Ok, so it’s Valentine’s Day. The worst day of the year for any dude with a girlfriend. I remember I broke up with one of my girlfriends in college because I didn’t do enough for her on February 14. It was all my fault, of course. Past couple of years haven’t been so bad – last year all I had to do was hand out the ten-dollar heart-shape Whitman’s Sampler boxes to the three girls who were most after me. They were all appreciative.
Being known as the Heartthrob Shortstop of a minor league baseball team was kind of embarrassing. But it has its advantages, too.
My first Valentine’s Day in LA was last year, and I didn’t have a girlfriend. I went out with a few of my buddies who also didn’t have girlfriends and we had a few beers. Maybe more than a few. And made fun of all the guys we saw walking by with their girlfriends. Every single one of them looked totally miserable.
This year I have a girlfriend. So it was my chance to be miserable.
Although Monica isn’t totally high maintenance, she made it clear she had Valentine’s Day expectations. In other words, there was a great big doghouse waiting for me if I messed up.
Guess where I ended up?
I got dressed extra early: blue stripe buttondown shirt, the best khakis we sell at the Gap, and my church shoes. I’d bought the $29.99 extra big Whitman’s Sampler heart-shape box at the Rite Aid the week before. I picked up the flowers I’d ordered in the afternoon, right before I got dressed. I wanted them to be as fresh as possible. I got her a dozen medium-stem red roses and figured you can’t go wrong with that. I mean, yeah, they had roses on stems as long as tree branches…but I wanted to have money left over to pay the rent at the end of the month.
Monica and I don’t usually go out to fancy restaurants. She’s more into dieting than food, and my favorite dinner is 15 wings from Wingstop, half mango-habanero and half Hawaiian. Still…Valentine’s Day…you know the deal. So I got us a reservation at a fancy steakhouse several weeks ago. All I can say is it seemed like a good idea at the time.
Things started going wrong the minute I got to Monica’s apartment in Burbank. I didn’t want to be late, so I was early. She obviously wasn’t and started in making it sound like I was wrong for being there on time. I’m used to sitting on the couch and texting and staying away from her stupid fatass cat and waiting for her. I just don’t usually get in trouble for it.
There’s more. And it gets worse. Stay tuned.