Valentine's Day is once again casting a rosy glow over shopping malls nationwide. Our thoughts turn to our loved ones as we desperately try to live up to the standards set by the founding fathers at Hallmark Cards so many years ago. For some reason that nobody really understands, if we deliver the goods on this one day, our love contract is renewed for another year.

For me, this Declaration of Interdependence Day has always caused anxiety, stemming from my turbulent adolescence. After furtively crafting love notes for my numerous secret crushes, I then had to deliver them without getting caught. Worse than that was the fear that I wouldn't get any in return, except maybe from that nerd on the debating team. (Who knew he'd turn out to be Bill Gates?)This sort of intrigue no longer occurs in the politically correct '90s, with kids instructed to bring cards for everyone in their class, boys and girls alike, or else. I think this is intrusive and decidedly unromantic. My son agrees. "How can I say `I love you' to someone I hate?" he laments, and justifiably so.

"Well, don't say I love you, just make sure the card says Happy Val-en-tine's Day," I suggest. Following my advice, we end up with cards like, "I hope you get hit by a bus on this Happy Valentine's Day," or "Happy Valentine's Day, poopy-head."

If we could afford it, Zack could easily find store-bought cards for those kids he doesn't like. Odd as it seems, there are greeting cards tailored for just about anyone, and romance is not a requirement.

I've already bought a few for some of the people who enhance my life, such as the girl at the drive-in bank window who lets me deposit rolls of pennies even though there's a sign specifically prohibiting it, and the checkout lady at the supermarket who thoughtfully places the strawberries on top of the gallon of milk (as opposed to the creep with the chip on his shoulder - like it's my fault he's 45 and still bagging groceries - who does the op-po-site).

A couple of total strangers merit gifts. I was out shopping for those the other day and was struck anew by how little I actually know about my dry cleaner and my UPS man. It isn't easy to shop for people when you don't even know their names, but I think it will pay off in the long run.

More challenging are all those people I actually love, like my friends and family, none of whom, of course, get me anything. However, this year I am expecting a gift from a certain someone, who by the way is not President Clinton.

(I'd like to take this opportunity to state emphatically that although I lived in Washington, D.C., for many years, I neither expect a gift from the president nor did I buy him one, and at this time I do not have an improper relationship with him or, unfortunately, anyone else. I also have never been alone in a hotel room with either the president or Vernon Jordan, and in fact until quite recently I thought Vernon Jordan played basketball. Finally, I do have several friends in this administration, and I brazenly admit to having been alone in rooms with some of them on one or more oc-ca-sions.)

No, that certain someone I'm expecting a gift from is my husband. I just hope he remembers he's already got one for me. I know he does because I found it in his secret hiding place while I was casually going over his office with a fine-tooth comb.

In a bold break with tradition, Mitch decided to get me something for Valentine's Day, but he bought it months ago and stuffed it in a closet. I'm a little worried that the day could come and go without him remembering it, causing a late-night panic purchase of Whitman's Samplers and one of those roses wrapped in cellophane from the 7-Eleven. (I'm hoping this column pinned to his pillow jogs his memory.)

View Comments

According to my friend the psychologist, Feb. 14 is right up there with April 15 in the stress department. I have women friends for whom Valentine's Day is a very big deal and not all of them are in retail. For some, it's off to the marriage counselor the morning after, feeling unloved because Cupid shot a poisoned dart and hubby forgot the card, the candy or the flowers. Personally, I don't want any of those things. To demonstrate his love for me, I'd simply like my husband to do the following:

1. Make ice. (I'm talking all six trays.)

2. Let me hold the remote for once and click slower, you're making me nauseous. (I'm sure that's what caused 600 people to fall ill recently during a national TV broadcast in Japan - the husbands were clicking way too fast.)

3. Give me that thing hidden in your closet, or else.

Looking for comments?
Find comments in their new home! Click the buttons at the top or within the article to view them — or use the button below for quick access.