skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Tuesday, 15 February
Hello hello and happy late Valentine's Day! Do you hate this day? Do you sit and gloomily watch dirty movies on Cinemax? (No penetration. Bummer, huh?) Do you viciously excoriate your lousy friends with their lousy wives/girlfriends/mistresses for buying into such a lousy manufactured holiday? (Can you name me a non-manufactured holiday?) If so, you might be one of my friends!
Well, fuck that. I'll take any opportunity to go out with my girl and live it up. Sure, I had to cough up for some gifts. On the other hand . . . I got gifts! Hey, no biggie: I used to badmouth Valentine's Day too . . . when I was single. It's just what you do. But then again, I took time out to hate my coupled-up friends on a daily basis, out of sheer jealousy; I hardly needed a vacation day to do it. But whatever gets you through.
The wife and I, after exchanging GLORIOUS BAUBLES OF LUV, went out with a friend for some drinks at the Virginia Inn; we figured it was either entertain him or he'd stay home doing horrible things to his penis, and we didn't need that on our minds. After a couple hours, we figured it was safe to go meet our reservations at our restaurant and not have to worry about him slow-braising his dick.
We wandered over to Cafe Campagne, a relatively non-ludicrous place to chow, and settled in with a nice plate of unpronouncable cheeses. As accompaniment, we also had unpronouncable wine. "Try the Green-Veined Blaarpel with the Banded Snatch!" Okay. She looked at me funny when I threw my cheese into the wine glass; I was trying to make some sort of European shake, but I must have done it wrong. I tried to reason with her: "I'm letting the flavors meld." She looked unconvinced.
Then came the salad course: I had some straight-up greens in a sherry vinaigrette (which had the unfortunate side effect of giving me a Steve Perry earworm), and the wife had something involving goat cheese on toast. She ignored my entreaties to plunge these delicacies into her wine, which, if memory serves, was a nice Galoop.
Presently our entrees arrived, mine a nice steak frites, and the wife's some chicken corpse jauntily tossed onto noodles with a pan sauce. My steak was, unfortunately, undercooked ("Medium rare, sir?" It was blood raw); and when I showed it to our server, she was more than gracious about taking it back for further triage. (She could hardly have reacted otherwise: the thing was clearly barely out of surgery.) Meanwhile, the wife stabbed joyously at her lovely, inert chicken cadaver and its bier of noodles.
(I am happy to report that the steak, when returned, was perfectly cooked. These things happen. Stupid is the person who makes a huge issue out of these situations, for they are those who will surely taste a stranger's saliva.)
After our repast, we treated ourselves to dessert: a creme brulee for my girl (with a little help from me) and a cognac for myself (with a little help from her).
Then we came home. A glass of champagne. And a good night to you.
(Note: This was to have been published the night of the 14th, but Movable Type kept vomiting in my lap. Also, I was kind of drunk.)
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
Howdy! I'm very happily married, and we don't really do anything on Valentine's day. I don't need anyone to tell me when I should express my love for my husband. Hating Valentines: It's not just for singles anymore!
Non-manufactured holiday? Well, the question is, manufactured by whom? If the answer is "the greeting card companies," then I've got to vote for Arbor Day.
"His vorpal sword went snicker snack"
But it's a frumious bander snatch to you
Sean and I wrote off Valentine's Day and Easter about twelve years ago and replaced them with our "halfiversary" which is April 15, and we ALL need an excuse to be happy on April 15 (plus it's nice to celebrate getting the taxes done).
HOLLLLLD ON! HOLLLLLD ON! (The dressing was that good, huh?)
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