Valentine’s Day Recap.

Breakfast at the cafe corner of our favorite grocery store, Raley's:  panini sandwiches, cafe mocha (mine) and cafe latte (his).  Poring over People Magazine (me) and the San Francisco Chronicle (him).

Two hours later, picked up items for Valentine's dinner.

Rib-eye steak, potato salad, champagne and chocolate truffles with our couple friend (who happened to swing by that afternoon to watch some DVDs and never left, LOL) at 8pm.  Conversation ranging from Willie Revillame's Wowowee and how it has booted out Eat Bulaga as the number one noontime variety show, to Gwen Stefani's concert in our area this summer, to terrorists and conspiracy theories.  

And yes, a dozen beautiful red roses delivered via DHL at 2pm that day.  This after 5 years of the one and only time that the husband ever gave me flowers.  I had made the mistake of telling him, years ago, that I wasn't the flowers-and-chocolates kind of girl.  Being a man, of course he believed it hook, line and sinker — even when years later I would drop hints here and there that I wouldn't mind receiving the occasional bouquet of tulips, daisies, or roses.

Everything fell on deaf ears…  until Valentine's Day.  

Unaccustomed as I was to receiving flowers, I had to drive to the nearby Target to buy a vase for my roses.  And there they sit on the kitchen island, smug and beautiful.  

Smile Sheepishly if You’re Embarrassed.

Amazing how we think something to be true and agonize over it for days until we finally get the courage to ask someone and are proven that:  1.) we were just paranoid and 2.) no, it really is not about us (and in this, allow ourselves to be appropriately embarrassed).

I will not elaborate.  Suffice it to say that I am relieved and I will march on and do what it is that I love best:  writing my thoughs, mundane and trivial though they may be.