It’s barely past Valentine’s Day and already we’re facing another celebration in America. But this one is even a legal holiday for much of the nation: Presidents’ Day. Originally celebrated on Washington’s birthday, February 22, now the date is on a confusing weekly schedule so as to help keep calendar printers in business.
When I go home, I’ll be fanning a fat wad of presidential chedda’ in front of my very own personal stripper — my wife.
Every year on the third Monday of February, we remember our first American president and the others since then — or at least we do briefly when we actually remember that it’s Presidents’ Day, which usually occurs right about the time we pull up to the bank. Immediately following the momentary elation of having apparently beaten the crowd to the drive-through but immediately prior to feeling like an idiot for realizing why the parking lot’s empty.
If I see you in the bank parking lot at that moment, I’ll stop and say “Happy Presidents’ Day” just so we can at least feel dumb together.
You’ll recognize me because I’ll be the guy with a ridiculously oversized smile on my face. That’s because I have an idea for another of my #irreverentholidays, and thankfully I went to the bank last week to prepare since the bank would be closed today (though that’ll make it even more embarrassing when I do go to the bank, since I actually saw it coming). The week before, I’d stopped by the bank to pick up some cash money, yo.
That smile will be on my face because when I go home, I’ll be fanning this fat wad of presidential chedda’ in front of my very own personal stripper — my wife.
Admittedly, there are no Benjamins in this low-roller’s wallet, but I’ll have plenty of good old-fashioned singles to slip under a strap here or there, and thankfully and Honest Abe will buy me an honest lap dance at my favorite seat.
Yes, it’s a fair bit ridiculous, and if my wife didn’t know my ironic heart, she might find it degrading rather than funny.
But this holiday, the Presidents will truly be celebrated in the Osgood home as they find their home tucked under a bit of lace.
There’s one rule, though. My wife’s earning this money, so she has to spend it on her. I’ll refrain from telling her “Go buy yourself something nice” as I pull out the extra special donation — no, not a $100 (Franklin wasn’t a president, silly), but a hard-earned Hamilton, baby.
‘Cause that’s how I roll, dawg.