It’s Not A Floater

Every year since we got married, it’s been the same thing: my husband forgets Valentine’s Day.

In past years, this has made me mad, sad and exasperated – especially during those early years. He was working long hours, building his company and I was working hard as a stay-at-home mother. It was exhausting. What little time we had together was “family time” and our focus would be on our children. Mommy and daddy became two shipwrecks passing through a sticky playroom. So, on just that one day every year, I wanted him to fuss over me. His forgetfulness of Valentine’s Day felt personal, like he was forgetting me. Ouch!

valentines-day-restaurants-melbourne-flA day or two later, something would trigger his memory (like me throwing his gift on the table saying, “You missed Valentine’s Day, AGAIN!), and he’d go out and buy a huge bouquet of half-price roses. It was a great way to save a few bucks, but not for scoring points. In fact, his peace-offerings usually made me even angrier.

For whatever reason, he simply could not get it into his head that Valentine’s Day is on the same date every year. It’s not a floater, like Thanksgiving, Easter or Passover. It is always February 14th. Always. Maybe it’s genetic. Once, when I invited his mother for Christmas dinner, she asked, “When is it?”

To be fair, there were some years when he knocked it out of the park to make up for the year before. On one of those occasions, he arranged for a neighbor to take our then-toddler son overnight. He booked a supper cruise around Manhattan, followed by a night at the über-posh Peninsula Hotel. The magnificent suite was larger than our apartment. It was glorious. Then there was the time he surprised me by showering our bedroom with rose petals. I will not lie. My very first thought was, “Great. Who is going to clean this up?” Very romantic, I know.

Am I the only one who sees this as an accident waiting to happen?

As the years rolled by, I took it upon myself to start reminding him. I realized that waiting to see if he’d remember was the same as setting a trap (which is childish and unfair, yet inexplicably tempting). I’d tell him two weeks in advance because the closer it came to the date, the likelier that all the good restaurants would be booked up. However, he’d still wait until the last minute to try to make a reservation, or he’d take me someplace without one and we wouldn’t be able to get a table.

Ok, let’s be honest here for a minute: You and I both know that the worst night to go out for dinner is on Valentine’s Day. The “special” menus are always limited, the food is only marginally good, and the wait staff hustles you in and out because they’ve booked extra seatings to squeeze every last dime out of the busiest night of the year. And it’s February! Do you know how cold it is in New York in February? Who wants to put on a slinky dress and heels to slip and slide down the icy sidewalks of Manhattan? I’d rather be home in my jammies. (Author’s note: do not tell my husband I said that!)

Anyway, now that our son and daughter are older and away at school, we have a lot more time to focus on each other. Every Thursday night is date night, come hell or high water. Rather than making a special effort for each other once a year, we set aside time every week. It’s better that way, wouldn’t you agree?

Are you wondering what we’re doing together for Valentine’s Day this year? Nothing. I’m going dancing with my sister and my niece. My husband and brother-in-law are in Cuba with their father to celebrate his 80th birthday. When my husband booked the trip six months ago, he forgot that February 14th is Valentine’s Day.

RIGHTEOUS!

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Many people of the cloth speak of the “calling” which led them to religious service.  My friend, Jane, was a New Jersey housewife (a real one, not a Real one), when she got the call.  Now Jane is a Vicar, enrolled in an intensive four-year program to become a Lutheran minister.  A relative of my husband’s got the call after being laid off from a high-level corporate finance position.  He joined a seminary and, after four years of rigorous study, lives as a practicing minister in Long Island.

I was watching a particularly raunchy episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm when I got the call.  It was my cousin and her fiancé, calling to say they were getting married.  They wondered if I’d be willing to become ordained and officiate at their wedding in Manhattan.  What fun! You bet!  “I’ll start the process right away,” I told them.

So I sat down at my computer to begin the steps necessary for acquiring my point-and-click investiture.  I Googled, “I want to be ordained online.”  The first website that came up seemed sufficient, and I’m lazy, so….  According to the website, an ordination through their church would qualify me to marry people in New York, as long as I registered with the New York State Bureau of Licensing.

I went through the prompts and started adding things to my virtual shopping cart.  Did I want the title “Doctor of Divinity” which included a printable degree?  Yes.  Did I want the small black book containing prayers and various ceremonies, such as weddings and baptisms?  Billed as a $45 value, it could be mine for the low, low price of just $19.99, plus shipping and handling.  Yes.   Did I want the printable parking permit, stating I was on official ministry business?  This would allow me to park anywhere.  Any where.  Are you kidding me? That would be a ‘yes.’  Did I want the printable proclamation authenticating me as a saint?  Hell, yes!

With my ordination bundle complete, I checked out and printed my PhD and saint certificate (which, as advertised, were suitable for framing).  I signed my parking permit and set it aside to be laminated.  Time spent?  Four minutes.  Who needs four years?

It’s amazing what having these documents did to me.  Like balm for my soul, the saint certificate assured me that the key to the pearly gates awaits me, already tucked under my eternal pillow.  I’m a shoe-in.  The degree stoked my ego.  I was now a doctor.  A doctor!  Oh, the respect I would command with that title.  And the parking permit?  Well, only the rare and extremely privileged individual has that kind of omnipotence.

These exciting revelations were followed by heady daydreams.  There I was, standing on a windswept mountaintop…at sunset…resplendent robes a flowin’.  I would gather people together to witness the unions of hundreds of happy couples.   And I would charge $300 a pop for 20 minutes of my time, plus gas and tolls.  What joy!

The next morning, I stopped at Kinkos, laminated the permit, and headed for the licensing bureau in downtown Manhattan.  I parked, tossed my permit on the dashboard and sashayed right past the muni meter. Dr. Anita Rosner parks for free!  Mm hmm. Take that, Mayor Bloomberg.

When I arrived at the bureau, the line at the only open window was about 30-people deep.  Other folks were off to the side, filling out forms.  Everybody was waiting in pairs – one person to hold the spot in line, the other person to keep the parking meter fed.  Suckers!

Being prepared, I had printed out the forms the night before and already completed them.  When my turn came, I presented the clerk, Ms. Waters, with my documents.

“I’m here for my license to perform marriages in New York.” There may have been an exaggerated note of gravitas in my voice.  I’m not sure.

Ms. Waters looked over the forms.  “I can give you a license for New York State, but not New York City.”

Uh-oh.  “Why not New York City?”

She pointed to the website listed on my credentials.  “We don’t recognize this church in New York City,” she casually replied.  To make matters worse, she mispronounced recognize as “REK-a-nize,” which is a major pet peeve of mine. When my daughter and her friends do it, I go insane!  But that’s a story for another time.

Sacrilege!  Her rebuff felt like a slap.  But I’ve dealt with enough pencil pushers in my day to be prepared for this.  I had preemptively tucked some bribe money in the front pocket of my conservative, yet chic, Coldwater Creek trousers.  Doctors aren’t stupid, you know.

I carefully slid the bill across the counter, so as not to be observed by anyone else but Ms. Waters.  “Perhaps you REK-uhg-nahyz this PREZ-i-duhnt,” I whispered, as I gave her a sly wink.

She openly picked up the bill, looked at it, slapped it back down on the counter and shoved it toward me.  “Ma’am,” she sighed, “I think everybody REK-a-nizes George Washington.  Now step aside.  You’re holding up the line.”

“That’s hardly any way to speak to a reverend,” I grumbled, as I stuffed the documents and dollar into my purse.

With my head held high, I marched indignantly from the bureau.  How dare they!  What chutzpah!  This threw a major wrench in the plans.  I would not be able to marry my cousin and her fiancé after all.

To add insult to injury, when I returned to my car, I discovered a $115 parking ticket stuck under my windshield wiper.  Someone had drawn on it…a picture of a smiley face wearing a halo and wings, followed by the words, “Ha! Ha!”  As if possessed, I snarled out some very un-saintly expletives, got in my car and drove home.

That night, I said “special prayers” for New York City, the jackass who drew on my ticket and the blasphemous Ms. Waters.  Amen.