Forgive my cynicism but I’ve always believed that Valentines Day is a little lopsided between men and women, not to mention florists.
In The Washington Post Magazine today, Gene Weingarten wrote a very funny column about sappy Valentines cards.
"Darling, as I was wandering the aisles in CVS in search of antifungal ointment, I was thinking about the depth of my love for you; but, because I am too lazy or dimwitted or emotionally anemic to come up with an original thought, I decided to spend a buck and a half for a few mawkish cliches hawked up like loogies by a failed writer who has sold his soul for a paycheck from the Humongous Greeting Card corporation, which has then subjected his work to editing by a focus group to make sure it has no inadvertent trace of juice or passion that might offend someone in the suburbs of Des Moines; conversely, it may be an attempt at humor as weak and strained as a jar of Gerber pea and pear baby food. So, here it is! I hope you like it, sweetheart! Can we have sex now?"
And just to dispel any notion that I’m totally heartless, I actually made Mama Wordbones a card this year.
She liked it too. Happy Valentines Day.
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