Peter Buffa -- COMMENTS & CURIOSITIES

Roses are red, violets are blue, you know what Monday is, so let’s get on

with it.

It’s free verse, OK? Valentine’s Day. Who started this anyway? Hard to

say. Feb. 14 is the feast day of two early Christians, both named

Valentine and both martyred in Rome in the third century. But historians

see little connection between what we call Valentine’s Day, and the real

Val-A and Val-B.

The Big Red Day is more likely a descendant of the Roman holiday of

Lupercalia -- a fertility festival celebrated on Feb. 15. But even that’s

an educated guess.

Whoever started it, it’s a major-league big deal in our culture. Let’s be

more specific. It’s a big deal for the male of the species, in either the

husband or the boyfriend model.

Listen up, men. I’m here to help. First of all, don’t stress about buying

or saying just the right thing. Just remember -- whatever you do, you

will do it wrong. It’s genetic. Somewhere along that marvelously complex

double-helix of DNA, we have a “wrong gift” chromosome. Don’t beat

yourself up about it. If she loves you, she’ll smile and express

pleasure. But in your heart, you’ll know you did it wrong.

All men know that Valentine’s Day is fraught with risk, but the

gift-giving part is especially dangerous. Year after year, the choices

are remarkably consistent. Candy, flowers, jewelry, lingerie, romantic

venues.

Does anyone still give those heart-shaped, red boxes of candy? I would

think not, but they must. Those things are everywhere. In my opinion, if

you plan to walk through the door armed with nothing but a box of candy,

it better be Godiva or up.

Jewelry. Hmmm. The black-tie ads where he opens a little box with an

eight-carat diamond and she whispers “It’s perfect!” are very stylish,

but could we get back to this planet, please?

Flowers used to be a safe bet, but there’s an interesting twist in recent

years which anyone who works in an office with a lot of women has

noticed. The whole flowers thing has become very, and I mean very,

competitive.

On V-Day, who gets flowers, who gets them from whom, and who gets the

biggest, showiest arrangements is noted and recorded -- quietly, but

carefully. The competition is subliminal, never discussed, but intense.

There were fewer flowers at Don Corleone’s funeral than there are in most

offices on Valentine’s Day today. If you think I’m making this up, ask

any receptionist. They know how it works.

By midmorning, the delivery guys are stacking up in the lobby. Inside,

the tension is palpable. Timing is important. No one wants the first

delivery. Midmorning is OK, but just before lunch is ideal.

Display is also very important. The ideal placement is somewhere obvious,

but not brazen. The recipient graciously accepts the initial “oohs” and

“ahs,” then pretends the flowers aren’t there the rest of the day and

says things like, “Oh, you mean those? They are lovely, aren’t they?”

But the flower game carries as much risk for the givee as for the giver.

Let’s say the delivery guy shows up with a super jumbo. This thing is

huge. He has it strapped to a refrigerator dolly and is having all sorts

of trouble getting it through the door. You can hear a pin drop as

everyone waits to see where he’s going.

“Diane?,” he calls out, to no one in particular. Diane, of all people, is

the 22-year-old new hire in accounting. “Oohs” and “ahs” all around,

“those are beautiful,” “very sweet,” yadda yadda yadda.

Unfortunately for Diane, the CEO’s husband -- in a moment of dementia --

decides to send his wife a very rare orchid that he ordered weeks ago

from an outrageously overpriced florist.

That’s very special, but the problem is -- when the delivery guy shows

up, this thing is in a box about the size of a pager. All afternoon, it

sits there on the boss’ credenza like the first bud of spring.

Meanwhile, Diane is still giving tours of her botanical garden-in-a-vase.

Not good. By the end of the day, Diane is in personnel, turning in her

keys and trying to decide if she should Cobra her health insurance. She

dumps her boyfriend like a load of gravel, and there’s no need to mention

what happens to the CEO’s husband.

Both men thought they found the perfect gift, but obviously, neither of

them had a clue about DNA.

If you think flowers are risky, and you want to try the bungee jumping of

Valentine’s Day gifts, try lingerie. Again, judging from the ads, someone

is buying the racy stuff, but it’s nobody I know.

First of all, given the choice between buying lingerie and a prostate

exam, most men will be on the table and in the fetal position faster than

you can say “camisole.”

Talk about being out of your element. Giraffes on a frozen lake look more

at ease than men in the lingerie department. We just shouldn’t be there.

You know it, the saleswoman knows it, and God knows the women around you

know it.

The lingerie ads in the weekly Target or Sears inserts are especially

interesting. I want to personally shake the hand of the man who compounds

the mistake of buying lingerie by going somewhere with a checkout line to

do it.

The man behind you is buying a cordless drill, and the guy next to you

has four CDs and a Walkman. You, on the other hand, are trying to fold

your excellent choice of the satin peignoir and the matching bra set into

a smaller and smaller square, which works fine until the checkout girl

grabs it and unfurls it like the flag on Iwo Jima.

So give it some thought, my brothers. In fact, give it a lot of thought.

I haven’t found out exactly what led to the original Valentines’ early

demise, but I have a nagging feeling it had something to do with gifts.

Maybe that’s where “caveat emptor” really comes from.

I’ll try to have an answer by this time next year. Happy Valentine’s Day.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays. He

can be reached via e-mail at o7 [email protected] .