February 14, 2003
Happy Valentine's Day

And, so is the scent of roses and fresh flowers, fancy-smancy perfume, Krispy Kreme donuts, and heart-shaped sugar cookies with red crystal sprinkles on top. There was also the sound of music earlier when my cube-mate received a singing Valentine from her sister. Three late-middle-aged people dressed in bizarre red and pink outfits came and each sang a funny little song to her in our front lobby. Naturally, the rest of us had to run up and poke our heads out the door to see and hear the festivities for ourselves. It was pretty funny.

So, yeah, several of the married women in the office have received bouquets of roses or flowers. Naturally. They should. They're married, after all. They should get something for the crap they put up with all year!

Being single, I have no flowers sitting on my desk. Not a one. Even my African Violet and orchid refuse to bloom. Bastards. Am I jealous of the giddy, giggly, happily married, bouquet-and-stuffed-animal-receiving co-workers?

Actually, no. I'm not. I could really care less. Honest.

The past few years February has been a very depressing time for me. February 10th 1989 (Or was it 1990? Can you believe I actually can't remember any more?) is when David and I first met. The night we sat in The Garden Lounge in Moscow, Idaho and talked, and talked, and talked until they kicked us out way past closing time, so he walked me to my car, and we talked for a while more. That Valentine's Day, just a few days and several long phone conversations later, he sent three long-stemmed red roses to me at work with a card that read Interested and Intrigued. It was wonderful, and magical, and I remember feeling tingly all over because I finally had a boyfriend!

Of course, we all know how that ended: badly, with tears, several years later.

February is also a depressing month for me because I was supposed to give birth to my first child sometime in February 1995, but we all know how that ended, too. Again, badly, and this time with much pain, cramping, and hemorrhaging to go along with the tears.

I dated my second boyfriend, Kenny, for only nine months. We didn't make it to Valentine's Day, so that one was pretty depressing, too, but I got over that much quicker than I got over David.

This year, however, my new love Zoloft is keeping me all warm and cozy, and I'm not giving a shit about all the sentimental, romantic crap going on around the world today. Screw it! My friend Jewel e-mailed me this morning and asked me to be her Valentine (as she is in the very same boat I am as far as being single with no prospects) and I accepted, so screw all you little bitches with your cute little stuffed teddy bears with a big red heart that says, "I Love You!" on it, and your bouquets of wildflowers, or Goddammit, those damned two dozen long-stemmed red fucking roses on your fucking desk. I have a Valentine today, too. So, just fuck you all!

Okay. Maybe I'm not as cool, calm, and collected as I thought I was. Whatever.