Posts Tagged ‘holidays’

It's closer to you than any of your friends. It's always ready to support you, no matter what. And it's always got your back, usually quite literally. Today is National Underwear Day. Wear it proudly.

Sure, a more cynical person than myself, assuming one exists, might take note of the fact that holiday founder FreshPair.com — in an amazing, soap-opera-like coincidence — just happens to sell underwear for a living. But if you go down that road you'll start thinking that Valentine's Day is "just" to sell candy and cards, or that Christmas is "just" an excuse for your family's annual religious and/or secular discrimination lawsuit. And this is true, but they're also so much more than just that. So why not honor your undies? Especially after what yours have to put up with.

After all, Americans spend more than $13 billion each year on intimate apparel — Pamela Anderson alone accounts for barely a quarter of that — and yet it's the category of clothing you think the least about.

If, that is, you're a guy.

Guys don't think much about their underwear, unless they have reality makeover TV shows, because they don't have to. They generally only buy new shorts when forced to by outside forces such as wives, girlfriends, or unexpected car fires. There are guys whose shorts possess more DNA than the guys themselves do. And selecting the proper size is easy for a guy. Can he get them on? Do they fall off? We're done here, gentlemen.

My underwear purchases take a maximum of five minutes, tops, and this includes parking the car. My wife Teresa, on the other hand, who is not a guy, knows that lingerie designers are involved in a sinister, worldwide conspiracy to drive her completely insane. She can prove this by shopping for a bra.

Nothing flatters a woman more than a comfortable, well-fitting bra and Teresa would be delighted to possess one of those mythic creatures. However, Teresa is also what the e-mails I keep deleting describe as "busty," and she's had little luck in determining the proper size to buy despite the many helpful and contradictory sizing guides available at clothing stores and Web sites. Try it yourself!

First, using a soft measuring tape, measure around your body under your bust to get Measurement #1. Now add either 3 or 5 inches (Fredericks.com), 5 inches (Gap.com), 4 or 5 inches (FreshPair.com), somewhere between 1 and 4 inches (BraExperience.com), or no inches (LaneBryant.com), and round up or down to the nearest even number, unless your above-breast measurement is smaller than Measurement #1 or you're a Scorpio on a Sagittarius cusp, in which case roll three six-sided dice and hope for the best. This is your Band Size. To determine your cup size, please contact Jet Propulsion Laboratories in California.

Using the easy-to-understand steps described at more than 20 sites Teresa quickly found her Ideal Size, which was almost definitely a size 44C. Or a 44DD. Or a 39G, a 40H, a 40DDD, a 38I, or possibly a 40DDDD, none of which, strictly speaking, actually fit. Fortunately lingerie manufacturers aren't restricted by anything so boring as "standard" sizes anyway.

Truth is, all those women getting plastic surgery aren't doing it so they can model beer. It's because sadistic clothing designers refuse to accommodate humans and something has to give. Sobbing women are constantly storming into doctors' offices clutching off-the-rack 36C bras and screaming, "Fill this up!"

I don't want to make it sound too hopeless. Teresa has, on occasion, found bras that were comfortable and well-fitted. Upon her first purchase, these bras were, of course, swiftly and efficiently discontinued.

FreshPair.com is celebrating the day by sending out "underwear ambassadors" to the streets of New York City to mention their unmentionables while "modeling some of today's hottest brands for unsuspecting – yet pleasantly surprised – shoppers, tourists and die-hard New Yorkers." Just another delightfully scandalous public relations encounter for the Big Apple.

Come to Daytona Beach next year and try that, Fresh People. My wife would like to have a few words with you.

You might want to make sure you're wearing clean underwear first.

—————–

On the Web:

National Underwear Day — www.nationalunderwearday.com

Jet Propulsion Laboratory — http://www.jpl.nasa.gov

May 21 is Chris Bridges Day

(halfway down the page)

In other news, the Board of Selectmen Monday night approved a request for the Christine Bridges Nursing Scholarship Walkathon around Lake Quannapowitt on May 21. The day has also been declared Christine Bridges Day in Wakefield by selectmen.

"We can say many things about Chris," said Sharon McLean, speaking for the Bridges family. "She did so much for the town of Wakefield, for our students, our culture, our seniors … She made a huge difference in this town."

Carney said that the proclamation of May 21 as Chris Bridges Day is "a tribute" to the longtime Chestnut Street resident, who was a nursing professor and a former School Committee member.

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I'd like to send congratulations to my namesake, even though they missed my birthday by one day.

The time has come to cherish your lover, according to every store, mall, mail flyer, and roadside flower stand within sight. For months, hearts and candy and frighteningly adorable greeting cards have been thrust at us as constant and expensive reminders that if we love someone we'd better be ready to pay for it. Is this what love is?

Valentine's Day is perceived as commercially enforced love, a day of gut-wrenching panic because it's already Feb. 13 and the only things left are the elegant boxes of chocolate you'd have to sell a kidney to afford or the $2.99 bags of pink M&Ms at Walgreens, and you know that if you choose incorrectly you'll be spending the next week replacing your slashed tires and keeping an eye out for incoming airborne dishware.

But that's not it at all, guys. Stop a moment, put the M&Ms back, and calm down. The future of your relationship really isn't at stake here. You don't need to let Hallmark or those Whitman people pull your strings. All you need to do is show that you're thinking about your lover, that you want to be with her and that the happiness of your very significant other is essential to your own. The true meaning of Valentine's Day is not to impress your lover with how extravagant you are.

The true meaning of Valentine's Day is to make other people sick of you.

My wife Teresa likes Chik-Fil-A, in much the same way that crackheads are moderately fond of little white rocks, and so last Valentine's Day we went there for breakfast. When we arrived I "remembered" something in the car and she went on to order.

By the time she got to our booth I had set it with a linen tablecloth and napkins, silverware, and crystal goblets, with the soundtrack to "Chocolat" coming from a small CD player. I poured our sweet tea into the goblets, whereupon we toasted each other and dined while employees gawked and passing truckers stared.

We had a wonderful time, laughing and hugging and smiling at each other. But, best of all, I completely ruined the lives of every guy in that restaurant, every one to a man murdering me in his mind while wondering if he still had the receipt for the new vacuum cleaner he'd just finished wrapping. I'm willing to bet that my inexpensive morning meal directly resulted in a marked jump in De Beer's stock.

Because I gave my wife the greatest gift of all: the despairing, bitter envy of a roomful of total strangers. Think about that as you plan your activities. Will the public example of your endless devotion make others insecure in their own relationships? When your lover brags about your evening, will everyone around her hear the words "because he loves me way more than your guy loves you, neener neener neener," even though she didn't — quite — say them out loud? The jealousy, the disgust, the annoyed looks, that's what makes Valentine's Day worthwhile.

One Valentine's Day, when Teresa had an office job, the other women there were proudly showing off their new flowers while pointedly not looking at Teresa's bare desktop. Suddenly the fax machine chirped and produced an obviously hand-drawn picture from me of a bouquet of roses, a bowl of strawberries, and the word "Tonight?" Teresa spent the rest of the day in a haze of warm smugness while her co-workers grumbled and dumped more water into their 12 Bud Premium Velvet SweetheartsTM Bouquets with Pre-Stamped Cards.

It doesn't take a busload of cash, as long as you give her something to brag about. Take her to a playground at night and push her on the swing. Stick a canoe in the bathtub and go on a fearsome Amazon adventure together. Go ice-skating for the first time. Resheet the bed with bubble wrap. Anything, as long as she knows you truly love her, so she can tell her friends. You could even brag about your romantic life in, say, an online column that people all over the world can read.

Ha. Beat that.

Happy New Year's! It's time to fondly remember all the things we've accomplished over the last year, have a drink, and then solemnly vow to never do any of them ever again.

Most resolutions happen soon after the horrified realization of the state you woke up in on New Year's afternoon, but those are usually unthinking, knee-jerk reactions to the sight of your own bodily fluids as opposed to well-thought-out guidelines for a new and improved you. Such panicky resolutions are often extreme and unrealistic, such as "I'll lose 84 lbs by Arbor Day" or "I'll never drink vodka and lighter fluid again."

Me, I prefer to choose my resolutions carefully so that I can carefully craft myself into the perfectly realized paragon of humanity that is my destiny. Also I like resolutions I have a slim chance of keeping, like "I resolve to wake up, most days." Here's my list.

I resolve to never again think that people with cell phones are "asking for it."

I resolve to go to the gym at least three days a week, or however often the blonde in the pink Lycra shows up.

I resolve to floss much more often. In fact, the new me will floss not just teeth but between any two parts of my body that are in regular contact.

I resolve to treat every other living soul I meet exactly as I would wish to be treated, by giving them money and a luxury car.

I resolve to read the dosages much more carefully from now on.

I resolve to stop yelling out obscene and unwanted commentary during Saturday morning library storybook time, if at all possible.

I resolve to stay out of the SWAT marksman's line of fire.

I resolve to stick closer to my diet, even to the point of having a copy on my person at all times to give me something to read in the line at McDonald's.

I resolve to remember that "Not to Be Taken Internally" doesn't refer to where I'm standing at the time.

I resolve to give the psychiatric interns a bit more slack next time.

I resolve to stop firing off fire extinguishers in movie theaters, no matter how much those loudmouths in the back rows deserve it.

I resolve to stop calling Sunday morning talk radio shows to request "Smack My Bitch Up."

I resolve to always, always, always make sure the person I'm chatting with online is really female, of age, and not affiliated with any local or federal law enforcement agencies. Fool me once, shame on you…

I resolve to stop adding the words "in space" to anything anyone says to me.

I resolve to cut back on how much old growth timber I personally log for recreational use.

I resolve to stop training my dog to attack anyone wearing a tie.

I resolve to observe all applicable restraining orders, no matter how inconvenient.

I resolve to think of better excuses for my habitual workplace tardiness, as the "orphanage fire" and "roadside space shuttle assistance" ones are getting old.

I resolve to stop sneaking over to my neighbor's house and resetting his TiVo so it stops recording ten minutes before the end of every program. Sure it's fun, but all that screaming is keeping me awake.

I resolve to spend more time with my children and really listen to what they have to say, especially when they use words like "help," "fire," and "hemorrhaging."

I resolve to finally break my non-smoking habit.

I resolve to cut my cola intake to less than one tanker truck a day, barring major holidays or unexpected potato chip outbreaks.

I resolve to stop making all my decisions by throwing darts, especially while driving.

I resolve to quit using the vacuum tubes at the bank drive thru to send unexpected gerbils to the tellers, no matter how funny it is.

I resolve to give all people, no matter what their political, religious, and philosophical beliefs may be, the same respect I give to any ravenous attack dog.

And, finally, I resolve to more fully appreciate all the things my life has blessed me with. Even the dumb stuff.

In space.

Every year as the temperatures start to dip and a frosty, holiday tang creeps into the air, my loving family gathers around the dinner table to begin our heart-warming, age-old tradition: planning for the after-Thanksgiving sales.

This is not something done lightly. My wife Teresa is an experienced, battle-hardened shopper, veteran of a thousand garage sales, merciless wielder of coupons and walking encyclopedia of comparison prices. No sales escape her eye, no markdowns evade her grasp. And this, this is her finest hour.

Every Thanksgiving, as we sit around the table and groan in a celebratory manner, Teresa and her brother Rodger spread out the ads and begin making their plans.

"Best Buy's always a rough one. Anything worth it this year?" she'll ask.

Rodger will look up from where he's marking out troop deployments on a map of the Volusia Mall. "DVD player," he'll mutter. "We're taking it, and taking it hard."

Neither one will have eaten much, despite the fine meal. Too encumbering. On the day after Thanksgiving — Black Friday — the slow and the weak get left behind and an extra slice of turkey could mean you don't get the last half-price digital camera.

Black Friday is the retailer's day of reckoning, when they reckon people will sudden wake up from their turkey-induced comas and realize there's less than a month left until Christmas. It seems to work. Last year we spent over $7 billion dollars on Black Friday. That's we-the-country, not we-my-family. My family accounted for less than half of that.

Retailers, delighted that they have their own national holiday, have jacked up the excitement by offering incredible deals for just that day, sometimes for just the first few hours of business. Of course this results in shoppers politely helping each other find the best deals in a spirit of wholesome togetherness.

Just kidding! It's a consumer bloodfest, more exciting, more graphic, and more dangerous than any video game on the market. Which isn't a bad idea… Coming soon: "Medal of Honor: Wal-Mart."

Most savvy shoppers, wary from previous years, pick up some basic maneuvers. They learn to get to the stores early, possibly hours before they open, because every store gets maybe 10 units of one insanely priced item and grappling for position starts long before the pimply-faced guy opens the front door. You come in pairs or teams so that you can spread out over the store and snag more bargains at once, often coordinating by cell phone or walkie-talkie. Sneakier shoppers might even buy the desired item a day early so they can refund and re-purchase it the morning of the sale to get the lower price without hassle.

Amateurs.

Teresa and Rodger chuckle at such feeble antics as they move through the store like figure skaters on a SEAL team. They work in effortless tandem, although both have their own individual styles.

Rodger favors distractions, such as yelling "Hey! $20 iPods in the children's clothing section! Wow!" and then avoiding the stampede by doing a shoulder-roll into the electronics department where he can shop at leisure.

Teresa, the retail Mata Hari, prefers the covert approach, cultivating moles inside the stores to hide choice items in obscure places for her to casually pick up while the ignorant crowds skirmish around the floor stacks. For tricky purchases she has a variety of colored vests so she can browse the warehouse stock without arousing suspicion. Waiting in line is for beginners.

Lately there's been an upswing in online Black Friday sales, which somehow takes all the fun out of it. How can you say you've truly acquired something if you didn't have to defeat a rampaging mob to get it?

Online shopping is not for us, not this day. Already the cars have been gassed, the phones have been charged, the water bottles have been readied, and the credit card holsters have been oiled. Brace yourselves, shoppers. My wife is coming for you.

She loves the sound of Muzak in the morning. It sounds like… victory.

In the next few weeks, Americans will be asked to make a hard decision, possibly one of the hardest decisions they'll have to consider all year.

What to wear for Halloween.

It can be anguishing, choosing the you that you want to be for a night. Do you want to be a you that's dashing, beautiful, funny, sexy? Do you want to be a you that you've never been before? Or do you just want to be the you that wins costume contests?

Over the years my costume choices have fallen into a few broad categories.

Whatever's Cool

When I was very young the "dress-up-and-look-cute-and-they'll-give-you-free-candy" racket was an ends unto itself. But when I got a bit older, I realized I didn't have to let my parents choose whatever costume was the closest to the cash register. I could be anybody! Superman! Spider-Man! Some kind of Army Guy! Um . . . Superman again! For one night a year, I could be cool, for a given definition of "cool." And get a bus-sized bag of candy in the bargain.

This is the most common reason for costume selection, right up there with "whatever will get me that promotion," and it's a strong one. Just don't ever look at pictures from previous years to see what you used to think was cool. The "Madonna" year still plagues me.

Whatever's Quick

Some years, usually for reasons of time/money/energy, my costume was decided on the basis of what I could become in five minutes. A mad scientist was easy: lab coat, mousse the heck out of my hair until I looked like Doc Brown in a wind tunnel, and bam! Igors would line up to fill out an application.

When I was studying fencing I became a pot-bellied Zorro, a tubby Robin Hood, and some sort of generic medieval swordsman who'd apparently gone to seed. That way I could wear my fencing sabre out in public, which was impressive and fun and very useful for stabbing menacing doorbells.

There's always stuff around the house that can make me a priest, a businessman, a pimp (like the businessman, but with more purple), Gomez Addams, or Death, which should tell you a lot about my house. One year I went out as Kevin Smith's character "Silent Bob" solely because I had a trench coat, a backward baseball cap and a similar attitude toward the Atkins Diet.

Whatever Fits the Theme

Occasionally our family and friends will band together and go out as a group, with themed costumes. The advantages are obvious: you don't have to decide on your own, you can share funds and supplies, and it's easier to terrorize the single kids. We've been gangsters (pinstripe suits bought that morning from Goodwill, fake guns, rubber fedoras), the cast of The Three Musketeers, and, one memorable year, we went Star Wars.

I was Obi-Wan. My wife became a decidedly curvier Princess Leia. Others in the group were Luke, Han, and C3P0. A dome-top kitchen garbage can turned my son Jamie into a perfect R2D2 whose flailing around (due to hastily carved eyeholes) made his impression that much more accurate. All of the last-minute work became worthwhile when R2D2, still of an age to have problems with the whole "reality-vs.-fantasy" thing, attacked a startled Darth Vader on sight. I have to admit I don't recall R2D2 ever screaming "Get him! Get him!" in the movies, but that might have been in the Special Edition.

Finally, last year, I discovered the only rational method for choosing my Halloween costume.

Whatever Turns My Wife On

This should have been a no-brainer, but she's never given me an obvious choice. If I asked what turned her on she'd say, "You, silly" or some other obvious lie. Then, last year, I went as a pudgy Captain Jack Sparrow from "Pirates of the Caribbean." Got to wear my sword again, got to say all those great lines, and when I got back home that night . . .

There are things, my children, which make even a bus-sized bag of candy pale in comparison.

She's been into "Buffy" this year so you can expect to see a middle-aged, pot-bellied Spike lurching around the neighborhood, adding even more terror to the vampire legend. And that's fine. You're not the one I'm dressing for.

Trick or treat, folks.

I'm looking forward to some great new music this year. Music I can lose myself in, music I can sing along with. Music I can play while I do what I've managed to convince myself is dancing.

I have very eclectic tastes. Rare indeed is the genre that doesn't have at least one song on my playlist. There are hymns that stir my soul, country songs that get my feet tapping, rap music that makes my head snap around, and rock that boils my blood and causes other pressing health emergencies. But explaining my specific preferences is a difficult matter, so instead I'll list what I don't like.

I don't like songs with bass beats that sound like my head's in a piledriver. If I hear a song in another car that can get through two closed windows and across a lane of traffic and still make my fillings ache in 4/4 time, that song is right out.

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Like no other holiday, Christmas is built of traditions.

Most of our familiar Christmas practices are a hodgepodge of habits taken from around the world. Decorating a fir tree, hanging mistletoe, and drunkenly telling your boss exactly what you think of him at the office party were all brought over to our country by swarms of abruptly unemployed immigrants.

Who among us hasn't hung stockings by the chimney with care, wondering as we did why anyone thought hanging your laundry next to an open flame was a good idea?

But when it comes right down to it, it's the homemade customs that bind us together, the simple rituals that every family develops over time as part of their shared experiences which, in their own quiet way, help keep the yuletide at the top of the suicide risk charts.

Office Grazing – Hunters, gatherers, and moochers, it's the most wonderful time of the year: the inter-office harvest. You can generally spend your work hours during the second half of December wandering from office to office sampling all the homemade chocolates and cupcakes and candy you can keep down. And by spreading your moveable feast over several departments you can easily double your body weight without looking like a… like too much of a pig, anyway.

Toyland Security — Experienced, battle-worn parents know full well the hazards of assuming that, despite explicit instructions from their child to the contrary, a "Mermaid Fantasy Barbie" would be just as good as the more expensive "Bratz Style It! Sasha." Ha! That's the sort of beginner's mistake that comes out in child emancipation hearings later. No, the veteran parent spends long weeks learning the difference between Playstations One and Two, and how to discern at a glance between the Yu-Gi-Oh toys that are still cool and the microscopically identical ones that will ruin your child's life forever.

Holidatheism — Nothing brings home the Christmas spirit more than greeting everyone you meet with a hearty "Happy, er, Holidays!" and a vague smile. Even the most well-meaning season's greetings can quickly become a sociological landmine. Is "Merry Christmas" secular enough yet to be used with confidence? Will wishing your boss a happy winter solstice show up on your yearly evaluation? Will your neighbors scorn you if your rooftop decorations fail to mention Kwanzaa? May your anxiety be joyful and triumphant.

The Guilt Exchange — Every year cruel fate (a.k.a. "Secret Santa" exchanges) will force you to swap bland, generic gifts — always under $10 and of no use to anyone with a life — with someone you don't know well enough to pick out of a police lineup. I prefer bizarre gifts for that sort of thing, like a tub of goat cheese or a jai alai cesta.

Noel-One-One — Call me a crazy sentimentalist, but it's just not Christmas if someone doesn't end up in the emergency room. What exciting accident will thrill us this year? Will the cat topple the tree over grandma? Will the fire rescue personnel admire Dad's innovative use of extension cords? Will Mom tear her hand open trying to get a toy out of its meteor-resistant packaging? What happens after a dog eats 45 feet of tinsel, anyway? These are the questions that fill scrapbooks and provide hours of wincing remembrance for years to come.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Refund – Why stop on the 25th? Carry the joy of the season for days afterwards while you return most of your presents and hit all the after-Christmas sales to buy the same things for half-price. My wife is in favor of junking Christmas entirely and just celebrating the 70% Off! sale at Spencer's instead. It's a magical time.

Happy, er, Holidays to everyone, and keep an eye on the cat.

This holiday buying cycle promises to be a time of prosperity as the rising economic index indicates a surge in domestic purchasing habits and a return to traditional fiscal responsibility, with same-store sales growth tracking nearly 7% over last year's… are the kids gone yet?

Good. Let's talk about Christmas presents.

Every year around this time (defined in the Gregorian Calendar as "right after Labor Day") we are reminded of the true meaning of Christmas. Songs and cards and cartoons strive to instill in us the glory of the season, the joy of giving, and the miracle of the approved religious ceremony of your choice. But none of them really touch upon the very best part of this jubilant holiday: messing with your kids' minds.

At no other time of the year are you allowed — heck, encouraged — to taunt your children so blatantly. Your kids can see there's something for them, waiting for them under the tree, and they can't have it yet. "Whoops, you can't open that until Christmas! Too bad, 'cause it's soooooo cool! You'll never believe how unbelievably fantastic that thing is that you can't touch for eight more days! It's really expensive, too, it's a… whoops! I almost told you! Ha!"

It eats at them, that knowledge. For weeks beforehand they can think of nothing but that brightly colored box, or the mysterious bag in your bedroom closet, or the bundle in your trunk you won't let them see, and they shake like little heroin addicts. It's great.

Antagonizing your loved ones is a proud Christmas tradition, and my mom was the master. The size, shape, and weight of a box were never reliable guides to its contents. Small items like jewelry might be in small packages, or they might be in the box the tree came in. Larger items, like a car, might get taken apart and wrapped up in 1,117 different little boxes and bags, with the last one containing a wrench set and the keys.

Being a wise woman, she never labeled anything so I couldn't play spy with nail scissors and replacement tape. Instead she'd wait until Christmas morning to tell me which color paper meant gifts for me.

We got her back one year, though. Dad bought her a nice watch, which we packaged thusly: we took a holiday wine bottle box and put a brick in the bottom, followed by padding, some loose bells, a small bottle half full of water, a handful of sand, more padding, and the watch. By December 24th she was twitching, reduced to wild guesses about mutant snow globe/hourglass devices.

Christmas just isn't Christmas if you can't drive a loved one insane. With our kids we've always preferred the "shock and awe" techniques. When Star Wars figures were hot, we spent weeks buying up Stormtrooper characters so our son would awaken on Christmas morning tied down with dental floss and surrounded by rows and rows of the Imperial Army.

One year he woke up with a 6-foot tall inflatable Godzilla looming over his bed, and the abruptly terrified look on his face made all those hours inflating the stupid thing outside in the cold worthwhile.

This year I'm considering taking a page from mom's book and not labeling any presents. I won't tell which one's which afterwards, either. I'll just sit back, sip my eggnog, and watch my family and friends fight it out with Yule logs to see who gets the DVD player and who gets the "$1 Off Car Wash" coupon.

Time with your families. That's what Christmas is all about

The time has come, the walrus said, to honor your love and cherish your lover. More than usual, I mean. Valentine's Day was dropped down to us from the Roman's feast of Lupercalia, later named for a Christian priest named Valentine who continued to secretly officiate at Roman soldier weddings despite Claudius II's decree against it (and got beheaded for it, on February 14) and currently memorialized by expensive gifts and gangsters shooting each other. Sigh.

What does this usually mean to you? Well, usually it means either angst as you try to deduce what your loved one really wants for Valentine's Day and they won't give you any hints because they're busy trying to figure out what to buy you. Or it means shrieking panic as you realize it's February 13 and the only candy left is either the $200 boxes or the $2.99 pink boxes of M & M's at Walgreens. Or worse, tragically, it means nothing to you. Foo on you.

I love Valentine's Day. I love any excuse at all for going over the top in my romantic life. Valentine's Day, birthdays, anniversaries, the nights the chicken didn't thaw, whenever the internet connection is busy… The great thing about it is that if you do it often enough you'll start to live that way all the time, and that's a blast. A true Hoot Islander should always be ready to dress formally, spats and tiara, to go to Taco Bell. But why stop there? Here's some Valentine's day suggestions. Anybody can do the boring old diamond thing, have some fun with it.
Have an intimate dinner with your loved one(s) at a local fast food restaurant. You may want to clear it with the manager first, but then you'll lose the fun of freaking out the people working there. Send out engraved invitations, request RSVP's, pay a kid to wear a vest and park your car (ideally where it can be found again). Hire another kid to seat you and take orders. Many of the fast food restaurants have play areas these days, plenty of room for dancing. You might even take some time to print up menus – just translate everything into French.

Go out and play. Really. My wife and I were out wandering through Walmart one day and found their discount makeup section. We picked up some especially tacky marked-down colors of lipstick and I started making jokes about making her into a geisha girl. Next thing I know we've spent 2 hours and $25 picking out purple blush, bizarre stick-on nail decorations, leopard-skin hair things and an interesting hair dye. At some point it had become an obsession as we moved on to a nearby Goodwill where she found an elegant evening dress and heels while I picked out a tux that fit perfectly if I didn't try to button it. We headed home and Teres began working with the face goo while I climbed into the tux and tried to explain to the kids why we were getting so dressed up when we weren't going back out. At this point I'm supposed to tell you how it was a magical night of sensuous pleasures and role-playing, but actually we acted like kids through most of it and laughed through all of it.

Take her to a playground at night and push her on the swing. Sneak him out to where you used to skinny-dip years ago and see if you get caught this time. Go play miniature golf and take your driver. Stick a canoe in the bathtub and go on a fearsome Amazon adventure.

If your loved one is the greedy sort, buy something really expensive and hide it in the house somewhere. With luck you can get the place cleaned up before it's located (Gee, it might be under those dirty dishes!).

Go out to dinner and tell different waiters or waitresses different stories. Tell one it's her birthday, tell another it's your anniversary, tell the manager you're getting it's your wedding night. The trick here is to see how many times you can get them to sing to you. Try to get 4 or 5 of those little cakes brought to your table. Ah, amoré!

Go out and do something you've never done. Go ice-skating for the first time. Go roller-blading. G'head, you'll heal! Take dance lessons, practice first-aid on each other, get uv'ed and go to a rave.

Spend the entire day avoiding the spoken word. Communicate with gestures, meaningful looks, and pointing a lot. Writing notes is cheating. You may find yourself giggling a lot. it can also lead to some really enlightening sex, or possibly some form of expensive counseling.

Turn the bedroom into the perfect love nest. Stick up centerfolds on the walls, use strobe lights, install a handy gumball machine. Resheet the bed with bubble wrap. Fill the closet with popcorn. Get a couple of huge helium ballons to keep by the headboard; some timely inhalations can help create some rather disturbing chipmunk love.

Turn the lights off in the house and keep them off for the duration of the evening. No candles, no lamps, no matches. No tv. Take the bulb out of the refrigerator. Put tape over the numbers on the microwave. You may not want to combine this with the silent day previously mentioned; you might have a wildly romantic dinner without noticing your lover isn't home yet.