guilt.  The only poetry you have ever written, to my knowledge, is "Ode to a Jalapeño".  This makes me incredibly sad.


The grand gesture, long-stemmed red American Beauty roses delivered to work, a huge heart-shaped box of chocolates, jewelry in a little powder blue box, dinner at a romantic restaurant, that is all fine and good, but what really says "I love you" to me are the simple, inexpensive things:  a handmade card with red and white heart-shaped doilies like what you might have made in second grade, a short, heart-felt verse, a massage or even just a foot rub, spending the day together watching a movie or having a picnic.  Cook me dinner, brush my hair, SOMETHING!  I want the affirmation that I am special to you, that our love is unique, and that you are moved to do something other than dash in to Wal-Mart and pick up one of the few remaining cards without giving any thought to how it will make me feel.


I guess it's stupid to bitch about getting a dumb, ugly, store-bought card.  It's more than a lot of people get, I'm sure.  But I would just as soon you didn't buy me anything than buy me a card with a fat, middle aged, balding Cupid showing his ass and saying that  it's okay with you that I love you for your body.