This past weekend the wife and I celebrated our final Valentine’s Day sans children. Next year, we will be up to our elbows in shitty diapers, crying babies and “dress-up” clothes covered in baby vomit (or so I am told). We were told by many to savor our final Valentine’s Day out which we semi-scoffed at because we have never really been “Valentine’s Day people.” I am of the opinion that greeting card companies have inflated Valentine’s Day’s importance and think overpriced flowers, chocolates and/or stuffed trinkets sent to a lover are fleeting (if not ridiculous). I tend to buy the wife flowers on a semi-frequent basis and remind her I love her everyday and she, in turn, keeps me happy by accepting whatever career path I may be on that particular week and consistently makes me cookies, banana bread and blueberry muffins. So when Valentine’s Day rolls around, we tend to do what we did this past Saturday; grab a steak early in the afternoon with the blue-hairs and catch a matinee at the local movie theater. Nothing says “I love you” like Clint Eastwood slinging some racism ala the late Grandpa Broz.