Whoops, Valentine’s evening caught me with my pants down…no, no silly people, not like that! Well, more accurately, it caught me with my baggy man jeans on, you know, the ones you wear when you are painting the house, working in the garden, or, in today’s case, dog training. I had zero expectations or even much thought of Valentine’s Day, since The Spousal Unit and I had just returned from our lovely Asheville spa trip. What greedy little piglet would expect anything more? Of course, there would be cards and a special dinner at home.
My go-to special occasion steak recipe was submitted to Southern Living magazine by Diane Sparrow of Iowa some time ago, and it is a killer! It’s Beef Fillets with Stilton-Portobello Sauce, and as much as we love it, it makes a God-awful splattery mess in the kitchen. So, when we got home from Booger’s obedience class, I decided to stay dressed in my man jeans
and high school wrestling shirt, stolen from The Teenage Morose One. My only accessories were ankle high gym socks and Nike’s. No point in getting dressed up just to end up covered in sprigs of tarragon, rosemary, and cow blood, right? Oops, I sense a case of the dreaded Matrimonial Slippage, something I swore I would never be guilty of. When we were dating I got dressed up just to watch “Lost”, and microwave popcorn called for a cocktail dress, yet here I was on Valentine’s night, wearing truly hideous stuff! I caught the briefest glimpse of myself passing a full-length mirror and wondered who the hell invited Rosie O’Donnell to dinner.
I was startled by The Unit coming up behind me as I was closing the oven door on the roasted potatoes, and pulling me into his arms to dance. He had just completed the set up of a 20-unit CD player and surround sound for me, so I could have music throughout the kitchen and great room while I cook, since you remember I am chained to the kitchen! The Unit is an amazing dancer, and after several songs I began to think about our younger generation and what romance would be like for them? Would there even be any? Can kids who cannot even communicate face to face ever end up slow dancing in each other arms, sending roses, wooing, courting? I can just imagine their love letters! “WU?” (what’s up), or “Get NIFOC.” (naked in front of camera)!
How can lyrics like “I don’t wanna close my eyes, I don’t wanna fall asleep, cause I’d miss you babe, and I don’t want to miss a thing”, and “Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch a long, lonely time”, and “Unforgettable, that’s what you are. Unforgettable, though near or far. Like a song of love that clings to me, how the thought of you does things to me. Never before has someone been more unforgettable in every way”, possibly compete with the emotional impact of “WU”?
A couple of months ago I witnessed our neighbor’s son leaning up against his truck with his date, both of whom were furiously texting with their eyes locked on their respective phones;
dollars to donuts they were texting EACH OTHER. Mind you, this is not some shy, retiring nerd. This 6’2” football quarterback is a majorly gorgeous stud muffin, who has had serious eyes on the ladies since I met him at age twelve, so this twin texting situation was not born out of social ineptitude. They text requests to go to prom! How does it build confidence and character if you can’t even walk up to someone, look them in the eye, and risk rejection? I pity them because it seems they will miss out on so much, and I don’t see any possibility of a course correction here. Seems the world will not be a better place for their generation, new techno gadgets be damned.
When the time comes, are they going to discipline their children via Instant Messaging; will there be a point when dinner arrives via the IPhone? Will IPads provide insemination, in order to avoid the dreaded physical contact? Oh God, I swore on Cupid’s sweet little cherubic soul I would never, ever sound like my parents…oops! Of course, back in the day, the subject matter was quite different, but the tone was certainly the same. My Dad, “Looky here, young lady, how dare you bring some boy into my living room who doesn’t even have enough respect for you or me to tuck in his shirt? And he’s not wearing socks with his loafers!” In my Dad’s mind, these were definite signs of a budding serial killer. Mind you, this was a lovely young man who wore starched, well-pressed jeans and shirts, highly polished loafers, and who smelled like clean cotton and fresh laundry. FYI, this was a predecessor to Baseball Bat Boy; I’m sure in retrospect Dad would have given up the fight over “tucked in and sock free” versus GAY, any day!
Speaking of all things parental, it looks like The Teenage Morose One will be shipping out to join the Coast Guard shortly after graduation. I do hope for his sake that he REALLY, REALLY enjoyed that little shindig he threw, because it drastically reduced the options for his immediate future. I’m quite amenable to renting him out to any readers who need help with household projects, landscaping, dishwashing, painting, etc. He suddenly finds himself with endless free time on his hands, and would greatly appreciate the alleviation of his boredom!
Today, The Unit and I had to vacate the house while the carpet cleaners were there (yep, the beer, wine, orange juice, throw up, and other bodily fluids from THAT party!) and while driving around aimlessly, he mentioned that the car I yearn for to replace the Mommy van, would need to be carefully “evaguated” before we committed to it. Of course, he meant evaluated, but evaguated just struck me as deliciously funny. Could be that the giggles from “Big Happy Nothing’s” blog about her husband’s endearing misspellings were still rumbling through my tummy, but I couldn’t banish the image of calling up the gyno and asking to schedule my annual “evaguation”, and the receptionist inquiring if I would like a side of pap smear, hold the dressing!
Despite my random blatherings today, I did start this with the intention of giving yet more unsolicited advice (I can’t help it. I’m a Leo, bossy, and Southern!). When in doubt, no matter what, slip on a dress, because you just never know when there may just be dancing and a gorgeous man twirling you over the kitchen tiles.
Ladies, dust off your passports; next week we’re flying to Paris!