Thicker than Water

We survived yet another family vacation last week. Each summer, for the past four years, we have embarked on a journey to the sunshine state for some fun and relaxation. And prior to packing up the suitcases, I thought this was a wonderful idea. Getting a break from the daily grind can truly refresh a person’s energy. And reenergizing our spirit was just what the doctor ordered.

For the record, this was not a throw-the-wife-and-kids-in

-the-car kind of excursion. The last few years we have unknowingly been part of my mother’s personal social experiment. By coordinating our trip with members of our extended family, she reasoned that more people would exponentially increase the amount of fun. Sadly, this does not always work. Especially when the “more people” share a chromosome or two. Anyone who has a family will understand what I mean. But mom was very persuasive in getting this new tradition off the ground. As a matter of fact, this summer marks the fourth such “vacation reunion” in a row. Who knew it had so much staying power? Bickering with relatives is no longer limited to the Christmas holidays in my family. It now provides us with year round entertainment.

Personally, I believe my mother was secretly planning a new reality TV show when she first made the suggestion. I really hate to accuse dear old mom of something so self-serving. But it was just so strange to see her with the video camera peering around the lifeguard stand, or crouching behind empty beach chairs to get a sneaky shot. And to think we actually gave it to her as an early birthday present. Talk about putting a loaded gun in the criminal’s hand. Oh well. Lesson learned. The strangest of her surprisingly intricate techniques involved a snorkel, some duct tape, and a camouflage wet suit (the ocean variety of course). She even had the silhouette of a shark included for good measure. Touché.

To add to the drama we were headed back to the same beach as last year. In this way, we’d be more comfortable with our environment and far more likely to throw the proverbial sand in each other’s face. Or worse. I remember once during the first year’s inauguration ceremony (mom’s idea), my Uncle Paul dumped Kevin’s full Budweiser all over the beach. It even got on the fireworks. Turns out it was only an accident (he spilled his own too) but it made for some great footage watching my cousins struggling to take the knife out of Kevin’s hand. Thank goodness it was only beer that was spilled that afternoon.

Needless to say, getting together so many strong personalities in one place is a surefire recipe for disaster. And I’m sure that’s exactly what my mother had in mind. But this year she didn’t stop there. As an added twist to the weeklong drama fest, she made sure we visited New Smyrna Beach for the second consecutive year. I thought this a bit odd and eventually decided to Google it, just in case. What I discovered hit me like a ton of bricks. Those images burned so deep into my eyes I thought I’d never forget them.

“Babe,” I said to Shannon, “you might want to check this out.” My wife walked over and found me staring open mouthed at the computer screen.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Did you know that New Smyrna Beach just so happens to be the shark attack capital of the entire world?”

“No, I had no idea. I wonder why your mom never mentioned it.”

“I know why. Suspense. It makes for good television.”

“Must you over exaggerate everything?” my wife said rolling her eyes.

“Yep. Bad DNA I guess. But that only validates my point,” I replied.

“I’m not listening to any more of this nonsense.” And with that she walked out of the room.

Whatever the truth of the situation may be, when it comes to having a limb chomped off by the most fearsome predator in the ocean I will admit to being a little chicken. Or even a lot chicken. But maybe Shannon was right. Maybe I really was overreacting. Besides, we somehow managed to survive last year’s trip without incident. Talk about an amazing stroke of luck. In fact, we didn’t even see a single surfer get mauled the entire vacation. So I figured there was now at least an equal chance of getting attacked by a shark as being struck by a bolt of lightning. I decided it best not to press our luck.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to gamble. Far too many nights have found me playing poker with buddies late into the night. So I don’t mind take chances. But not when the ante is the loss of a foot or getting a nub for an arm. Not interested. I’ll stick to the blackjack table thank you very much.

In the end, my mother’s plan failed miserably. Everyone had a wonderful time at the beach. And nobody seemed too bothered by the ever-present danger of being swallowed up by the sea merchants of death. Even I got over my fear eventually and enjoyed my time down at the beach. I wouldn’t go near the water, mind you. But I had a fantastic time not going swimming, not kayaking, and not surfing. It was a hoot. So try as she might, the drama this year was nowhere to be found. We got along together beautifully. You might say it was like we were one big happy family. I guess we showed her.

Bargain Hunting

“Quick, turn right here!” my wife shouted unexpectedly on our way home from church last Sunday.

“Where?” I replied, trying my best to comply with her ever so polite request.

“Right there,” she shouted grabbing the steering wheel herself to assist me.

“Thanks for the help,” I said sarcastically. “You almost took out two mailboxes and a stop sign. There are laws against that kind of thing you know. Plus, the kids are in the car too. Have you completely lost your mind?”

“Stop overreacting. There was nobody coming in the other lane. And besides, we merely grazed the side of that fence. You can be so dramatic sometimes. Really. Anyway, we simply had to make that turn. Didn’t you see the sign?”

“Nope. Guess I missed it paying attention to oncoming traffic,” I said still a little rattled at her passenger seat driving.

As I regained my composure I realized what my dear sweet wife was talking about. Coming up on our left hand side was another one. The words “GARAGE SALE TODAY” were hand written in black magic marker on a piece of white poster board. I should have known. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I realized our swerving vehicle had taken out the sign on the corner.

“Nice job hon,” I said (again with heavy sarcasm). “You took out their nice homemade sign with your craziness.”

“Oh relax,” Shannon said. “We’ll pick it up on the way back. And this will help us avoid some of the competition. At least for this yard sale.”

The competition my wife spoke of was the other people attending the sale. Her fear, of course, was that they would either beat her to the “good stuff” or eliminate her ability to barter. If another person wants the same item you do, she reasoned, the owner would be unlikely to come off their price. In the worst-case scenario, it may even turn into a bidding war. This is more like an auction and, as my wife is quick to point out, the odds shift heavily toward the “house.”

And "haggling" (as dad used to call it) is apparently half the fun. Seeing if you can get a stranger to accept even less money for the junk he doesn't want anymore is supposedly quite a challenge. Often, you can shave at least a dollar or more off your day's booty with even a modest effort to wheel and deal. It's very rewarding.

“You sure know an awful lot about garage sale-ing (perfectly acceptable slang),” I said only half joking.

Truth be told, she often comes home from such escapades with a whole box full of these valuable treasures. DVDs, toys for the kids, board games, and anything else you could imagine. I must admit she did find some pretty cool stuff at those darn things. And it’s all so cheap. But it just isn’t my cup of tea.

My one and only attempt at bargain hunting came on the way home from my brother’s house early one Saturday afternoon. Noticing a nice, brightly colored sign in an affluent neighborhood I decided to try my luck. It was awful. My fatal flaw, as my wife later pointed out, was that I arrived way too late to find anything worthwhile. All the best stuff is usually gone by nine o’clock or so. Apparently, if you want to score a hardly used weight bench for under thirty bucks, you have to get up pretty early in the morning. Deals like that simply don’t make it past lunchtime.

“Everyone knows that,” my wife stated flatly.

Everyone, that is, except me. I had no idea the extreme these people will go to get a good deal. For all I knew, my wife enjoyed getting up at five in the morning every weekend. I never dreamed this so called competition really does exist. But they do. And they are relentless in their hunt for value. Some are even known to camp out all night at the bigger “neighborhood” garage sales in hopes of being the first to arrive. I guess it’s true what they say; one man’s junk truly is another man’s treasure. I think from now on I’ll leave this area to my wife’s unquestionable expertise. I just hope she leaves the driving to me.

Tastes Like Chicken

Sitting on the couch last night stuffing my face full of candy, I reached a surprising conclusion. There, gripped firmly between my thumb and index finger, was one of the greatest scientific breakthroughs of the 21st century. I’m referring, of course, to Jelly Belly’s gourmet jellybeans. Each hardened sugary piece is carefully crafted to mimic a variety of real life flavors, guaranteed to delight even the most discriminating palate.

Flavors range from the more common Cinnamon and Watermelon, to the highly unusual tastes like Caramel Apple and Jalepeno. I know, I know. Who the heck wants to eat candy that tastes like Caramel Apple? I sure don’t. But they make ‘em. Something I didn’t realize was how incredibly specific many of the flavors are these days. Back when I was a kid, candy came in three flavors: red, yellow, and purple. And we didn’t care. As long as we got our sugar fix we were good. Not today.

Kids these days are trick-or-treating for flavors like Crushed Pineapple and A&W Root Beer. Few people realize their own taste buds are completely capable of distinguishing the difference between the sliced and crushed variations of this wonderful fruit. Especially when the taste has been recreated in the form of a small piece of candy. Nor do they understand that chewing on a generic flavored root beer jellybean (instead of the A&W brand) is absolute torture. In that case, why bother eating them at all?

I have to admit, having all those options to choose from is kind of nice. And since they carry them down at the local dollar store (we are on a strict recession budget), Shannon splurged and bought a couple bags. Unfortunately, paying a mere buck for this candy is apparently not enough to include the flavor chart that’s usually printed on the back of the bag. It’s kind of like eating a potluck dinner, or perhaps a grab bag of fruity (and sometimes vegetably) goodness. So we settled down into a nice little game of name that jellybean.

Grabbing a big handful, I went first. “Mine tastes like a bowl of strawberry ice cream mixed together with hearty vegetable beef stew. Yum. Your turn babe.” I said to my wife hoping she too could experience the three-ring circus of seasonings dancing around my tongue.

It didn’t take us long to discover that while some flavors worked perfectly together (Peanut Butter and Grape Jelly), others were not exactly a match made in heaven (Licorice and Bubble Gum). And without the benefit of that increasingly more valuable flavor chart, we were on our own. Rational thought eventually prevailed and we began eating each miniature candy one at a time. Smart move. My son was up next.

“What does that one taste like honey?” my wife asked Cody as he chewed on a multi-colored jellybean.

“Chicken,” he said without hesitation.

Strange. Then again, why wouldn’t it taste like chicken? Everything else does. As a matter of fact, the company could probably save a boatload of cash making every jellybean in the bag taste that way. How would anybody ever know the difference?

“What flavor do you have honey?” you might ask your significant other.

“I’m not sure. It’s gray, with yellow specks, orange polka dots, and what appear to be bright red zebra-like stripes across one side. But the taste seems strangely familiar. I know. It must be tuna casserole. Either that or chicken.”

“Bingo. Right again. Man, you are really good at this game.”

Now all that’s left is figuring out whether it’s fried, barbecued, or maybe boneless skinless breast for the more health conscious among us. Who knew that even jellybeans taste like chicken? I for one sure didn’t. And apparently, neither does the U.S. military.

Can you imagine the excitement when they realize the potential of these little babies? Hold onto your camos boys, the MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) is about to undergo a major facelift. Sure to lighten the load on those long hikes through enemy territory, the taste combinations are truly unlimited. Thinking of that barbecue back home? No sweat, just combine the Wood Smoke, Pork Butt, and Coleslaw flavors in your mouth. Round out the meal with your choice of Sweet Potato Soufflé, Potato Salad, or Green Bean Casserole. And don’t forget to wash it all down with a nice tall glass of Sweet Tea (add Lemon jellybeans to taste).

In the end though, all jellybeans not only look alike but they taste the same too. We can always still pretend we’re eating those exotic flavors. Unless of course we actually are eating a Chicken flavored Jelly Belly. That would be weird. In that case, I wonder if it would actually taste like a red jellybean. Or maybe purple. I’m kind of over this whole jellybeans that taste like chicken thing anyway. I’m more interested to find out if those brilliant scientific minds can ever figure out how to make chicken taste like a jellybean instead. Now that would be something.

The Right to Bear Arms

“How do you like my new forty?” Kevin asked as he pulled out a black Smith and Wesson handgun from his jacket pocket.

“Whoa man, you can’t just spring something like that on someone. I need to be mentally prepared for you to hand me a weapon like that. At first I thought you were about to pull out a big bottle of Budweiser.”

“Sorry. But it is pretty cool don’t you think? The sight is specially designed to be highly visible in the dark.”

“Are you planning to shoot someone at night? Or in a cave maybe? You don't have a weekend trip to Afghanistan in the works do you? Wait. On second thought, don’t tell me. That would make me an accessory.”

“Relax,” my brother said reassuringly. “I have no concrete plans to shoot anyone at the moment. Spontaneously, however, is another story.”

“Great. I feel much better now.”

Truth is, Kevin has never owned his very own pistol before. A hardcore gym rat, he’s always seemed content relying on raw physical strength for protection against would-be threats on his safety. And he’s not shy about his showing off his “weapons of mass destruction” either. Anybody who knows him has heard at least one of the following. He shared the following examples with me voluntarily.

• Ever been mountain climbing? (flex) Want to?
• Almost got arrested last night...concealed weapons. (flex)
• Couldn’t believe I had the FBI investigating me...for having weapons of mass destruction. (flex)
• My nickname is Chevy...Like a ROCK! (flex)
• Ever been to the Laser Show at Stone Mountain? (flex) Show starts at nine!
  

Believe it or not, this is only a small sample of my brother’s undeniable Southern charm. He is extremely proud of his bulging biceps. And to be fair, he has put in a great deal of time, effort, and banned substance abuse to get there. But I guess in the end he didn’t think his own “bear arms” were adequate protection. So he broke down and got himself a .40 caliber handgun. Chicken.

Our father was raised in West Virginia and served in the U.S. Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, so we are no strangers to guns. Dad had a theory about potential intruders entering our house at night. “Shoot first, ask questions later,” he told us frequently hoping to provide a verbal road map for handling danger. Strange methodology if you ask me. Sure, firing your weapon first would greatly reduce your risk of getting injured. What I don’t understand is the “ask questions later” portion of his hypothesis. I say, why bother? Unless you’re going to ask your assailant something like, “Are you dead yet or do I need to shoot you again?” Or perhaps “Can you possibly scoot over just a little? The tile is only a few feet away and you’re making a mess of the carpet.” Otherwise, your line of questioning may prove to be somewhat ineffective. Unfortunately, people bleeding to death in your living room aren’t always the most responsive.

Reversing the order of the famous phrase, “Ask questions first, shoot later” is no help either. That could get you hurt in a hurry. Besides, it’s not really an appropriate time for small talk. The best modification I could come up with is “Shoot first, call the cops later.” Dad won't like it but it'll have to do.

But knowledge of my father’s time in the service was enough to minimize my interest. Sure I’ve been out hunting a few times (mostly for squirrel) but I’ve never been much of a gun enthusiast. Neither has Kevin. That is until now. Apparently, the current state of our great nation has him concerned about what may come in the days ahead.

“Why on Earth do you need a pistol anyway? You do realize that zombies are immune to bullets don’t you?”

“Yeah, of course I do. Everybody knows that. But don’t worry, that’s not why I bought it. I’m mostly going to use it down at the indoor shooting range.”

“Mostly?” I inquired. “What other uses do you have in mind?”

“Well, there is this annoying rooster next door...”

“You wouldn’t,” I said cutting him off from finishing his last statement.

“No. Not really. But you gotta admit, fried chicken for lunch sure does sound tasty after a good night’s sleep.”

“True. Fried chicken is a delicacy. But it’s no reason to go knocking off your neighbor’s living alarm clock,” I replied trying to dissuade my brother from embarking on a life of crime.

“Alright already. I will ONLY use it down at the range. Happy now?”

“A little,” I said comforted with the knowledge we narrowly avoided a holiday season of eating turkey down at the local jailhouse. Whew.

The fact of the matter is that our nation’s forefathers took great measures to ensure Kevin’s right to own a gun. That same right is guaranteed to all Americans in the second amendment to the U.S. Constitution. These wise men realized that any truly free nation must be able to defend that freedom when necessary. All that my brother is doing is exercising that right. Just like my father before him. And after careful consideration, I may actually join him. Besides, fried chicken really does sound appetizing.

The More the Merrier

“Holy crap!” The words slipped out of my mouth before I had time to think.

“Holy crap?” my wife repeated back to me. “That’s what you have to say about us having another baby?”

I couldn’t help it. It’s the only thing I could muster through the shock. My mind and body had suddenly gone completely numb. Under the circumstances, I think I was doing pretty well just to maintain consciousness. This was, after all, our third child and our little girl is still just a baby as far as I’m concerned. Taking care of two is enough of a challenge. Did we really need to stack the odds against us by having a third?

“Now babe, I don’t mean to seem unsupportive. I’m just trying to absorb what this means,” I replied sympathetically.

“I know. It’s a lot to take in for me too,” my wife said calmly.

“I mean, have you considered the fact that once the new baby arrives we’ll actually be outnumbered by our children?” I continued. “How long do you think it’ll take before Cody starts using that situation to his advantage? I’m afraid we may well have unknowingly sowed the seeds of an impending civil war.”

“Why must you exaggerate everything? Cody isn’t going to start anything with us. He’s going to be the best big brother ever,” my wife stated with a matter-of-fact tone in her voice.

“I have no doubt about that. But where you and I fit in the picture is still up for debate. At least we have a little time before his new found infantry learns how to walk.

“Yes. Thank heavens for that,” Shannon replied sarcastically. “I don’t know why you can’t drop the joking for even a minute. The pregnancy test is still in my hand for goodness sake.”

“That reminds me. When I picked that up at the store for you today, I noticed the box indicated an effectiveness of over 99%.” I said inquisitively.

“That’s true, the home tests are extremely accurate nowadays,” she replied.

“Right. Then I noticed they were usually sold in packs of two. Kind of strange don’t you think? If the manufacturer actually believes their own claim, less than one in a hundred women would need a second test. Unless, of course, the other one is included to give the mommy-to-be a head start on a new scrapbook. You didn’t happen to see any stickers fall out of when you opened the box did you?”

“You really can’t stop, can you? Just for a second I wish you’d be serious.”

The truth is, my baby factory of a wife was making a very good point. It appears there is actually a time when sarcasm may be inappropriate. Who knew? I was a word-wielding force of destruction upon learning about her first two pregnancies. But Shannon, for some reason, seemed more concerned about this one. So I backed off, at least for the moment.

“I’m just a little scared right now that’s all,” my wife said revealing her feelings of vulnerability to me.

“I know babe. It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. But you know, it does answer my
question about what the future holds for the little tots.”

“It does?” she asked somewhat confused.

“Sure. Think about it. We obviously have a trio of future Olympic medal winners on our hands,” I stated with the utmost confidence.

“Oh Lord, I’m afraid to ask. What on Earth do you mean by that?” Shannon said unenthusiastically.

“Let’s see. For all three babies I barely touched you. As a result, my success rate has to set some kind of record or something. That means my little swimmers must be simply amazing. Imagine what they can do when the get to the one hundred meter breaststroke!”

“Please stop talking now,” my wife said as she tried in vain to avoid my ridiculous explanation.

“Babe, you know how much Cody loves the water. I think we need to get them swimming lessons immediately. Though it looks like they don’t need any, just a few years of practice. Then it’s gold medal city baby!”

“You are absolutely insane,” she said.

“You married me,” I replied.

“Don’t remind me,” Shannon shot back ending our banter temporarily.

After I got the joking completely out of my system (it took a while), we settled into a nice embrace as we thought about having a new baby in our future. I’ll admit the idea is scary. There is no telling what’s in store for us around the bend. But that really isn’t much different from yesterday, is it? So, we’re going to roll with the changes and provide the newest addition to the Basham clan with as much love and support as humanly possible. We have to do something to prevent him/her from joining Cody’s growing army of infants. He gets stronger every day. Heaven help us.

Blast from the Past

It’s not every day a guy gets to talk to an old friend he hasn’t heard from in over fifteen years. At least it didn’t used to be. I guess Facebook is changing that pretty quickly. It probably won’t be long before people never even lose touch in the first place. But for me, Internet or not, it’s still a pretty great day when something like that occurs. And that’s exactly what happened to me this afternoon.

Through a strange online version of the Kevin Bacon game, my old high school buddy Luis found me on this gigantic social network. Now I already knew Facebook was huge. But I had no idea just how huge. It turns out that my old friend relocated to Colombia some fifteen years ago, and has been living there ever since. I realize that’s not exactly a stone’s throw from Georgia, but at least it’s still within driving distance. Besides, I’ve heard South Carolina is a beautiful state.

After a few quick digital exchanges, I came to understand that my pal had actually left the United States completely. Right after graduation he packed up his stuff and took off for the cocaine exporting capital of the world (as I remember he was incredibly ambitious). It seems "The Colombian Connection," as he was referred to jokingly back in school, was finally earning his reputation.

If this had taken place say, a generation ago, there is very little chance we would have ever been reunited. But now thanks to Facebook (and of course Al Gore – father of the Internet), it appeared our destinies were intertwined once again. And no, he didn’t stumble onto the website during a weekend excursion back to the States. Nope. It seems the image on their homepage depicting the entire world being connected wasn’t such a stretch after all. After speaking with Luis further I came to realize that Colombia is a much nicer place than we tend to give it credit for.

“So why in the world did you ever leave the South man,” I asked him wondering how anyone could do such a thing.

“Might want to check your map buddy. I’m a bit further south than you are,” he replied.

“You know what I mean,” I said determined to get to the bottom of this perplexing mystery.

“Well, I must admit I do sometimes miss that good ol’ Southern cooking. You’re mom made a mean raccoon meatloaf,” he replied reminiscently.

“I know. It’s to die for.”

“But I finally just got tired of all the B.S. living stateside. Heck, I hear it’s gotten so bad up there lately that Obama is considering renaming it the B.S. of A. if it doesn’t get better soon. I hope he gets free boots as a perk for being the president. There’s no doubt he’s knee deep in you-know-what right now.”

“Yeah, I see your point.” My friend was right. Our country, the same one many in my family served for so proudly, was now on the brink of total disaster. Or worse. We could be headed toward socialism. He obviously saw this coming a long time ago and high tailed it out of here. It's amazing you think you know someone and never even realize they have psychic ability.

“So I moved down here. People think it’s so dangerous. But I’ve lived here for fifteen years and haven’t even been mugged once,” he said emphatically.

This was indeed something to be proud of. During that time I’ve lived in the U.S. and actually have been held at gunpoint. Granted I don’t carry a shotgun strapped across my back for a trip to the local grocery store but I’m not against it. There’s something to be said for preemptive measures.

Logically speaking, my buddy was making quite a case for his decision. Creeping into my own mind was the possibility of packing up the family and moving there myself. Sure there’s the drug smuggling, blazing equatorial heat, and guerrillas waging war in the streets to contend with. But my son has been training to be a Ninja since he could walk. Between the two of us I’m sure we could keep his mother and sister safe.

“Ya’ll got any jobs down there?” I inquired figuring even if Shannon wouldn’t make the move I might still be able to commute somehow. There's got to be lots of empty rafts available to get over there. And getting back should be a breeze too, so long as I choose the right employer. I hear employee benefits are defined a little differently down there.

“A few. That is if you don’t mind packing up “cargo” planes. Why, do you want to move down here or something?”

Then I remembered. My dang red hair was a problem. Not the hair itself but rather the pasty white complexion that comes with it. I get a third degree burn from mowing the grass with my shirt off. There’s no way I could handle Columbia.

“It did cross my mind. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s just not realistic. But I have to say it was great hearing from you man.”

“Same here. If you ever change your mind let me know. By the way, I see that you’re now doing well as a writer. Congratulations. I see that sarcasm of yours is finally paying off.”

“Well I am a writer, but as far as the “doing well” part and it “paying off,” I’m still working on it. But I would love to send you a copy of the new book when it comes out.”

“That would be great! You might have to pay a pretty penny though. Getting stuff from the States to Columbia is usually not very easy (funny how they seem to have no trouble at all getting stuff out).”

“I’ll see what I can do. It was great talking to you Luis. Take care buddy.”

“You too. Stay in touch.”

What a great day. I was reconnected with a long lost friend and now have a viable option should things get even worse here. That reminds me, I need to get a passport. I wonder if my brother would let me borrow his jet ski. And it might be a good idea to hit the shooting range a couple times this summer. It’s better to hope for the best and prepare for the worst I always say.

Love is in the Air

It’s that time of year again. Love is in the air. My wife and I have been married for nearly nine years already. With two young children along for the ride, she thinks the wooing is pretty much long gone now. And for 364 days of the year she’s absolutely right. I don’t make much effort at all at romance. In my defense, the kids do make things rather difficult. So unless her idea of a romantic evening involves watching High School Musical while feeding the baby, she is missing out.

Now for the good news. Exactly one day out of the year I get the opportunity to spoil my wife. You know, make her remember why she married me in the first place (she has a habit of forgetting… must be an early onset of Alzheimer’s disease). On this day I want to make her feel special the way no one else can. But I just can’t seem to make up my mind. Do I get her chocolates or roses? Perhaps a nice heartfelt card would be appropriate? The list of options these days is endless.

After racking my brain for a good fifteen minutes (this is important), I’ve come up with some amazing possibilities. Any one of these would be enough to make this Valentine’s Day one she’ll never forget. Guys, feel free to use these yourself too. It’s the least I can do to spread joy and happiness on such a wonderful occasion.

• A heartfelt card – do not underestimate this simple gesture. Truly the most economical choice (you can even make one yourself), there’s a reason roughly a billion of these things get sent every year. They work. And chances are good, if you’re anything like me, that Hallmark can say it better than you. So let them.
  
• Sexy Lingerie – cleverly disguised as a gift for her, this is really more of a gift for you. Communicate to her that you bought her this gift because you still find her incredibly attractive. Once you set the hook, it’s time to reel her in.
  
• No laundry duty for a week – this is more than fair. Dealing with everyone’s dirty clothes can get tiresome. She will definitely enjoy a break. Besides, how big can the pile really get after only one week?
  
• Gift card to Best Buy (for yourself) – the U.S. Greeting Card Association (apparently this actually exists) estimates that men spend twice as much on Valentine’s Day as women do. What’s wrong with that picture? Aren’t we as lovable as our female companions? Consider this option a noble gesture to show your support for equal rights and even things out a bit. Baseball season is coming up soon and the Braves sure would look good on that brand new big screen.
  
• Remote control privileges – this one will shock her completely. On a night of your choosing (let’s not get crazy here) allow her to hold the prized electronic device for a minimum of thirty minutes. More time can be allotted in small increments for good behavior. It’s completely up to you how to define “good behavior.” It is Valentine’s Day after all.
  
• A nice bottle of champagne – everyone knows alcohol loosens things up. Not only will your lady will appreciate your display of good taste, it will also increase your chances for smooches later on that evening. And if not, at least you still got to drink some expensive champagne.
  

There’s no denying my wife is an extremely lucky lady. I might even combine two of these for an extra special Valentine’s Day extravaganza. Shannon will be thrilled at my effort to keep romance alive in our relationship. It’s not every guy in the world that steps up to the plate like this when the opportunity presents itself. No doubt I am doing my gender proud. I only hope my wife is as thoughtful when she picks out my present this year. Happy Valentine’s day babe!