My husband is not what I would call romantic, but he is a character.  At least he has that going for himself.

Valentine’s day morning with barely opened eyelids, I walked into the kitchen.  I began my daily routine of sleepily emptying the dishwasher.  Tate stood obtrusively around, clearing his throat and doing odd head bobs.  Finally I realized he was trying to get my attention.

I turned around and saw a single rose in a vase on my kitchen counter.

Everyone together now…”Aaaaaah!”

I hugged Tate and thanked him for getting me a rose.  While hugging him, I noticed that the rose seemed a little…unreal, a little velvety.

Tate saw my quizzical scowl and asked me if I noticed anything special about the rose.

“Well, it looks like it’s a velvet rose.”  I was trying hard not to sound annoyed (or to start crying, because A VELVET ROSE????  Could there be anything more UNromantic???).

Tate was beaming from ear to ear.  “Yes, dear, it is a velvet rose.  It will never die, just like my love for you.  This rose is a symbol of my eternal love for you.”

Everybody together now…*eye roll* and “Puh-leeze!”

“Are you kidding?”  I asked, again trying not to sound too annoyed or to cry.

Tate went on to explain how he came to give me a velvet rose.  For Valentine’s Day.  That was supposed to symbolize his eternal love.  And how this was somehow a good idea.

The previous evening, Tate had gone to happy hour with some of his coworkers to a Mexican restaurant (even though he never gets home before 7PM most nights and he knows how much I’d appreciate him getting home early JUST ONCE, but who’s keeping score?  Oh no.  Not me, no siree.).  I’m not sure if Tate had had too  many beers or if he was struck suddenly mentally impaired, the details were sketchy, but he  had the “good” idea to buy one of the velvet rose centerpieces on the table of this Mexican restaurant to give me as a Valentine’s Day gift.

*Heavy sigh*

Tate asked the waitress how much they would charge him for the flower and vase set.  She went to go ask the manager and returned with the price of five dollars.

“Sold!” Tate had proclaimed.

The manager apparently thought that Tate had a death wish and told him so.  Since he was such a big spender, the manager said that he could choose any flower in the restaurant just for me.  For laughs, the manager threw in some bags of decorative blue and yellow glass rocks to make the velvet rose presentation even fancier.

“Did you notice how I layered the glass rocks in the vase?  Yellow, blue, yellow?”  Tate beamed as he pointed out his artistic creation.

“Well.  It’s very, um, thoughtful,”  this time I was trying not to laugh.

“This rose symbolizes my eternal love for you,”  Tate explained.  Again.

“Yes.  You’ve already mentioned that.”

“Do you really not like it?  I thought you’d think this was funny?”  he asked, feigning the sound of disappointment.

“Actually, I love this Tate.  You’ve given me something to blog about.”

Now if giving your wife blogable material isn’t love, I don’t know what is.