In honor of Valentine's Day, I thought that I would share with you, Dear Readers, the most romantic gift that I have ever received. Perhaps you're wondering what an Existential Waitress considers to be a romantic gift? Flowers? Godiva chocolates? They're both fine and dandy, but no. Diamond earrings? Eh. Been there done that. A pearl necklace (not that kind, you pervs - and HELL no, by the way) and a surprise trip to Cancun? I'm really just not that much of a jewelry person. A Video iPod (back when they were all the rage) with an engraved message on the back? Close. You're getting warmer...
The most romantic gift that I've ever received is
a breast pump. For reals. I'm not kidding.
When my son was born, I was kinda flying by the seat of my pants (my standard M.O. I've reluctantly come to realize, as I fancy myself a planner), and pretty much had no clue about breastfeeding. Basically, I was a mess. We'd acquired all the basic baby gear by the time my son was born, but it had never even occurred to me that I might need a breast pump - that is, until the hubs came home with one and surprised me with it. Mind you, my husband is the kind of guy that plugs his ears and says "I can't hear you!" when I tell him that I have my PERIOD or that I'm MENSTRUATING, and is not the sort of chap that volunteers to buy tampons when he goes to the supermarket. So the gift of a breast pump really meant something to me.
To this day, I still feel all warm and fuzzy inside just imagining him perusing the breastfeeding section of Babies R Us, trying to find the perfect pump to surprise me with. He even purchased accessories like storage bags and nipple cream. It was just too cute and thoughtful. Jewelry and gadgets aside, this really IS in all seriousness what I consider to be my favorite gift of all time - call me crazy (because I know you want to). It's memories like this that remind that there is something redeeming about C when he's on my shit list for being an inconsiderate jack-ass. Later this week I'll post about the delicious dinner the hubs cooked for me on Super Bowl Sunday. I'm liking him more and more by the minute. (C may be many things, but he's definitely not dumb; he knows I'm less likely to kick him to the curb if he plies me with tasty fixin's).
Before I get ahead of myself though, perhaps I should give mention to the 24 Hour Rule (which is kinda like knocking on wood for good luck). Because that shit will come back to bite you in the ass. Every. Single. Time.