You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs stories—but here’s one more, a Valentine’s tale from my book My Pineapples Went to Houston. I hope it gives you a smile.
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Dick filed for divorce on December 13, 2003, which I took as a sign that we were probably not going to get back together. When the divorce was finalized on February 12, 2004, the chances for reconciliation seemed even more remote. His secretly marrying Honeypot sometime in the summer of 2004—although they divorced a few years later, big shock—pretty much nailed that door shut once and for all. I’m joking, but I do think both Jorge and I felt more relaxed with each succeeding step Dick took out of our lives. His reneging on the alimony agreement had put a crippling financial burden on me, but on the plus side, I was able to totally disengage from him four years sooner. (If only his creditors would get the message, as I am still hounded with calls from collection agencies trying to locate him, ten years after our divorce.) By February 2005, Jorge and I were quite seriously involved, and I started thinking that there might be a proposal coming my way on Valentine’s Day. I started cooking up romantic plans as my gift to Jorge, plans which would also lend themselves nicely to any questions that needed to be popped.
The botanical garden was planning a perfectly dreamy event for the Saturday night preceding Valentine’s Day—February 14th fell on a Monday that year. “Valentines in the Garden” featured a candlelight tour of an elaborate orchid exhibition, accompanied by romantic music, and capped off with dancing, drinks, and dessert. Intoxicating fragrance, wine, and candlelight—how could he not propose? Well, I found out how.
I had told Jorge that the whole evening was my Valentine’s gift to him. I figured if he were about to give me a very expensive diamond ring, the least I could do was spring for dinner and the orchid tour. I was quite excited about the perfect night I had planned. Even the weather was cooperating, as the forecast called for a cool, clear evening with a bright, beautiful moon. Just perfect for a romantic garden stroll and proposal. We started things off with dinner at a favorite restaurant. Now, I didn’t expect the ring at dinner—that was what the moonlight later was for—but, geez, I did expect something. Some flowers or candy, or, shoot, a piece of sugarless gum. Jorge, who gave me flowers for breathing, who wrote me long missives of love on his lunch hour, was completely empty-handed. When I gave him my card, he read it and said, “Oh, thank you, my love,” and put it down on the table beside his plate. That was it. Not even a stinking card in return did he give me. Well, okay, I thought, he probably wants to wait and do everything on a moonlit path at the botanical garden. We finished dinner and headed off to our night of orchids and romance.
The event did not disappoint. If there were ever a setting for a marriage proposal, this was it. City lights glowing in the background. Soft moonlight spilling down among the trees. Lush, cascading orchids, perfuming the conservatory with their exotic fragrance. Not to mention, candlelit tables of decadently sumptuous desserts. This was romance with a capital “R.” We strolled the paths, we sipped the wine, we swayed to the music, hell, we even fed each other the dang dessert—but we did not, I repeat, did not, get engaged. I couldn’t even believe it. My perfectly planned evening had come to naught. No ring, no proposal, no nothing. By the time we got home, I had definitely lost that loving feeling.
By Monday, the actual Valentine’s Day, I was over the whole stupid, Hallmark-manufactured holiday. I had to face my students, many of whom shared my suspicion that I would return to class with a ring on my finger. I headed everyone off at the pass by announcing at the beginning of every class, “You’ll have to settle for having an engaging teacher because you sure don’t have an engaged one!” Mondays seem long and tiring for everyone, I’m sure, but for me they actually were especially long, as I taught from nine in the morning until nine at night. This Monday seemed particularly dreary after the disappointing weekend, and also because of the very strange weather system that had settled over the Atlanta area. A thick blanket of fog had started rolling in around noon, and all day at school we watched it through our classroom windows as it thickened, eventually obscuring even the trees that grew not two feet outside our glass front doors. Evening students arrived late, if at all, with tales of terrible traffic back-ups and multiple accidents due to the zero visibility. Television and radio stations were announcing travel advisories, and the state police were urging folks to stay off the road. It was definitely treacherous going out there, and I was just looking forward to going home after this seemingly endless day, taking a hot shower and going to bed.
Shortly after 9:00 p.m., I opened the door to the teacher’s parking lot and was shocked at how unbelievably thick the strange stew of fog and mist truly was. I couldn’t even see the cars parked in the lot just the steps away. Wow, I thought, I am even scared to drive the short distance home. For a moment I thought about calling Jorge and asking him to come get me, but that would mean a two-way trip, creating more opportunities for an accident. I’ll just go slowly and carefully, I decided. As I was cautiously making my way down the short staircase, I heard a familiar voice say, “Hello, my darling.” It was Jorge! Oh, he read my mind, I thought. Gee, how had he so badly missed my mental message on Saturday night? Walking closer, I saw the full picture. He was standing at his car door, elegantly clad in a suit and tie, a large spray of red roses in his arms.
“What the heck are you doing?” I asked, sincerely confused, and sounding much more annoyed than appreciative.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, my darling,” he said, handing me the roses and kissing me.
“But that was Saturday,” I said.
“Saturday was not February 14th,” he said, contradicting me.
“Yes, but the 14th this year is a workday, so we celebrated it on Saturday,” I countered.
“Who is ‘we’?” he asked. “Maybe you, gringa, but for me, Valentine’s Day is February 14th. And now we are going to dinner to celebrate on the real day.”
I was sure he was doing all this now because he felt guilty about not doing anything on Saturday. Yes, I had been disappointed then, but I was over it now. Go out to dinner now? Was he kidding? The make-up I had applied thirteen hours ago had completely worn off, my hair was a frizz-fest and my feet were killing me, even in my “teacher shoes.” For crying out loud, I had been teaching for twelve hours and had to be back at it early the next morning; I just wanted to go home.
“Honey, it’s not necessary, really,” I insisted. “I just want to go home. It’s fine. I’m not mad about Saturday.”
But he was deaf to my protestations. He put me in his car and sprang the really big surprise on me. We were not only going to dinner, but we were also driving downtown to dinner, a good 25 miles away, at 9:30 at night, through possibly the worst fog in the history of fogs. I reminded him that we were taking our lives in our hands every single one of those 25 miles, too. It was indescribably foggy. And nerve-wracking. Why couldn’t he just accept that I wasn’t mad about Saturday and turn around and go home? I was tired. Driving was dangerous. We both had to get up early the next morning. “Waaaaaaaaaa,” I moaned, whined, and complained the entire way.
Once we—thankfully—arrived at the restaurant in one piece, my mood did a 180. I was swept away by the music, the wine, the festive spirit of it all. We had a lovely dinner and I apologized for having been so cranky.
“You were absolutely right,” I admitted to Jorge. “This was a great idea. So, we’ll be a little tired tomorrow morning; so what, we’ll survive.”
Jorge said he was glad I had enjoyed the evening and then asked, “Do you want anything else?”
Totally full and satisfied, I answered without hesitation, “No, no. I’m full.”
“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” he repeated.
“Yes, I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’m sure and, no, I don’t want anything else, honey,” I replied with finality.
Jorge was quiet for a minute and then said, “You know, when you are speaking in Spanish, and someone asks if you want something, it is polite to ask the same thing in return,” he instructed. “For example, if I say ‘Quieres algo mas?’ to you, you should say, ‘No, gracias, y tu?’”
“Oh, gracias for the etiquette lesson, señor,” I said, laughing. “All this for you to tell me you want to order coffee.”
“Try again,” he said, sounding like a task master. “Do you want anything else?”
“No, thank you,” I replied dutifully. “And you?”
“Yes, I want to know if you will marry me,” he said, pulling a little black box out of his jacket pocket and handing it to me.
I gasped first and then squealed. Oh, my gosh, he got me! He really, really got me! He hadn’t screwed up on Saturday, after all. Monday evening wasn’t the consolation prize; it was the main event, as he had planned it to be all along. When I opened the box, I really let out a squeal. The ring was spectacular, just like one we had looked at and I had mooned over. It is a rare occasion indeed that finds me speechless, but this was one. I was so thrilled, so delighted, so overwhelmed that I just kept clapping my hands together with excitement, kind of like a trained seal. Finally, I did kiss Jorge and accept his proposal. All the young couples seated around us figured out that the jig was up and started congratulating us, with the girls oohing and awing appropriately over my ring. What a sweet couple we made, they all said, but I think they were secretly whispering, “Eww, old people kissing—disgusting!” And I’m sure all the guys were adding, “Buddy, if this is the way she dresses up for a night on the town before you’re married, the future is not a pretty picture.”
Finally, when everyone had stopped fussing over us, we got up and left the restaurant. Walking outside, we saw the fog had started to lift.
“I don’t think it will be as bad driving home,” said Jorge.
“I’m not worried about it at all,” I announced, “because I am not driving home.”
“No?” asked Jorge. “Then how are you going to get home?”
“Honey,” I said, pressing my cheek to his, “I am going to float the whole way there.”
And seven years later, my feet still haven’t quite touched down.