Happy Valentine's...oh, whatever.

Normally, I am not a bitter person.

Okay, that's probably a lie. Let me rephrase: Normally I am not bitter about Valentine's Day, specifically. I don't expect fancy gifts or flowers or chocolates (read: I do not expect Tiffany, roses, or Godiva liquer truffles [in that order]). I'm happy with dinner & a cocktail or two, either at home or away. Maybe a card, maybe not. No big deal.

I blame this on ("credit this to?") the fact that I didn't really date in high school, so I got used to the inevitable loneliness & disappointment at an early age. I didn't stumble (literally--Boone's Farm) onto my first boyfriend until senior year. Bill. Billy. After a brief stint on the pro arm wrestling circuit, and after fathering three kids by three different women, he is currently doing time at Florence on a federal weapons charge. Who knew arms posession for convicted felons was illegal (darn those meth convictions anyway)? Anyway, even that year was less than spectacular in the romance department.

Of course the cheerleaders or future farmers or some other group were always peddling their wares, exploiting our teen-angst, hormonal hearts in the name of a quick buck. Carnations and Slo-Pokes, mostly, for a dollar or two a pop. I can admit it now, but on Valentine's Day I was always filled with a sort of nervous anticipation, wondering if this would be the year I received something from an actual male admirer instead of just my girl friends ("Best Buds," "Luv ya!" and the like). And of course, each year, with the final bell came disappointment, that really annoying kind that feels like a rock in your throat & tastes like tears even though you're smiling. Every year I'd cut my losses, gather up my best-bud-blue carnations & head home. The end.

So today I think I'm just feeling a little of those killer post-partum hormones. I've already forgotten what Ron did that has me so annoyed. I only know that as I sit here pounding away at the keyboard, iPod blaring, he is in the next room working on his laptop, and in my chest I have that tight, pissed-off feeling. And when I finally do get up from my desk, I will probably sigh loudly and slam a few cupboard doors as I make the coffee. Who knows? But I suppose I'd best get over it, as we have a dinner reservation in just over four hours. Should probably turn off the Ani DiFranco then (that can't be helping, now, can it?). And might want to think about changing out of these pajamas. Maybe take a shower.

Bitter, party of one...oh, whatever.