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May 11th 2008

Him & Her:
Duty, Devotion & Discount Love
by Nancy and Dan Sapir

HE SAYS: I dread Valentine’s Day. I dread any day I have to buy a card for her. I join this desolate group of men all hanging out in the card aisle trying not to be noticed. Should I go to the funny card rack? No. she’d kill me if the verse wasn’t drippy and emotionally charged. I love reading all those sappy, intimate verses written by a perfect stranger and mass-produced for the nation. And the price of these cards! You find a half decent one and it’s $7.75 or something. Then you have to write your own little message at the bottom of the card where you pour out your heart and the card gets put on display so everybody rags on you, especially the kids who think love ends after 40.

The card is never enough. You have to buy something to go with it. I could never remember sizes so clothes are out. Generally I go with one of those heart shaped boxes of chocolates. I spring for the pound size, nothing less. It is a shame though that you could get the same thing the next day for 50% off. I always get the impression that she doesn’t like the chocolates by the expression on her face. I just don’t get it. The boxes are very bright red, there’s lots of gold edging, all the candies are individually wrapped in those little brown papers and some of the chocolates are pretty good. She takes a bite and plops the thing back into the brown wrappers. Maybe I better try to remember sizes and pick up something really extravagant. She likes those real heavy bathrobes. You could probably just get a large and they fit anybody because they’re supposed to be on the big size, no?

One would think the card and the chocolates would be enough. No! She wants me to declare the day “Mommy’s Day” and do her bidding until midnight. I have to wait on her hand and foot . When she wants a soda from the fridge, I have to fetch it. She requires take-out on Valentine’s Day because she “shouldn’t have to cook.” She sends me out to the store for treats…like replacement candy for the chocolates she’s only half eaten. She promises me that if I cater to her every need, she’ll do the same for me the next day. “Tomorrow will be daddy’s day” she lies. Like I haven’t been through this before. And besides, how can I take her seriously when at 55 years of age she’s walking around talking about Mommy’s and Daddy’s Day like these are official holidays or something. We’ve been playing out this little game for 37 years and I still, on rare occasions, believe she may actually declare Daddy’s Day.

Another thing that drives me crazy is when she thinks the kids will forget her on this big day. “They forgot” she laments to me at 6:30 in the morning. She paces the house like a caged animal until the last of the brood stops by and the youngest calls from Tucson. You have to understand holidays are a big thing with her. She remembers all holidays and celebrates them with gusto. She forgets nothing and nobody.

She even creates holidays. “It was six years ago today that Steven met Michelle”, or “It was 5 years ago today that little Evan cut his first tooth.” I particularly liked “This is the ninth anniversary of when you forgot my birthday.” She buys little mementos for all these events so the party never really ends. I stopped worrying about forgetting these special days because when I do that marks a new holiday. And what are the rewards for remembering? She announces to the kids: “Guess what, your father actually remembered our anniversary this year, I’ll never forget back in 1975…” and on it goes. Women never forget when we forget, and we men never have to worry about forgetting. We get reminded, every time. What I do now is to pretend to forget so that I look like a hero when she reminds me. It also buys me a little more time when I dash over to the Mall for a terry cloth bathrobe, a card and those chocolates. Happy Valentine’s Day!

HER: Don’t believe a word he says. He’s too embarrassed to tell you the truth. What he does is declare “Valentine’s Week.” On Feb. 14 I’ll get my bathrobe or skill saw or maybe even a new bread knife. The rest of the week I’ll get markdown candies in his favorite flavors. There will be a box a day of chocolates that have cashews in them. I hate those, but the important thing is that the candies are marked down 75% at the grocery store. He doesn’t even bother to remove the big markdown stickers. I know my card is deeply discounted because he doesn’t give it to me until we’re about three days into “Valentine’s Week.” I have a theory that I’ve developed over the years about Valentines. The bigger the card, the smaller the gift.

Personally, I think Valentines Day is one of the dumber holidays because it breeds unreasonable expectations, especially for single people who are going together. Most married people know that buying a present is something you just have to do to survive the day. But there’s always that one husband who goes out and gets his wife a significant piece of jewelry that she can crow about. You know how it is. You get the call, and she says, “You won’t believe what (Blank) got me for Valentines Day.” “What?” you ask, trying to sound happy for your friend. “Oh,” she gushes, “He got me the most beautiful diamond band.” Or it might be a fur coat. Then the bad part. “What did Dan get you?” she’ll ask. Oh God. I tell her it was earrings, and then I go out and buy them so it isn’t a lie. He has no idea how many wonderful gifts he’s given me for Valentines Day over the years.

The reason I declare “Mommy’s Day” is to give him an opportunity for the kind of exercise I get every day running to the fridge, the stove, upstairs for his book or his glasses, or his heating pad, or the newspaper, mail, firewood, and every other thing he forgets to gather up before he plops his big self on the couch for the night. Once he puts his feet up on the coffee table, it’s time for my triathlon. He’ll look over at me during one of my infrequent breaks and say, “You know what I could go for….fried chicken and a cheesecake.” And that’s why there’s Mommy’s Day.

There’s a scene in the musical “Fiddler on the Roof” in which Tevye, the old farmer, asks his wife, “Do you love me?” She is confounded by the question. In response she tells him, “ For all these years, I’ve washed your clothes, cleaned your house. If that’s not love, what is?”

Isn’t that the truth?

by Nancy and Dan Sapir