The Valentine’s Day Massacre Part 2

More of the story of my miserable Valentine’s Day this year, after I’d gotten to Monica’s apartment and things started going wronger than a monkey driving a lawn mower.

Monica went back to finish dressing even before I could hand her the flowers and candy. When she was finally ready (and I was starting to sweat our being able to make our reservation time), I gave them to her. And she gave it to me.

First mistake I found out I’d made: she wanted me to send the flowers to her work, rather than give them to her in person. That way the girls she works with could be jealous because she has a boyfriend. I can sort of understand that, I really can. Maybe I should have thought of it. I took the safe road and apologized. Then she opened the box.

“If this was all you were going to send, it’s just as well you didn’t send them to the office.”

I’m not kidding. That’s what she said.

Then she looked at the chocolates.

“At least I won’t get fat from eating too many of these.”

Again, I’m not kidding. (Okay, I’ll admit it, maybe Whitman’s Samplers aren’t fancy enough for LA standards. But they were good enough for us back home. If she’d eaten one, she’d have found out that they’re good, too.)

So there we were, I was 0 for 3 and we still had a whole evening ahead of us. I’m pretty sure I already had that sick Valentine’s Day look on my face. (To give you an idea of how things were going for me, I wasn’t even noticing or caring about the fact that I have a hot girlfriend. I usually notice how Monica looks when I pick her up.)

The drive to the restaurant through traffic was sulky. I was keeping the destination secret, figuring that it would make a nice surprise. Maybe she wouldn’t care too much about the steaks, but I figured she’d at least be impressed by fancy and expensive.

I pull up at the valet outside the restaurant…

“We’re going here? To M*****’s?”

“Well, yeah. I thought you’d like it.”

“But it’s a steakhouse.”

“Well, yeah. I thought you’d like it.”

“And they serve meat.”

“Well, yeah. I thought you’d like it. You’re not exactly a vegetarian.” Her batshit crazy sister’s a vegan, so Monica obviously eats meat.

“Didn’t you know that it’s Ash Wednesday?” No, I didn’t. Well raised Tennessee Methodist boys don’t keep track of the Catholic calendar. It’s not like Monica had ashes on her head or anything.

“Well, no. But what difference does that make?”

“Hunter” – always a bad sign when she begins a sentence with my name – “you’re not allowed to eat meat on Ash Wednesday. And you brought me to a steakhouse.”

Looking back, I should have gotten back into the car and dumped her back at her apartment. I’d have saved myself a hell of a lot of money. That was also the very first time she’d ever said anything about being Catholic. I’m still not sure whether she was just being a bitch and getting me back for the chocolates or something.

I told her I reckoned that there’d be some other things she could eat on the menu: there are lots of people who freak out thinking about the cholesterol and stuff in red meat and go to steakhouses to order a little piece of boiled salmon or something boringass like that.

I’d been sweating getting to the restaurant on time, since I reckoned it would be crazy on Valentine’s Day. We were and it was, so we had to wait. Monica does not like to wait. It turns her into a diva on wheels. I’m a patient dude, I really am. Easier to wait than get pissed off when you can’t do anything about it. Besides, the time passes faster that way. Watching your girlfriend tap her toe (okay, fine, she was wearing hot shoes) only made the ten minutes we had to wait drag on and on.

Again, stay tuned.  It just kept getting worse.

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