The Token Valentine's Day Blog

Part One: Using the Day of Love to Your Advantage

Valentine's Day is just the type of holiday I would normally oppose. This holiday, with its roots in the Middle Ages, was originally intended to celebrate something as noble as love and affection between cherished admirers. It is now just another example of Western World commercialization, in the guise of sentimental greeting cards, heart-shaped chocolates, and red and pink flowers. I like to think it's against my principles to enjoy the materialistic aspects of our consumer-driven American holidays, but I love chocolate and roses and being the center of attention. So I guess I'm a bit of a closet Valentine's Day fan.

In my experience thus far as a relatively young married woman, Valentine's Day is the one holiday when my husband allows me to make all of the decisions, from the restaurant to the movie. He even gives me a gift I want instead of the typical present I receive from him - a CD that does "double duty" which translates into a CD he knows I'll like but one that he also wants to add to his prolific collection.

How did I make Valentine's Day, in spite of all the cheesy cellophane-wrapped packages and gigantic heart-holding teddy bears, work for me?

1. Tell him to send flowers to your place of work.

When Dan and I started getting serious, I was very specific about what I wanted for Valentine's Day.

"You will send red roses to me at work every Valentine's Day. I don't want a CD. I want flowers."

"Don't you want to be surprised?" Dan asked.

"No. I want flowers."

I learned this not-so-subtle approach from my mother who used to say, "You have to train these guys. And don't just hint around. Beat them over the head with what you want."

At least Dan follows directions well. A friend of mine had told her husband for decades that she wanted flowers sent to her office and nothing more. He kept trying to get creative, sending her barbershop quartets, singing telegrams, and messengers dressed up in over-sized heart outfits. Eventually she gave up and told her husband not to send anything else to her work.

2. Choose the most sentimental chick-flickiest movie. No superheroes, aliens, or blown-up buildings allowed.

So maybe you love action movies with lots of explosions or horror flicks with violent torture scenes. If this is truly your choice and not his choice then by all means, watch all the blood and guts you want. Valentine's Day is about you making the decisions.

I try to choose a film that I would never get Dan to even consider any other time of the year. Throughout the other 364 days of the year, I see all sorts of movies that feature post-apocalyptic themes, gun-wielding FBI agents, superheroes from graphic novels, etc., etc., etc. On Valentine's Day, the only movies I will agree to see have titles like Steel Magnolias, Sex and the City, or anything with English subtitles.

3. Choose the restaurant, and don't worry if it's not his favorite place to eat.

Dan does not love fondue. He thinks it's too much work to go to a restaurant only to have to cook your own food. Guess where we go on Valentine's Day? Or sometimes I'll choose a restaurant with dishes that he can't pronounce.

The last couple of years, we have eaten dinner at the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. They have something even better than coq au vin - dancing! Dan promises me one dance every Valentine's Day. "So choose the song wisely," he always adds.

Part Two: Valentine's Day 2010

When I received my roses this year (which, by the way, were especially beautiful), the teachers had to remind me to open the card. The reason I had neglected this seemingly trivial action was because Dan writes the same thing every year - "Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan." He only says that much because I told him he has to write more than "From, Dan."

"What does it say?" they asked.

"I'm sure it just says 'Happy Valentine's Day. Love, Dan.'"

But this year, Dan had added "Looking forward to our trip together" to his message.

"Ohhhh . . . how sweet," my colleagues sighed.

"Can you have your husband talk to my boyfriend?" one teacher asked.

"I have the best husband," I said proudly, omitting the fact that I had established Valentine's precedents early in our relationship that Dan was expected to follow.

But I do have the best husband, and he takes direction very well.

The "trip" to which Dan referred in the card was a quick weekend getaway to the Ashley Inn in Cascade, Idaho. We decided to take the roses on our trip. That was an adventure in itself.

I suggested that we buckle the flowers in, but Dan had already put the backseats down. He decided to wedge the vase between our two duffel bags.

"That doesn't look very stable," I said.

"Let's see!" and with that, Dan peeled out of the garage and hopped the curb.

The roses hobbled and teetered and probably would have fallen over had I not grabbed them.

When I pointed out again that our arrangement didn't seem very stable and that the vase had been on the verge of tipping, Dan said, "It is either going to fall over or not. It can't almost fall over."

"Yes it can," I said. "It's not black and white, like being pregnant; if you're pregnant, you're pregnant, not a little, not a lot, just pregnant. A vase of flowers is different. It can fall, it can not fall, or it can almost fall."

Dan turned into the next neighborhood to readjust the flowers.

I spent the rest of the car ride worrying about the state of my roses. Every time Dan took a curve, I deliberately glanced back at the flowers eliciting "The flowers are fine" from Dan. Eventually I started to get carsick from riding backwards in the passenger seat, and I gave up.

Instead I would glance at the wobbly flowers in the rear view mirror from time to time until Dan said, "Why don't you hold them in your lap the entire trip? That way, you could really enjoy them."

We made it all the way to Cascade without a major catastrophe. I guess a small part of me was hoping the flowers would dump all over the backseat leaving a mass of petals, foliage, and dirty water just to prove my point. But, alas, it was not to be. My husband was right once again which, I hate to admit, is usually the case. And we were able to enjoy my beautiful intact Valentine's roses all weekend long.

Did You Write a Thank You Note Yet?

The other day, my husband and I were discussing the art of thank you note writing with my father and his wife, Emmy, who were visiting from out of town. My dad made a comment along the lines of "Thank you notes are Emmy's responsibility (translation: the woman's job)." Dan, my typically silent husband, chose that particular moment to actually contribute to the joviality of the moment.

"What's a thank you note?" he asked with a little smirk.

Emmy and my dad laughed. I'm pretty certain my dad said, "Good one, Dan."

I rolled my eyes at Dan's comedic timing (and at my father's borderline sexist comment) and informed my family that a little over six years ago, Dan really didn't know what a thank you note was.

Perhaps he knew the definition of a thank you note. He just saw the writing of thank you notes as an unnecessary evil, an archaic practice implemented by the Establishment to turn us all into etiquette-conscious conformists.

When Dan and I were married, I introduced him to the correct way of writing thank you notes and somehow convinced him that, "Yes, we do have to write a thank you note for every wedding gift, even the ones we're planning on returning."

"Can't we just print out a generic note with a fill-in-the-blank for each item?"

"Emily Post says thank you notes should always be handwritten."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

We split the task of writing our wedding thank yous. However, when I discovered that one of his notes read, "Thank you for the towel. Dan and Becky," I realized I had better make sure all of his notes met my more-than-one-sentence standard before mailing them off.

I was raised writing thank you notes for everything. I had a grandmother and a great Aunt Alice who expected a thank you note the week after every birthday and holiday that includes gifts. Considering they lived in southern Illinois and I lived in Boise, Idaho, that meant I practically had to write my thank you notes on Christmas day.

And if I didn't get the thank you notes out in time, my poor mother would get the brunt of it.

"Well, Alice is mad because she hasn't gotten a thank you note from Becky." "I just don't know what could have happened to Becky's thank you note. Maybe it's lost in the mail. Should I call the post office?"

"Don't call the post office," my mother would say. "Becky always sends a thank you note. I'm sure she's just a little behind."

Then my mother would call me and beg me to hurry up and write my thank you notes. Sometimes, I would have to write two or three because my grandmother and Aunt Alice would forget they had received them.

Occasionally, when they were happy with my timeliness, they would spend their phone conversations with my mother reading her the thank you notes I had sent.

Now that I am the one who talks to my grandmother and Aunt Alice on the phone, I hear about all of the thank you notes they receive from my brother, from Dan, from my dad, and of course, from me.

About two years ago, my Aunt Alice said, "You have always been so good about sending your thank you notes out right away. You're just like your mother. She would be so proud." I think that was the nicest compliment I had ever been given, even if it did revolve around a silly archaic practice of societal conformity.

Here's why:

When I was seven years old, a boy named Jeremiah in my second grade class showed up at my front door with a vase of fresh cut flowers.

"You want these?" he asked, thrusting the flowers into my face.

"Sure," I said and slammed the door in his face.

My mother made me write him a thank you note. It was the most embarrassing thing I ever had to do during those first seven years of my life.

"It doesn't matter if you wanted the flowers or not. He did something nice for you. Now you need to show your gratitude."

I didn't tell my mom that when I handed Jeremiah the thank you note I told him that my mother had made me write it. And I didn't tell her that I gave him the note like I was 007 delivering a top secret formula for a nuclear bomb, lest some other second grader would see me and think I had a crush on him.

Later we found out he had stolen the vase from his mother's collection, and he had been chased out of one of my friend's yards for cutting flowers from her dad's garden. I probably wrote a thank you note for an item that should have ended up on the black market.

But that wasn't the point. The moral of my mother's lesson was one of self-sacrifice, doing things you really don't want to do in order to show a little kindness once in a while. And if writing thank you notes is the one way I can be a little less self-absorbed, I'll participate in that unnecessary evil any day.