Last Tuesday was our four year anniversary. I know. I’m twenty-three with four years of marriage under my belt and a still alive, somewhat small-ish two month old. We celebrated (the anniversary, not the still alive baby, though both deserve a party) by going on our second date after the whole baby thing happened. Thankfully your prayers worked. We did not once discuss our little valentine (unless you count the time when I realized there was dried spit up on my shirt, sigh). Our prix-fixe menu was superb with lobster risotto, tender short ribs (apparently I am a sucker for a good short rib since I’ve ordered it the last four times we’ve gone out) and a champagne caramelized mango tatin, if you’re me, or a hazelnut chocolate bread pudding and caramelized banana parfait if you’re him. Yes, our anniversary date was a success and the deep red roses are still perfuming the house (even though the florist was a day late, “too many orders”. Excuse my eye roll).
But before he knew the florist would fail him, my husband thought he would “have some fun”. After far too many hints (in my opinion) and a desperate plea to go to the store for a “few items” (read: at least bring home a picked over bouquet of daisies) he came home with the ugliest, half dead, burnt orange and brown Idontknowhwhaththeheckyouaresupposetobe flowers and a package of baby’s breath (which in four years of marriage he has made one thing clear: his hatred for the tiny white buds) and a card (sorry, honey. I thought you were actually serious about this…) making me think he tried his hardest to find the most decent, award winning flowers and a funny/cute card (copy this card I got him 2 years ago) to make me laugh. I will not lie. I was extremely disappointed*. I wanted to shove the flowers in the trash can behind him, but refrained and left them on the table to finish their long, slow, miserable wilting death. I channeled my anger into reading my CI magazine that appeared last week instead.