Mr. Funny Valentine

Do y’all remember that quote from Rosie O’Donnell’s character in Sleepless in Seattle? After reading a letter she and Meg Ryan assumed came from Mr. Sleepless himself instead of his eight year old son, she reminds us “verbal ability is a highly overrated thing in a guy, and it’s our pathetic need for it that gets us into to so much trouble in the first place.” Touché, Rosie. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Hence, man created of Valentine’s Day. On this occasion, there’s no need to try and articulate your feelings because someone else out there can do it for you. It’ll cost you, of course, because nothing is free except for unwanted advice, acne, and those flyers some phantom person you’ll never see puts on the windshield of your car.
Having trouble telling your significant other how you really feel about her? All you have to do is give her a box of candy conversation hearts and she’ll know she’s your “One and Only,” your “True Love” and “Baby Girl.” Or for the more modern gal, she’ll feel special knowing she’s “Too Cool,” a “Rock Star,” and just flat out “Huggable.”
You could even buy her a dozen roses and a card like the one I picked out for myself one year that says “Honey, even though there have been times when I’m sure you wanted to . . . Thanks for never strangling me in my sleep.” Not necessarily romantic or particularly arousing, but it does get right to the point.
Please don’t think I’m being too cynical, because if I’m anything (besides a nervous eater and a horrible speller), I’m a realist. I don’t expect my man to shoot off love missives the likes of those written by Byron, Shelley, and Shakespeare. Let’s face it, if your main squeeze sent you a love letter like Keats sent to his amour, Fanny Brawne, in 1819, saying “I could be a martyr for my Religion. You are my religion. I could die for that. I could die for you;” you’d probably take out a restraining order.
Personally, if my husband came home and said, “Sit in my lap, my love, and tell me of your day,” I’d laugh really loudly before asking him if he hit his head on something hard. I guess I’m just wondering what’s wrong with wanting a happy medium concerning verbal expression. I’m afraid my guy falls into the less is more or open mouth insert foot type of partner communication.
Here’s a little medley for you:
“Laaaaaaura,” my husband yells from somewhere inside the house. I finally find him in the kitchen, standing by the fridge in a stained polo and mismatched socks, holding an all almost empty bottle of ketchup. “So, I guess you’ve retired,” he tells me.
Or how about this one:
“You might not want to wear that,” he says 2.2 seconds before we leave the house.
“Why, does it make me look fat?” I ask.
Here’s where most men know better, but like the Terminator after being run over by an eighteen wheeler (or in my husband’s case, being hit over the head with a 12 pound purse), he just keeps right on going: “Well, yeah. It’s kind of tight around your hips,” he’ll say back, real matter of fact like, before strolling out the door.
But my personal favorite goes like this:
“Hey, hon.” I say, finding him in the den after coming home from getting my hair highlighted. “How does it look?”
“Like the two-toned Buick station wagon my mom used to drive in the 80’s,” he answers before turning back to the Golf Channel and a half-eaten bowl of Fruity Pebbles. “Hey Farah, since you’re up can you grab me some more milk and half a banana.”
I’m telling you, my man definitely has a way with words. But as I sit here writing this, I think to myself that I really should cut him some slack. Thanks to MTV, Snoop Dog, and the male cast of Jersey Shore, romance and poetry aren’t really part of a man’s vernacular anymore, so can we really blame them for not thinking in prose or that annoying iambic pentameter?
Besides it’s not what’s in the words but in the heart that really matters, and my husband truly has a heart of gold. But enough about all this sweet talk seeing as it makes him break out in hives. Plus, there is a special on Charmin Ultra at the CVS so I better get going if I want to make carpool.
Oh, speaking of my husband, I just called to see if there’s something he might need. It looks like along with a case of TP, I’ll be picking up a stick of deodorant and my own Valentine’s Day card again since, as my hubby points out, I’m already heading in that direction anyway.
So to my own little Lord Byron, Rodney Dangerfield, and Jerry Lewis, all rolled into one, Happy Valentine’s Day, baby, and I love you! By the way, keep ‘em coming -- I need all the material I can get.