Hearts, flowers, yadda yadda yadda

It seems like jewelers, chocolate companies, and flower shops are shoving V-Day down my throat with more alacrity than usual. It's making me feel all warm and sentimental inside.

I spent yesterday in an icebox of a room attending something called an Ag Conference. And, while I was supposed to be taking notes on the advantages of biodiesel fuel and sequestering carbon, I couldn't help looking around the room at the 200-some men I was surrounded by and feeling... grateful. Make no mistake, many of the men (the ones that I know) are model citizens who look like the kind of people that would open a jar for me if I asked. But do they pick up their dirty socks? I just don't know.

They are everywhere. Brothers, gynecologists, our best friend's boyfriend, Uncle Fred, and that hottie who sacks groceries down at King Sooper's... generally good guys, albeit sometimes kind of ... well... clueless. GENERALLY, we forgive them of their cluelessness because of their cute butt, their jar-opening abilities, and other random redeeming qualities. But sometimes you come upon one who's wearing a wedding band and you can't help but whisper a prayer for the poor woman who chose to put it there.

I'm very lucky because Allan isn't one of those guys who's clueless about things like time, for example. He has a very good grasp on the fact that twelve straight hours of work, Spider Solitaire, or Desperate Housewives is very bad for a relationship. I would've added football to that list, but he isn't Clueless Sports Fanatic, either. He isn't Clueless Bad Breath Guy. Or Clueless About The Laundry Guy. Or Clueless About The Overgrown Grass Guy. He isn't Clueless Stinky Aftershave Guy, Clueless Conversation Domination Dude, or the guy who's a clueless interrupter. He's not Clueless Gossiping Guy, or Clueless My-Pants-Are-Too-Tight Guy. He's not Clueless I-Have-No-Table-Manners Guy, or Clueless I-Revert-To-Being-a-Toddler-When-I'm-Sick Guy, either. He's not a clueless whiner if I suggest we eat at a restaurant that he's just eaten at earlier in the week. He's not clueless about kissing, massaging, eating with his mouth closed, or a clueless zombie when I'm talking about female issues and the like. He's not a clueless loud whisperer or that clueless one who refers back to high school way too often. He's not the clueless guy who doesn't know just how stale his jokes are. Or how rude it is to answer his cell phone in the middle of my story about rude cell phone talkers. He's not the clueless middle-aged dude who parties with college kids. Or the clueless conspiracy theorist, the clueless pontificator, or the guy who's clueless about that twitchy eyelid problem he develops when he's lying to your face. Lastly, he's not clueless about how I take my coffee, how to trim my hair, take my picture, balance a checkbook, season some crab cakes, shop for wine that complements seafood, or use Google to repair a broken ice maker. And did I mention what a hoot he is to have around at a two-year-old's birthday party?

In fact, the only thing that Allan seems to be TOTALLY clueless about his UNcluelessness. And even that, I'm not so sure about.

On that note, I'd just like to just say: Thank you for not driving me crazy, Sweetheart. I'm so sorry I can't reciprocate.

Happy Hallmark Holiday, everyone.