Latest Bin Laden Videotape Wishes America ‘A Crappy Valentine’s Day:
Come Monday, as you pry open your fancy, red Russell Stover box, take heed,” bin Laden said. “For in the place of tasty caramels and buttercreams, you will find the flaming sword of righteous jihad!
Look, I know there are a million of you out there who despise Valentine’s Day, so I’m sorry for afflicting you with this story. If it’s any consolation, it’s not really a Valentine’s story. I hope everyone has a lovely Monday, whether you’re spending it watching Las Vegas or going to Las Vegas for a quickie wedding. Whatever floats your boat.
Two years ago, Mr. Angst and I were troubled about how to celebrate V-Day. He’d just gotten a new job after having been laid off for a while, but it wasn’t a great job, and we were both pretty broke. So we decided that we’d do V-Day sort of low key. Mr. Angst took me up to a local lookout to watch the sunset and we had a relatively inexpensive bottle of Champagne and some chocolate-covered strawberries. Then we went Dutch on dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in town, where we ordered a measly two courses and the cheapest bottle of wine they sold.
Six weeks later, Mr. Angst was in a new, much-better paying job (aside: the caveat that it is easier to find a job when you have a job is so true.) So he asked me what our plans were for the weekend, and I said we didn’t have any, and he said he wanted to “redo” Valentine’s Day, since on the actual holiday we’d both been so stressed about money. (And the dinner wasn’t all that great, since we only had two courses and it was one of those restaurants where, if you want to fill up, you have to have at least four courses, because everything is in little towers with drizzle on the plate).
I agreed and we made plans to go out Saturday night.
He picked me up and took me back to the local lookout, but this time had a giant picnic basket from our favorite wine store: pate, excellent cheese, gourmet crackers, and another bottle of Champagne (a very yummy Veuve Cliquot).
We were chased from the lookout by the swarms of gnats that tend to form in early spring, and off we went to dinner at a different restaurant, one with larger portions and less ego. I had sea bass and he had steak. We had cocktails, we had wine, and the evening was just perfect.
We topped the night off with a stop at a local music joint where a friend of ours was playing. A couple of beers, some chatting, and we started to head home. But Mr. Angst suggested we stop by “our stairs” on the way back to the car.
“Our stairs” is an outdoor staircase across the street from a courtyard with a fountain where we used to stop all the time on the way back to the car, usually because I was giddy drunk and thought plants were attacking me. (No, I am not kidding.) We would always kiss on the steps. These stairs are nothing special—they don’t have great railings and the building they belong to isn’t particularly noticeable—except they are special because they are “ours.”
So we stopped, and we sat, we kissed, and (if you haven’t guessed what’s going to happen next, God help you) Mr. Angst proposed. I spent the rest of the walk back to the car in a stunned disbelief and didn’t sleep at all that night. The next morning, the ring was still on my finger and we were trying to figure out when the Super Bowl was so we could pick a wedding date.
This is why I like Valentine’s Day—not because of the merchandising or the chocolate or the flowers or the expected gifts—I don’t really buy into any of that. Rather, I love Valentine’s Day because it always reminds me of that other day, when we “made up” for a mediocre holdiay and got engaged.
