Casey's Advice to The Romantically Inept Male

The conversation in our home on Valentine's Eve went something like this:
Sam: "I really like her, but she doesn't like me 'in that way'."
Jake: "Well, mine knows I like her, but she's so pretty she makes me nervous."
Sam: "Yeah, I want to give her a valentine, but I don't know what to do."
Jake: "Yeah, me too."
Casey: "You need to suffer. Women want to know that the man has suffered."
Sam and Jake: "Huh?"
Casey: "The more suffering the better. Women like that. Men don't care--they're easy--but women want you to suffer."
MariLou: "What are you talking about?"
Casey: "It's true. You've gotten flowers before--what was your favorite time?"
MariLou: "The Mother's Day after we moved here. Levi took the kids out and they picked a huge bouquet along the sides of the road before I got home."
Casey: "See? They walked, they picked, they sweated...suffering."
MariLou: "Mmmm..."
Casey: "And if your finger gets pricked when you're picking those flowers, make sure you squeeze a little blood onto your hand-made card. Women love the idea that you went through physical pain and inconvenience. And if you have to crawl through the jungle and twist your ankle in a chuck hole that would be even better."
Sam: "So I should make a card? I don't know what to do."
Jake: "I gotta go out and pick flowers? It's dark--I can't see."
Casey: "Yeah, that's perfect. You struggle and stumble around in the dark--I'm telling you they love that."
MariLou: "I guess you're right--there's something so sweet about a guy standing in front of you with flowers he picked and a card he made."
Casey: "(the see-what-I-mean look)"
MariLou: "Of course, the other guys won't like you because all the girls will think you're so sweet and want them to do something like that."
Sam and Jake: Busily cutting, pasting, writing...

Well, they didn't get to bed until almost midnight and then had to be up at 5:15 A.M. for Seminary class. Mission Valentine was successful--they both got a "You are so sweet!" and a hug. Must've been the bloodshot eyes. . . .