Moving and moving on

The house we’ve lived, loved & laughed in for the past 12 years has been painted, polished and staged with pots of fresh orchids. It’s almost unrecognizable. Gone is the clutter and 12 years of stuffed animals. Gone are the nicks in the drywall from countless hockey games in our foyer. Gone is the carpet with the red wine stain from that “adult toy” party and the blue Children’s Advil stain when my youngest son just couldn’t keep it down. In addition to new carpeting, we painted the house inside and out, and thanks to some pesky woodpeckers, replaced the roof. After just 4 frenetic weeks, we put our beloved family home on the market and crossed our fingers that it would sell. The market is slowing everyone warned us, hurry up so you don’t get caught holding two houses.

Our hard work paid off. We received an excellent offer the day we listed. But as relieved as we were to receive the offer, it was like finally deciding to have a family, getting pregnant on the first try and then being utterly overwhelmed at the irreversibility of that decision.

It’s a bit late now I realize, but I’m not ready to move. We’ve conceived and raised 3 kids here. Their heights are marked on a doorframe, which is now painted over in Benjamin Moore Satin Latex in Oxford White, but if I close my eyes I can still see each of them on their birthdays trying to stand as tall as possible while I marked the wall behind them with a Sharpie. Even Sharpies aren’t permanent after all. The dents in the drywall from wayward slap-shots have been filled in and painted. “The house looks new, you’d never know that 3 boys lived here!” my friends say, and my throat tightens.

I’m not ready to move. We’ve hosted innumerable birthdays, thanksgivings, wedding and baby showers and all kinds of celebrations here. Will Santa know where to find us?

The modern house we bought came fully furnished (the sellers are divorcing and wanted to take nothing), so my traditional furniture had to go. I’ve been selling it on Craigslist for 10-20 cents on the dollar to young families and people starting over. This will make the move easier, my friends assure me, but my house now resembles a bowling alley, with nary a chair, couch, or coffee table to stub a toe on. We eat sitting picnic-style on the hardwood floor surrounded by moving boxes marked, “Kitchen – Cookbooks” or “Rec Room – Games.” The house is nearly empty and still I’m not ready.

I’ve got 13 more days to get ready to transplant 12 years of roots. I think I’d better pack the kleenex last.

Love Lucie

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Show Me The Bunny!

Last October, I joined Forma Athletics’ running group. The group is led by Dustin, who runs like a gazelle, but with a gorgeous smile and a nicer backside. Every M/W/F Dustin and our rag tag group of moms can be spotted sprinting down lanes, slogging up endless hills and pounding the pavement alongside the gorgeous north shore mountains. I’m usually in the back half of the pack, sweating like a pig, just trying to survive the workout.

In running with this group of mostly marathoners, I felt compelled to sign up for two half-marathons this year (since we were training towards them anyways) – the BMO Vancouver Half-Marathon followed by the Scotiabank Vancouver Half-Marathon just 7 weeks later (which by the way, equals a marathon in my math books!). I’ve run 4 half-marathons before but it’s been 3-4 years since I’d logged more than the occasional 8K run, and I’ve never run 2 half-marathons in one year.

In March, my training became seriously hampered by my love of a good night out with my girlfriends and a weakness for white wine. So as is my nature, I began to downplay my time goal for the BMO half. I told my personal trainer Ainslie that my goal for the BMO half was simply “to feel good, in order to save my energy for a personal best at the Scotia half.” While I don’t like to admit this about myself, if I know I’m not going to be satisfied with my results (in anything), I tend to not try as hard, so that my “failing” can be blamed on lack of effort rather than lack of ability. Crazy and self-sabotaging, I agree.

And this is what Ainslie emailed back to me.

“Bullsh*t. Why wait for the next race to go hard?

I want you to giv’er sh*t!! You have trained a lot for this race and you
are not only ready to take it on and complete it – you are ready to add a
little pepper to your step. Sometimes it’s scary to go for it, believe me
I know!

It’s far more satisfying to give a full effort and feel like you ran your
best than to hold back on the throttle and wonder if you had more in the
tank. Believe me. I know you a little more than you may realize – you are
always the first one to say something’s impossible, then you’re also the
first person to conquer it and surprise yourself.

Find that 1:55 pace bunny and RIP it’s ears off!”

Ainslie is wise beyond her 26 years. She did not give me room to hide behind myself. She challenged me to be awesome and I went for it. It was a beautiful day for the BMO Vancouver Half-Marathon and I ran my sturdy little legs off. I’ve never ran so far for so long and felt so good.

I drew energy from:
– the cheering crowds (what kind of people give up a Saturday sleep-in to cheer on strangers at 7AM? Angels, that’s who!),
– the gorgeousness of Vancouver on a sunny spring day,
– my kicking Coldplay infused playlist,
– the 10,000 runners themselves (some ran for loved ones lost, some ran with funny messages like, “If you can read this sign, I’m still ahead of you!” and “This is not sweat, it’s liquid AWESOME!” and still others ran simply because they can)
– and of course, my girls!

Inspired by Gabrielle Bernstein’s piece, “A Bit of Bragging Looks Good on You,” I’m proud to report I ran a 2:03:33!

Watch out Scotiabank Half-Marathon bunnies, I’ll be gunning for you!

Love Lucie

My Pet Peeve

As anyone with kids knows, every kid wants a pet. My eldest has been asking for a pet since he could say dog. I am allergic to cats and dogs, but that doesn’t bother him in the least. We gave him a goldfish when he was four and that appeased him for awhile. Until one morning a few months later, when he was found swimming sideways with just one slow moving fin. There my husband and I got a crash course in bereavement in children – they become inconsolable, wailing, flailing creatures that shed rivers of snot all over your new Lululemon hoodie. And we learned that this is definitely not the time to ask when he was last fed.

When it became clear that Fishy could not be resuscitated, we told CJ it was time to send Fishy off to Fish Heaven, but he started shrieking when we started to tip Fishy’s odorous bowl contents into the toilet. Pierced eardrums notwithstanding, we quickly agreed more decorum was needed to properly say good-bye to CJ’s beloved 2 month old pet fish. We drove to the beach, with CJ cradling Fishy’s bowl and floating remains on his lap, giant tears periodically plopping into the cloudy water. We parked and our little procession marched sombrely out to the pier. It was a suitably overcast day, Stan said a few lovely words about Fishy’s short but beautiful life and on CJ’s command, hurled him out to the sea (where he quickly became a snack for a Seagull but I digress). My normally stoic, rough and tumble boy lived on the edge of tears for the next week or so and most definitely did not want another fish to replace Fishy.

Now CJ’s two younger brothers have joined in on the fight – they are all begging/ demanding/ cajoling/ whining/ petitioning me for a dog. Or a cat. Something they can cuddle, which eliminates snakes, birds and all rodents (thank GOD!) from the running. They don’t care that CJ and I are allergic. It seems that every other day a different kid proudly struts around the schoolyard with the cutest puppy in his arms, while the other kids go green with envy. My kids want to strut like those kids. I want my kids to be those kids too, but I can’t be that mother. I can’t. My days of handling excrement are over. Plus those puppies get big in a matter of months and they really do get less cute. Every day I see hapless moms being dragged up and down these North Shore hills, yelling at their clearly hearing-impaired doggy to “stay.” I can see that dogs are just clumsy, rambunctious, adorable, loving toddlers that never grow up. So why would I voluntarily go back to sleepless nights, toilet training, having to hurry home to let the dog out, organizing dog-sitters and a daily crotch-sniff?

Call me selfish, call me mean (my kids do) but I’ve heard enough about Marley & Me to know that your giant, drooling, hairy toddler-esque dog shouldn’t predecease you. After Fishy, I know I just couldn’t handle it.

Love Lucie

Hanging with Friends is not enough, I’m coming home

Two days in isolation (except for Facebook and Hanging with Friends) in Whistler can do strange things to a girl. I feel like I’ve taken a vow of silence, leaving my thoughts to have a battle of wits in my head.

In between the fits and bursts of producing 5000 words these last 36 hours, I:

– ate cauliflower steak on the couch in front of the TV
– caught up on this season’s The Bachelor (get rid of Courtney Ben, she’s bad news!)
– drank so much coffee I couldn’t fall asleep for hours
– chain-snacked on gummy bears
– checked Facebook constantly
– got so bored that I cleaned the toilets

Reminding me that the best part of a business trip is coming home.

Love Lucie

Giddy ‘up!

I’m positively giddy today.

My hubby has seen the signs, picked up on my cues, perhaps even read my blog and given me two days of solitude at our cabin in Whistler, BC.

The view from my "office" today

He even called it, a “business” trip since I’m always complaining that he always gets to go on business trips and I have three essays on motherhood to complete by the end of this month. So while I write, he’s going to take care of it all – taking the kids to lessons, feeding them (takeout, I’m sure) and getting them to school on time. And me, well I have two delicious days.

Two days of not yelling at my children to hurry up/remember this/flush the damn toilet/I don’t know where your homework is. And two days of without the grumpy feelings that reverberate in both the yeller and the yell-ee. Two days where I can actually hear a pin drop – if there was anyone here to drop a pin, that is.

Two days of not being a short-order cook. I won’t be making lunches, snacks or dinners – I will not have to referee the best piece of chicken in a tug-of-war nor will I witness the vegetables being scorned and dumped into the trash. I have two days of eating what I want, when I want. In the cabin’s fridge, I have a nearly full bottle of pinot grigio, half a wheel of camembert and a giant head of cauliflower threatening to go bad. I’m actually looking forward to cauliflower steak with cheese sauce tonight and I have no one to complain about the off-gassing this inventive combination will inevitably produce.

For two days, I will not enter the laundry room. I will spend two days living in my pyjamas, taking writing breaks by singing along to all the sappy love songs on my iPod, unperturbed by that canned laugh track that follows the Suite Life of Zack & Cody around.

I have three essays due by the end of the month that could launch my nascent writing career and my husband has taken away all my excuses for not getting them done by giving me these two days.

I’m giddy over this gift of me-time, and I know that the reason I’m giddy is because I get my crazy beautiful life back in just two days. And I know that they’ll miss me, especially when looking for the peanut butter tomorrow, because I took the jar with me.

Absence really does make the heart grow fonder, I promise to savour every delicious minute of it!

Love Lucie

Love, Sweat & Tears – Kindergarten at last

As anyone who lives in the Pacific Northwest knows, we got royally jipped in terms of heat and sunlight hours this summer. The only thing that got me through this bipolar summer of 2011 was the fact that my youngest son was starting school full-time in September. In short, this is my princess year. This is to say that for the first time since Dec 2000, I have 6 hours a day to myself. Just me, my thoughts and I (plus a few breakfast dishes). Every weekday. For 37 weeks a year. Delicious.

There was just one thing standing in my way. Rookie moms.

Many of the sweet children in my son’s kindergarten class are first borns, or as I prefer to call them, guinea pigs. Being a veteran mom, I know from experience that saying that first goodbye cuts like a knife. Many a rookie stay-at-home mom’s secret fear is that our kids don’t actually need us and will head into the classroom with nary a backwards glance. And these kids, those sneaky devils, smell that fear in our hearts and use it to masterfully manipulate us. They wail, as if cued in a chorus, the moment the kindergarten teacher presents herself to steal our children. Veteran moms know that those first goodbyes need to be ripped off a band-aid, a quick kiss & a hug and they’re off to the land of learning. Some first-time moms however, do a Sally Fields, basking in the glory of “my kid really, really needs me” and joins the class for a kindergarten refresher.

After my first princess year drop off, I went running. As I ran, I vacillated between being joyous that I finally had “me” time and miserable that my baby was a fully competent and capable kindergarten kid. When I shared this with my husband later that evening, he thought it was time to see my therapist again.

On the third day of school, my son decided that he wanted his mommy to stay at school like all the others. So, he cried, clinging to my body, rubbing his luscious tears and dripping nose juices all over my new Lululemon pants. And being a veteran mom with my personal trainer waiting for me at the gym, I dragged him to his teacher so she could pull his little body off of me while I ran out the door. I was tough on the outside but inside, I was crying too, yet narcissistically reassured that he did actually want me to stay.

After a weekend at home, things got worse on Monday, as the other kids caught onto the crying game and more parents were being sucked into this loud emotional vortex. At her wits end, the kindergarten teacher had a chat with her little charges and announced that “mommies and daddies are no longer allowed in our classroom.” And so every day after that, my obedient son would stoically wait for the morning bell, his lower lip protruding, while tears would start to pool in his eyes. Feeling as though he was being betrayed by his own body, he would then stick his two fingers into his tear ducts (Three Stooges style) in an attempt to stop the flow. Pained, I would tell him that I could walk him into the classroom, but he would just shake his head and whisper “You’re not allowed”, and march down the corridor with the enthusiasm of a death row inmate. He was that good.

This push/pull on my heartstrings was causing me serious heartache. How was I to enjoy my Princess year if my Princes were not happy to give it to me? My older boys in Grades 3 and 5 didn’t want to be associated with me on the playground, but this was my baby, my parenting Mona Lisa. I couldn’t just leave him there with his fingers embedded in his eyeballs. What was I to do?

A dear friend recommended that we read The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn. This is a lovely story about Chester Raccoon who doesn’t want to go to school, so his Momma plants a kiss on his hand to take with him to school so that he can feel her love whenever he needs it. We read it that night and the tears stopped immediately. I think we both realized that I was going to be okay and that he didn’t need to make me feel loved by crying. And I have his kiss on my hand for whenever I need it.

I’m baaaack!!
Love Princess Lucie

A Canucks fan is born

I fell into hockey like most Barbie loving girls of my generation, I had a mad crush on a boy who ate, drank and slept hockey. I found that the only way to register on his radar at all was to casually drop a comment about last night’s hockey game. This was 1981, when I was in Grade 8 and those Vancouver Canucks skated in those electric-orange Halloween-inspired costumes. I used to study those games, shushing my little sisters so that I would be able to recite some of Jim Robson’s insightful colour commentary or mimic Tiger Williams’ post goal antics the next day in Industrial Ed. I learned to distinguish the referee from the linesmen, the Blue Line from the Face-off Circle, and Richard Brodeur from Harold Snepts. While seeming to appreciate the conversation, the boy never did ask me out, but I transferred my crush onto Marc Crawford and along the way became a diehard Vancouver Canucks fan. The twelve year old franchise’s first-ever playoff run beyond the first round took them all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals in 1982. Our beloved Canuckleheads surprised and pleased everyone, but much like new parents appreciating a toddler’s first steps, I don’t think anyone actually believed the Canucks were going to go all the way. And they didn’t.

Fast forward through high school and more heartbreaks on and off the ice. My sisters and I would watch the games, together if we were all home, alternating fervent prayer with pointing all 10 of our fingers at the screen to send the Canucks our energy when their plays seemed depleted. We developed mad crushes on a variety of hockey greats and argued over who was going to marry Trevor Linden.

In May 1994, I took a break from packing, having just finished grad school in London, Ontario to head to the Ceeps and watch a first round Game 7 between my Vancouver Canucks and their arch-rivals the Calgary Flames. I sat next to a classmate who was a diehard Calgary Flames fan. Just as my hockey knowledge had impressed the boys before him, I have to say it finally worked – we’ve been together ever since Calgary lost to Vancouver’s Bure/McLean that night. That magical playoff run also ended with an appearance in the Stanley Cup Final. While the 1994 Canucks were a much more worthy team than the 1982 crew, the stronger New York Rangers were able to close out their 54 year Stanley Cup drought at our expense. Unfortunately, the fans expected more of our boys in blue this time and took out their Game 7 frustrations on the merchants of Robson Street. Carnage and mayhem ensued and beautiful Vancouver looked like sore losers.

You don’t need to know high level math to know that 2006 was supposed to be our year (1982/1994/2006) with 12 years between Cup Finals appearances. But we didn’t even make the playoffs that year. It was tough going for awhile for us diehard fans.

Add to that some Olympic sized karma – when Montreal hosted the Olympics in 1976, their Canadiens won the Stanley Cup in 1977. Similarly, when Calgary hosted the Olympics in 1988, the Flames won the Cup in 1989. As we all know, Vancouver hosted a fabulous Olympics just last year in 2010, do we really have to wonder who’ll be drinking out of the Stanley Cup this June?

As a mother to 3 young boys now, my love for the Canucks has necessarily mellowed as I can no longer be shouting profanities at the ref through the TV or passing along my zany superstitions but this year, this team cannot be beaten. The 40 year-old franchise and it’s loyal fans want, deserve and need the Cup. We’re the best team Vancouver has ever had the privilege of cheering for – we’ve got the President’s Trophy, the Art Ross winners Daniel & Henrik, the Jennings trophy, the Green Men, and Olympic Gold meal winner Luongo all on our team. Not to add to the pressure already on your big broad shoulders (Bieksa), but if not now, then when?

I’ll be one of the lucky 18,900 fans there cheering you on tonight. I’ll be in my lucky shirt, drinking my lucky drink, screaming at the top of my lungs, “We are all Canucks! Go Canucks Go!”

Love Lucie

Bring back the Date Night!

For months now, I’ve been complaining to my husband about the disappearance of our date nights. Our last one (PechaKucha Night and dinner at Miku) was in January! I guess life intervened – work got busier, kids play-dates and activities ran us ragged and unshowered, it seems even the weather conspires against us. It’s all we can do to wrestle the kids into bed at 9PM and then we spend 2-3 hours on laptops in different rooms, catching up on email and bills. We even schedule things with each other via our wireless internet instead of walking the 20 feet to each other’s “office” and having a conversation. We collapse into bed at different times, him at 11PM, me closer to midnight. Add baseball 4 nights a week and this never ending rainy weather, I’m surprised that we remember that we love each other at all.

I know I am loved. But after nearly 20 years into a relationship, is it even possible to still lust for one’s partner?

We’ve heard over and over again that date nights are the answer. But we find this advice somewhat awkward as we were friends first. Actually, we were secret lovers first (our MBA school discouraged class romances saying they’re too distracting). Then we moved on to being haters (MBA school was right), then surprisingly to colleagues at CIBC, then friends, until one day he let me crash as his apartment when I moved to Toronto and I never left. I don’t remember him ever wooing me and now I’m in my mid-life crisis, I feel it’s absence. Strangers at Buffalo Bills or at your local construction site will make plain their desire for anything that has a vagina, but I’m finding it’s really important to me to feel desired by the man I’m married to.

As my life coach always says, once you make your needs known, the next move is up to him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday I got a call from a man I did my MBA with. He was from my Marketing class to be exact. We exchanged pleasantries for awhile and came upon a pause in the conversation. Then he asked me out to dinner! That night! Even though I already had dinner already prepared, I said yes and we started giggling helplessly, like teenagers.

We laughed because it actually was my husband on the phone, but his gesture was sincere. He later admitted that his feet started sweating when he was dialling my cell phone number. Even though he knows he has me, he still wooed me. It was delicious and I highly recommend it.

Failing that, John Gray has come out with a new product called Balanced Planets’ Marriage Saving Shake. Dr. Oz, apparently, is a fan.

I’ll drink to that!
Love Lucie

Love + Appreciation = Best Mothers Day Ever

Chinese water torture is a method of torture in which water is slowly dripped onto a person’s forehead, allegedly driving the victim insane (source: Wikipedia) The rain has been epic in Vancouver this spring. The love-child of Vancouver’s coastal mountains and La Nina has made for a particularly endless winter. April showers have brought May showers this year and according to the Old Farmers Almanac, there will be no reprieve until September. While I wait for Expedia’s engine’s to find me a good deal to somewhere warm, I will try to warm your heart with my lovely Mothers Day Off.

My Mothers Day began on Saturday. We drove up to Whistler with a truckload of bikes, kayaks, rugs, and art. And then instead of being relegated to cleaning and unpacking, my husband sent me straight to the Scandinave Spa, a Nordic (read: outdoor) spa retreat for a massage with instructions to steam, soak and sauna “for as long as I’d like.” One fabulous massage, two big chapters and three hours later, I came home to a clean house, hubby’s famous BBQ’d ribs and the Canucks playoff hockey!

Sunday morning I was woken gently by my smiling boys and a gluten-free, low carb (!) breakfast in bed. The breakfast tray was festooned with lovely handmade cards that I will cherish forever. My oldest gave me a jar of statements that all begin with “I love you when…” that he told me to read whenever I get upset with him. Precious!

Soon after we hopped on our bikes for our first bike ride of the year. We found ourselves at the lovely Nita Lake Lodge that was holding a brunch to end all brunches – have you ever had grilled sunchokes and fried kale? YUM! Apparently, Nita Lake Lodge has stolen the sous-chef and half the staff from the acclaimed Bearfoot Bistro and it really shows! Well done!

After filling our bellies with omelets and mimosas, we jumped back on our bikes for a big ride that ended too abruptly when my 7 year old took a corner too quickly and had his bike skid out from under him, knocking his front tooth on the handlebars on the way down. We searched for 30 minutes, looking for a little tooth amongst the pea gravel, in vain. Unable to convince him to get back on his two wheeled horse, we headed back home.

The sun shone and the younger children napped, while my husband and oldest son took the kayaks out for their maiden voyage. I had one hour of complete peace and quiet and did some reading. Bliss!

Family hottub. And still no fighting amongst the boys. I’m not sure if they planned it that way, but that was the best present ever!

And then when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they took me to dinner at the RimRock Cafe. My favourite! I had the Wild Mushroom Risotto with fresh Grilled Vegetables with tomato, basil beurre blanc and I’m still salivating at the mere thought of it.

I share this not to brag though I guess it can’t be denied that I am a little. I share this to give my family their props and to let them know that I am grateful for the love and the appreciation they showed me on my Mothers Day Off. I know I’m a lucky mom. Indeed, some women get a sinkful of dirty dishes for Mother’s Day.

When I ask men what their getting their wives for Mother’s Day, some have the audacity to say, “She’s not my mother!” Agreed, but you still need to show your wife that you appreciate her for being your kids’ mother. You’d want that kind of husband for your daughter.

I love the saying, “the best gift a man can give to his children is to love their mother.”

And don’t forget, a happy wife is a happy life.

I’m so happy!
Love Lucie

Love me do

With my hangover from welcoming another new year barely over, I been wondering if someone’s switched my glasses with rose-colored lenses. Have you noticed the shops getting a makeover lately? The sea of red is unavoidable and I’m not talking about Chinese New Year. Whole Foods has started putting the lowly beet, known for it’s slippery sweetness (:o), front and centre in the produce section. London Drugs has replaced their discounted Christmas chocolate with heart-shaped treats of all kinds wrapped in red foil. Even the (please drink responsibly) BC Liquor Store is recommending we stock up on bubbles for all those special occasions (like getting engaged, perhaps?) My favourite (abnormally sarcastic) Globe & Mail columnists are complaining about the commercialization of Valentines Day (this is not news in my opinion, as they gripe about this every year) and my radio station is awash with people (mostly men) chiming in about how much they hate Valentines Day, complaining that their girlfriends/wives/lovers are dropping none-too-subtle hints about the flowers/lingerie/chocolate/ dinner/massage they would like to receive as a testament to their love.

“I hate Valentines Day,” Ashton Kutcher has tweeted, “I prefer to be romantic any other day of the year.” Spoken like a true married man.

Well dear Ashton and friends, if they’re hinting, you probably haven’t been romantic enough lately. So take the hint and dash to the mall to score some quick points. Show her the money, honey!

Valentines Day is, after all, the most popular day to get engaged (according to answers.yahoo.com). But what do you do to celebrate your love once you’ve bought the proverbial cow? You’ve bought the ring, said “till death do us part”, and sent all the thank you cards (well at least signed your name), what more could she possibly want?

Well I can only speak for the ladies but for starters, we don’t want to cook. I know, I know – going out for dinner on Valentines Day, with your elbows just one inch from the elbow of the hot (and probably unmarried) couple beside you, is no one’s idea of fun either. But why not take over the stove for a change? My friend’s husband always does brings home fresh lobster for V-day dinner. Big points for little effort here – use your manly biceps to wrestle said crustacean into boiling pot of water, warm up some butter and voila, a dinner fit for Marie Antoinette. My husband once made me cilantro & ginger topped salmon fillets pan fried in rice paper wrappers. Totally yummy, but so much work it only happened once. And if you really can’t cook, you could always raid the condiment section of your refrigerator and have a strawberries, honey and jalapeno pepper picnic in bed, maybe even blindfolded, 9 1/2 weeks style!

We LOVE chocolate & red wine. Try kissing her with both of those in your mouth. It’ll be like you invented the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. Delish.

We LOVE flowers, but they die too soon. I know they cost a tonne too, so my money would be on potted red tulips to be the gift that keeps on giving as the bulbs can be planted in the garden for next year. Tulips are much better than Orchids, as they are supposed to die rather quickly, whereas Orchids are just another thing to keep alive in the house.

WE LOVE shiny things that come in tiny, blue boxes, and they too cost a tonne. But I still like them.

We also LOVE having a stranger rub massage oil all over our naked bodies and not have to put out. Putting out with your partner after said massage, however, is also very good.

Sure, Valentines Day and their sentiments have been trivialized by a retail industry that wants us to show our love in dollar bills. But there are many ways to do this, both big and small. And if we don’t celebrate our love for each other in a big, gaudy, purposeful fashion one day a year, then when? I think we should be thanking Hallmark for the annual reminder! Especially you November babies!

What I am getting my the love of my life? I was thinking this..(get them at http://www.honeygifts.com, hot lady not included. Not that hot lady anyways)

Show your kids your spouse still rocks your world. Show them that you know what love is all about. So make an effort this Valentines Day, it won’t kill you and it might even get you laid.

Love Lucie