Manolo says, here is the Manolo’s latest column for the Express of the Washington Post.
Because of past experiences, which I shall not describe, I’ve come to hate Valentine’s Day. This year, however, I’ve got a new boyfriend who’s romantic enough to do right by the holiday. Can you please suggest some red shoes appropriate for the day?
Manolo says, yes, it is true, Dia de San Valentine is one of the most dangerous days of the entire calendar, when the wild passions that bubble beneath the surface erupt in the geyser of candy hearts, red roses, and dime store lingerie.
Woe be to the man, says the Manolo, who ventures forth on that day, forward into the fray of love, armed with nothing but the box of the Russell Stover’s caramels and the risqué greeting card he has picked up at the Wal-Mart while buying the oil filter wrench, and signed, in block print, “Love ya.”
Such paltry tokens of ardor are insufficient to the task of soothing the savage breast of the ordinary American woman, who demands the more earnest evidence of ardor, such as the romantic dinner at the Red Lobster, or the gift certificate, denominated in the high two figures, to the Victoria’s Secret.
And woe to the woman, says the Manolo, who fails to understand that what the ordinary American man most desires on that auspicious day is that the festivities culminate in the most passionate embraces, after which he be allowed to peacefully roll over and subside into blissful slumber.