Valentine’s Day is fraught with all kinds of baggage. I used to be one of the people who vehemently hated it. I mean, I spent — spend? — most of my life feeling like I’m on the periphery of acceptable society (fat woman who likes to play and make games and enjoys learning how to use swords and can accurately diagnose and sometimes fix serious car problems), and VD (heh) was one of those things that just made that feeling worse.
This was the case even when I was already married. Human connections are complex and nuanced and commercial pressure is about as antithetical to that sort of thing as you can get.
But this year has been wonderfully low-key, completely by accident, and it’s been much easier to appreciate the non-commercial side of Valentine’s Day which is in reality non-existent and requires personal construction by those involved.
The reason I bring this up is because he got me beautiful flowers. Not your usual romantic theme, but bright, happy, cheery flowers that I really like.
In fact, I like flowers so much that I’d have them in the house often, if I could. But I can’t. And that reason?
This guy. Loki. He lives up to his name; he can unscrew drawer pulls — I have seen it myself. He thinks flowers are his own private salad bar. And by the rule of three I should have a picture of him cheekily munching on buds while looking at me as if saying you can’t tell me what to do with my life you ridiculous furless two-legged food scoop manipulator, but he’s very good at not sitting still for a photo he doesn’t want taken.
‘Cause he’s a kitty cat. He also does things like demand to play fetch at stupid hours of the morning, but that’s a post for another time.
Anyway. Low-key Valentine’s Day that didn’t make me want to punch
people marketers in the throat kicked off by a lovely bouquet of cheery flowers that are probably getting shredded as we speak by Little Lord Loki of the Incredibly Loud Purr was a very nice day, even if I stuffed myself to unpleasantly full with good food and nice beer and a lovely dessert in the company of my Mister, who tackled a Reuben sandwich that defeated even his vaunted appetite. The pastrami was gorgeous.
(Seriously, if you’re in the Brisbane area, check out Tippler’s Tap — a limited but very tasty menu of mid-western US favorites and a not at all limited selection of seriously good beer. And the serves are huge. No. Really. I mean American-sized.)
So, yeah. A bit of a dribble post, but hey, why not, right?