I am notoriously bad at holidays. I generally know they’re coming (because I go to the grocery store and that makes the major ones hard to miss) but as far as actually doing anything about them – nope.
“Did you make me socks?” my husband asked when I called him Friday to announce yet another start to The Commute Home 500.
Socks. No. What? “What socks?”
“There’s red socks in the hallway near my shoes. I thought maybe you left them as a gift.”
Now is the embarrassing time to admit those are my socks, my ultra thick red wool hunting socks. Those are not his socks.
“Those are my socks. Sorry.” Though I am inwardly flattered that between a full time job and drafting a new manuscript he thinks I could a) have had time to knit socks b) have had time to knit socks while keeping it a secret from him. When would I have knit socks? I need both hands for the commute home most days.
But I console myself after we hang up. This time, I got his Valentine’s Day present. I got it on my lunch hour, yes, but I am bringing it home with me and it is ready to go on the evening of. Points for me.
We got takeout from the good Italian place for dinner. It doesn’t take long to notice that the dressing containers that usually come with the antipasti are missing. Husband is crestfallen. Antipasti without dressing is no antipasti at all. Dinner is ruined.
Except that one of the presents I happened to have bought him is a fancy jar of spice mix that when blended with olive oil and wine vinegar, actually makes a very nice Italian style dressing. Dinner is saved.
For once, I am a good Valentine. But this one is going to be hard to top. Next year is doomed.