Mom and Buried and I aren’t all that big on Valentine’s Day.

I know what you’re thinking: you’re kidding yourself, pal. Which is a fair point; anyone who has ever met a woman knows she cares about Valentine’s Day on some level. But I know my wife. You don’t get through five years of marriage without being able to tell when your spouse is bluffing. Believe me, I’ve gotten it wrong enough times to get it right at least one out of every ten chances. And she’s not bluffing about Valentine’s Day.

Yes, she cares more than me (duh) and will murder me if I don’t man up and show at least a little bit of effort, but otherwise she’s pretty chill about the whole thing. Besides, we always recognize the event in some way, exchanging cards and sweets and other small tokens of appreciation, we just don’t go all out. (We save that for St. Patrick’s Day. WHAT WHAT!) This year we are going to see The Pillowman, a play about murdering children (nothing to do with the fact that our kid is in the midst of the terrible twos, I swear!) that doesn’t exactly scream romance.

I can tell you’re skeptical so, by way of example, I’ve resurrected a post about our first “we have a kid now!” Valentine’s Day, from two years ago. If The Wire-based gifts and a bucket of fried chicken don’t convince you that Mom and Buried is serious about not being serious about Valentine’s Day, then I don’t know what to tell you.

But if I call you later and ask to crash on your couch, don’t be a prick about it.

Original Post: Valentine’s Day Massacre