Because I decided I would no longer drive in bad weather, I have essentially been a shut-in here in Connecticut for the last four weeks.
And that means I did not get to the store to buy a Valentine’s Day card. I did have some chocolate-covered strawberries delivered, but I thought for sure I would manage to get out for a nice big mooshy card. But no. It snowed just about every day and I live at the top of an unpaved windy hill that is a private road so the town doesn’t even plow. My husband has a truck with a plow and sander. Sweet. We actually went out for my birthday to the best, fanciest restaurant in town – in the plow/truck/sander.
But Friday he needed my car to make a fairly long trip, so he wouldn’t have to drive 3900 pounds of sand round-trip, which even given the lower diesel fuel prices, would have been a mighty poor decision.
So he took my car, and a co-worker drove me home. (She made it up and down my slalom course road just fine, which I am sure you are wondering about, since I won’t do it myself.)
So I still didn’t have to drive on the snowy roads. But that was the day before Valentine’s Day, so I still couldn’t get a card.
I did the logical thing.
Early on Valentine’s Day morning, I searched the drawers and found the card from last year (or maybe the year before). I even found the envelope and it wasn’t too chewed up.
Voila. Expensive strawberries and a very pretty Valentine’s Day card, with a beautiful, still true, sentiment that passed for a new sentiment. After all, “I Love You, Sweetheart” is pretty timeless (so who could tell?)
But I felt guilty anyway.
But only for a short while.
We were going out to run an errand – hand lotion and bird suet – two different stops because we weren’t going to Costco -when my husband asked me about bananas.
Every Sunday, I make low-carb egg-and-banana waffles for breakfast.
“How many bananas will you need tomorrow?” Hubby asked.
“Three or four.” I said.
“Sheesh,” he said. “I asked a simple questions. Is it three or is it four?”
“Three if they’re big bananas; four if they’re small bananas.”
“Holy crap,” he said. “Can’t you give me a straight answer? I keep on hinting here, but you can’t seem to take a hint.”
“Hinting? About what?” I asked, still nicely, though perhaps not as sweetly as my guilty second-hand Valentine’s Day card should have required.
“There are four bananas. I want to eat one. But I don’t want to leave you short.”
So there it is.
Bananas seem to be a sensitive subject that you have to hint about. You cannot come out and say, “Will you have enough bananas if I eat one?”
No sir. Too delicate a topic. Apparently.
So I told him, not exactly in my inside voice, to eat the goddamn banana.
Then I went and got my purse and put on my boots, and we did our errands.
At the drugstore (where I no longer needed a Valentine’s Day card) my husband said, “Don’t take too long. We need to get back home.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m starving,” he said.
“I thought you had a banana.”
“Shit,” he said. “I forgot to eat it.”
I may use the same card next year.