Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose…

Someone clever said that. And while I don’t really know what it means, it’s been running through my head since Sunday. The Big Day. Tots was right—the entire holiday is one big cliché, and this year, I loved every silly moment of it. My Valentine arrived armed with roses in varying shades of pink and red, a big box of chocolates, a frilly card, and a really cute and sort-of-embarrassed grin. “I know, kind of cliché, but I couldn’t help it,” he said.

“You read my mind!” I said, indicating my red ensemble and the bottle of champagne I had chilling in vintage ice bucket that’s been waiting for use since I found it at my favorite flea market six, yes SIX, summers ago. It might interest you to know that we DID not do the clichéd, prix-fixe dinner featuring oysters and flourless chocolate cake at a local romantic hotspot. I felt we had to draw the line somewhere and I can’t even tell you how happy Colby looked when I told him I’d ordered a pizza that would be arriving shortly. I’ll leave the rest of my little tale to your imagination, but I will tell you this—there’s no meal more perfect for Valentine’s Day than pizza, chocolates and a bit of bubbly.

My apartment still smells of roses. A perfect pink bloom is safely pressed inside my newish copy of “How to Cook Everything.” (I know how to cook nothing.) And my Lady Godiva Robe, in the most beautifully named shade of Rosewater, is speeding towards me as I type. I may stop on my way home for some rose-scented bodywash…why not let the feeling linger? After all, as they say, Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose!