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On Valentine’s Day

I like to call it Valentimes. Like I call the place where the books are the ‘liberry.’ Just to be a dink. And so Matilda will correct me, all huffy: “It’s VALENTINNNNNES, Mom.”

When I was growing up, both of my parents got us Valentines. My mother will still send me Valentine cards. I think that is cute.

Thus, Adrian learned the Hard Way – which is His Preferred Way, incidentally – that all the girls in his home must get a Valentine. This involves both a gift and a card explaining why we are his Valentines. I give him lots of reminders, because a) he wasn’t raised this way b) he’s not romantical c) he has ADHD d) I really want to get something BAD.

I don’t ever need any diamonds or beach vacations or luxury automobiles or a giant houses. But I need you to explain to me why you like me. Preferably every day. But in lieu of how that would get a bit sickening, I demand it once a year. On February 14th. A month when nothing else good is usually going on.

No poems, please. No flower petals strewn anywhere. No flowers. No perfume. No wine.

Chocolate is okay.

I also accept iTunes cards.

Discussions of sexual intentions do not go in the card. Nor do they count as a ‘gift.’ That’s totally cheap and kind of a Homer Simpson Bowling Bowl, too.

There is no make-up for this occasion. It happens on the 14th of February or else you fail.

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