Patti Edmon Artist

I've enjoyed chatting with friends who were kind enough to share their true Valentine's Day sentiments - the hoopla, extravaganza - romantic and thrilling,  for some. Me? I stood at the door, waving. My daughter and her buds helped chaperone a ballet babysitting fundraiser/party; my husband took my son to a concert deemed by the music critic as ideal for those inclined to wear their heart - and/or spleen on their valentine sleeve, music befitting the original ancient Roman Lupercalia festival, a raucous affair involving goat-skin whips and fertility chants. Ahem. I ate red licorice and watched Sweet Home Alabama. Again. I love when Reese Witherspoon decks Candice Bergen. Anyway, about 30 minutes in, unable to prop open my eyes, I went to bed with a good book and promptly fell asleep. But I was honored!  I felt loved! My daughter made a poster-sized card wishing me a Happy Day and my son made me a Rice Krispie... treat. (I tinted it pink for visibility of the detail). Did he use...

ahhhh, another reminder of Valentine's Day. Romance, the scent of roses in the air mingled with chocolate and sliders? That's right, you can, if you have a reservation, enjoy a candle-lit dinner with table service at White Castle. 49-cent sliders served on a silver (OK, maybe it's plastic) platter. I haven't been to the WC in decades though I do have some fairly extravagant memories of Valentine's Days past.  Like the year I decorated my (then) boyfriend's car, bumper to bumper with shaving cream, streamers and balloons, then made sure his coworkers were watching after the receptionist rang up to tell him he'd left his lights on. Rather than being embarrassed, he drove through town honking back at other drivers, even making a drive-through run at the bank. Fast forward twenty-two years and, since I asked him to make cards for the kids, I'll probably get one too. Jim is an illustrator after all, with his own line of greeting cards at Oatmeal Studios. That...