Last night we �celebrated� our third anniversary. I put celebrated in quotes not to suggest it is a euphemism for having sex, rather to indicate that we, in fact, did not celebrate our anniversary.

We had all the elements of an anniversary celebration. We had dinner (pizza). He gave me a card (that he bought at the supermarket on his way home because no one in his office had an anniversary card at their desk.)* We listened to romantic music on the radio (if you consider the 20-minute diatribe by a sports talk show host on the subject of why women should not be sportscasters, romantic � and who doesn�t really?) I bought good champagne (which stayed in the refrigerator and which Geoff suggested he give to his boss who just got promoted). We went to bed early (Gus and I, not Geoff and I � Geoff watched the Red Sox and I had to get up at 4:00 AM for work the next morning so I needed the sleep.)

The part of the night that I�ll remember most fondly was seeing Geoff�s reaction when he opened my card and gift.**

I got Geoff three � one for each year � chocolate delights (a kind of fudge covered brownie confection) from a local bakery. I wrote him a card, which said, in pertinent part, �I hope our next three years are as �sweet� as our first three were.� You get it, right? �Sweet� and I gave him sweets? You don�t have to be Colombo to make that connection.

So my husband opens my sufficiently romantic gift and the conversation goes as follows:

G: What? You ate one of my chocolates on the way home?
M: No, those are three sweets for you.
No reaction.
M: Three Sweets
Crickets.

I then explained it to him in an exasperated tone and walked out of the room. He followed me and said, �Sorry, I�m dumb.�

He�s not dumb. He�s just painfully unromantic. I think maybe women are just more capable of appreciating romance.

Is it a successful anniversary celebration if, during the evening, I end up announcing to my husband, �Man, I should have been a lesbian?�

*Seriously. He asked around.

**And here I�m using �fondly� to mean �with a bitterness that may be soothed only by my husband agreeing to refinish our living room floor, by hand, himself.� Note that it is not the Oxford definition.