Valentine’s Day has come and gone. I got through it in my usual way: with elaborate subterfuge and self-serving rationalizing.
The first thing that happened, pre-Valentine’s, was I bought two tickets to Aerosmith. The group is extremely famous, partly because the lead singer falls off the stage a lot. But I love Aerosmith, having listened to Walk This Way continually throughout high school instead of doing algebra.
The problem is, the cost of Aerosmith tickets, at least in Victoria, is comparable to buying a used car. Although it would be a low-end automobile purchase, say a 1992 Toyota Corolla with a front bearing problem.
Nonetheless, because of the expense, I concealed my ticket purchase from my wife.
My plan was to wait until she was in a really good mood (say if she taught our pug dog a splendid new trick or something) and then say: “Hey, nice trick. By the way, I bought Aerosmith tickets and they cost tons of money.”
But there were no new dog tricks. And suddenly, Valentine’s Day loomed.
I’d completely forgotten V-Day. That’s because to my mind, it’s a Hallmark event, not a real event like Christmas or a birthday.
Still, I knew that, in order to maintain domestic harmony, I needed to get a gift and card — and quick. So the night before, I drove to Save-on-Foods and bought a potted flower and a card.
On Valentine’s Day morning, it transpired my wife had gone all out. She had bought me cufflinks made from old typewriter keys and two new shirts with French cuffs, so I could use the typewriter-key cufflinks. She also bought champagne and a silver ice bucket to keep it chilled.
So her V-Day gifts pretty much outshone my flower and card. What’s more, my Valentine’s card wasn’t an especially romantic one. It featured two masculine-looking women in Victorian-era dresses embracing one another and saying weird stuff in caption balloons.
It seemed OK at the time, but now I realized it was unromantic.
Then I remembered something.
“Also, I bought two Aerosmith tickets for us. You know, as a Valentine’s Day gift.”
My wife didn’t say anything for a second. Then she said: “Are they that hard-rock band from the 1970s?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The one with the lead singer who falls off the stage a lot?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s the one.”
“Oh … thanks.”
You know, she wasn’t particularly thrilled. I’ve got a keen sense for that stuff. I kept rationalizing the scenario, telling myself I’d given my wife a V-Day gift worth as much as a 1992 Toyota Corolla. Surely that was generous. But it wasn’t really; those Aerosmith tickets were mostly for me.
So that’s when I thought: “Hey, maybe I can solve the rat problem.”
Of late, rats have returned to the Chamberlain abode for their winter vacation. We’d had a pest-control guy come in. He plugged a couple of holes in the house. But still, rats were frolicking in the basement, which bothers my wife quite a bit.
So later on Valentine’s Day, when my wife was out getting her hair done. I ventured out to do battle with the rats.
I walked around the house yanking ivy away from the foundation, looking for entry holes. At one point, a rat leapt into the air and scurried off. I shrieked like a girl, but instead of retreating for a restorative cocktail, continued my quest.
There was a rat-hole previously patched with wire mesh. It was pulled aside, like a curtain. So I got some fresh mesh and hammered it into place.
Because it was in a tricky location under the balcony, I got covered in mud and (possibly) traces of rat effluence. So I showered, using an entire bottle of antiseptic soap. And then my wife returned from her hair appointment.
“Good news,” I said, “The rat problem is now solved. Happy Valentine’s!”
And then I related the amazing story of pulling back ivy, being badly frightened by a leaping rat and plugging the rat hole. And do you know, my wife said this was the best Valentine’s gift she’s received to date.
So everything’s back to normal now. At least, that’s how it appears to me. I could be rationalizing here.
Next week: Is Sam Smith the new Liberace?
