Today is my parents' anniversary. Thirty-three years married, and, although the idea is just mind-boggling to me, they were probably even in love for a few of those years. Well, at least they both remembered the event... and by that, I mean at least my dad's not the stereotypical absentminded, neglectful man-fool too consumed with football and farting to remember the day he made a solemn vow with the love of his life. We're all familiar with that character, thanks to every sitcom ever made, right?

Anyway, Dad remembered his anniversary, and he got Mom a card: a blank card with a reproduction of Henri Matisse's Parrot Tulips (II) on the cover. Inside, in his illegible rollerball handwriting:

2004

To Barbara,

With all my Love on our anniversary.
You do so much for me.
Love,
   Dave

Aside from the all-too-blatant truth of "You do so much for me," Granted, it ain't the most moving thing ever written, but I never thought Dad had that in him. Seriously, this is a guy who's going to make a, ahem!, romantic gesture tonight — he and the wife are staying overnight in New York City and they're having dinner at a place called Rosie O'Grady's. If that sounds like the name of an Irish pub, well, it is. And I'll bet anything that they'll be playing Celtic folk music at Rosie's, cause Celtic folk music makes Dad cream himself. (Eeeewwww.) Gaelic — the language of love.

Thing is, Dad never even considered taking Mom to some fancy French restaurant or going tango dancing for, well, certainly not for their anniversary. Or for anything. There's no passion there. Mom's card, in case you're wondering, is pre-printed: "I'm so lucky to be married to my best friend." Which I suppose is a nice sentiment, aside from the rather sad fact that Mom doesn't really have any friends besides Dad. But where's the love? And without the love, what's the point?