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it's valentime
02/14/2006 = 04:55 PM

I feel better.

Okay, I don't. But if I can lie to my husband, my doctor, my boss, and My Friend Who Isn't But Is Sort Of, I can lie to you.

No need to feel bad about not believing me. They don't either.

Anyway.

I still have the bubbles popping in my head. They're not as loud, so I would say that constitutes better. Or, pretend-better, which is almost as good.

Today is Valentine's Day, about which no one is up in arms, oddly, since St. Valentine is a saint and St. Nicholas was a saint and people sure got their no-you-may-not on as regards That Other Holiday, didn't they?

Jenn wrote about How She Met HB.

I would do that, but I think by now everyone knows about That Man of Mine, and how his then-employer's archaic computer system would need to be fully upgraded and online before the company could even think about preparing for Y2K, and how the company itself was comprised entirely of Computer Illiterates, such that any time a technician from my company had to speak to a representative of his company, we learned very quickly that That Man was our first, last, and only line of defense against the Stupid.

On my initial conversation with the man who would later become That Man, he mentioned in passing that he liked golf, and I told him a golf joke (that I had read in a Lewis Grizzard book), and he claims now to have fallen in love with me over the phone.

Had I but known.

This Golf Widow stuff is not always all it's cracked up to be, is what I'm saying.

I'm not against romance as such. Or, even, at all.

When I was nineteen, I was in my third month of dating a boy and thinking I was finally going to have a nice Valentine's Day, for the first time in my life, and sure enough, a letter arrived for me in the mail that day.

In which he broke up with me.

Yeah.

Anyway, I was just the other day saying to Nrem that I don't dislike stuffed animals and I love all the ones I already have, but I certainly don't need any more, which was the cue for That Man of Mine to lug home a frighteningly large, understuffed, glaringly blatantly cheerily red, droopy-faced dog home from the store last night, when I thought he was just going to pick up soda and milk.

Of course I adore it. It's so soft. And that was awfully cute of him.

The gift horse's mouth is closed, for all I know or care, because I'm not looking in it.

The boy who was too much of a coward to break up with me face to face had had the gall to say that his reasoning was that I, at nineteen, was too immature for him at twenty-two.

Perhaps I was.

Perhaps I still am, considering that I have been rendered fairly shmoopy by a stuffed animal I didn't really want or need.

At any rate, if I were truly immature, I would certainly hope and pray that that boy is currently alone, but I shan't bother.

Someone like him is pretty much bound to be alone.

If it's immature of me to be satisfied, believing that, then smack my arse and call me baby.

(Not saying you can't do that anyway, if you really feel you must. Heh.)

drinking: hot water, no caffeine, thank you
listening to: The Beatles, Because
hating on: villanova