S.W.A.K. (Sealed With A Kick)

Last week at the manicure salon, while submitting to Rose's ministrations to my nails, I was obliged to watch Dr. Phil. This is not a program I would ordinarily countenance, but when in Rome ... The theme of that day's show was romance, or lack of same ... specifically, hopelessly unromantic husbands. The targeted non-uxorious male was brought onstage and ensconced comfortably, if nervously, beside his lovely spouse. Across from them perched "Dr. Phil" McGraw and his mate, Robin.

The longsuffering guest wife, prompted by the cheery McGraws, proceeded to describe her husband as a man who, despite their seventeen-year marriage (during which she has borne him four children) has yet to bestow upon her a card, gift, bonbon, or blossom on Valentine's Day. This nice lady believes that if her husband came home from work one day to find both his missus and his recliner missing, he would rue the loss of his Beloved less than his Barcalounger.

The sweet, shy woman allowed that her husband has given her something: at least one reason for never buying her flowers. "They die," he observed as though he were the Grim Reaper's floral emissary. Once however, in an uncharacteristic frenzy of ardor, he showed his wife a picture of a dozen roses ... accompanied by the caveat that the photo was as close as she'd ever get to receiving actual flowers from him.

(Hey dude ... have you ever heard of diamonds and gold? These things don't die. Ever! The fine jewelry you give her will outlive even you. Just a suggestion if the prospect of your gift's demise is what's actually bothering you. And it's really easy to pick something out; just hand over your credit card, close your eyes, and point.)

Prior to the show's filming, Robin McGraw and three other females had formed a persuasion posse and ushered Sir Stingy into a brightly-lit and sparsely-furnished room. Taking turns, they attempted to raise Lord Loserface's consciousness with regard to the needs of women. Mrs. Dr. Phil told the turkey that her husband never runs the slightest risk that she will doubt his devotion; he tells her at least twice a day and shows her in countless other ways that he loves her. The other women put in their $.02 worth as Prince Paltry glumly listened.

In the end he was given an assignment: Write a love letter to your wife. This would be a first for Count Clueless and as such he faced terror unlike any he had known. Painted into a corner, he clutched a ballpoint in his sweaty palm and began.

Twenty-five insipid drafts later, the Billet-Deux Gang declared Monsieur Maladroit's letter passable. Now all he had to do was read it to his wife. Aloud. During the Dr. Phil show. Which he did, with no discernible emotion. The camera caught several female audience members going misty-eyed over the missive, which in my opinion was so noncommittal it made Genghis Khan look mushy. His own wife appeared only cautiously happy, but Tammy Wynette could not have stood any straighter beside her man. When asked for her reaction, she said that the letter "made up for seventeen years of no Valentines."

Ahem ... honey, could you lower your standards a hair? I think a tapeworm just slithered underneath.

The Gregory placed a large heart-shaped box swathed in blood-red cellophane and bearing a golden ribbon stamped "All Dark Chocolate" on my pillow this afternoon. When I found it and, hyperventilating, shredding the wrapping, asked him why he gave it to me today, he dipped me chivalrously and said: "It's Valentine's week."

I think I'll give him his first card tomorrow. It features a cute doggie perched at the base of a statue depicting Romeo and Juliet in a clinch. Inside is this sentiment: My tail waggeth at the mere thought of you. That's what I'm talking about, y'all.