I don’t expect much from Valentine’s Day. It’s not a big deal between my husband and me. If you want to hear my issues first hand, check out how I complained about Valentine’s Day on CBC-Radio (Canada’s NPR) last week.
On Friday, when I stumbled home from work looking forward to a barbecued steak dinner, there was something else in store for me: a bouquet.
The flowers were standing on the kitchen table in one of our vases, wrapped in newspaper. Being the nice wife I am, I winced. My husband knows that my favourite flowers are Daisies-on-Steroids (apparently they’re better known as Gerber Daisies or “Gerbera jamesonii” if you’re a bio-geek), but our local supermarket carries only sad-droopy-normal daisies and wilted roses.
I opened the newspaper cautiously, wondering if I should feign excitement over the $5.99 flower arrangement.
And then I squealed.
It was a bouquet of socks.
And not just any socks. These were imported-from-New-Zealand-merino-wool socks. These socks have an environmental footprint bigger than Shell, but no matter.
Because they warmed my Canadian iceberg feet.
So much so that I held my glass of wine with them.
And then I spilled the wine because I can’t spread my toes apart.
My husband rocks.
Any Valentine’s Day stories out there, happy or horrific?