"That makes me kinda proud," my dad said wistfully.
"No, I got it," said my dad, who grabbed the pie right out of his hand.
To me, you haven't really celebrated Valentine's until you've spent it with a bunch of emotionally challenged crazy people. Now, a few days later, there are flowers and cards scattered almost everywhere. Our entire house looks like Bette Midler's dressing room.
"THEY'RE NAKED, SEE?!!" my brother screams when he shows me my Valentine's card, the one he made in Sunday school.
"Yeah, no kidding," I say. If this keeps up, we might be the first family ever excommunicated from the Presbyterian church.
Then my sister, who's a wise guy too, writes this thank-you poem to the poor little dude who treated her to dinner on Valentine's night.
Here's part of it:
"I hope it's not too mushy,
but I really liked that sushi . . . "
"That's tremendous," my dad tells her.
"It is?" asks my sister.
"Straight from the stomach," says my dad.
"Awwww," says my sister, and tiptoes over to give him a great big hug.
As usual, my mom and dad didn't do a whole lot for Valentine's themselves, "except continue one of the greatest love affairs of the late 20th century," my dad explains.
"What about this century?" I ask.
"This century, we're pretty much day-to-day," my dad says.
Now that's what I call commitment.
chris.erskine@latimes.com.
