4:17 pm | 10 February 2003 | "You can go your own waaaaay!"

Once again, it is probably time for a rant against Valentine's Day, but I am old, and tired, and find it pointless, and anyway, I don’t feel 'deprived' of anything being dateless, as I am perfectly capable of performing all date-type activities and functions en seul. For example:

1. I can bring myself flowers. In fact, I will know that I really only like large, violent, dramatic, and freaky flowers, like birds-of-paradise or those clublike Hawaiian numbers, and will thus spare myself the flimsy little daisies interspersed with the crappiness of baby’s breath, which always seemed kind of sinisterly named and which also, as far as I can tell, is nature’s packing peanuts.

2. I will greet myself at the door with a martini. Actually, I won’t, because all I usually want from the martinis are the olives. No, I will greet myself at the door with a glass of whiskey and a Hershey bar. And they will be good.

3. "My, you look absolutely scrumptious," I will tell myself, and not the usual either "Dood. Yer tits look hot in that top" or "What the hell are you wearing?" I will compliment me on my legwarmers, and I will understand and appreciate them for their right, true reason: because they make me feel like I have hooves, or legs like a pony—coltish. I want to prance in my legwarmers, and prance I shall, because I would never be embarrassed of my own prancing.

4. I can take myself to dinner. Here, also, I will not have to endure Bucky McHoofbrander’s Fresh-Roped Ass-Meats, "where We Kill It, Distill It, 'n' Grill It!" or whatever nasty Midwestern steakhouse I am so frequently subjected to (Hey! Salad does NOT have STEAK and CHEESE on it! Jesus Christ!). No, instead I will go have a large bowl of extremely spicy and saucy pan-Asian noodlejoy, which I will perhaps accompany with a Tsingtao (or an Asahi if I am feeling sassy, or perhaps one of each, because I can). I will not apologize for eating all of the noodles. I may ask for an extra fortune cookie, because I am extra fortunate.

5. I can head home, where I will slip into something a little more comfortable—but no less hot. I am prone to wearing slips around the house, not out of some Butterfield-8-cum-Cat-on-a-Hot-Tin-Roof notion of femininity (although I am totally obsessed with Elizabeth Taylor), but because they are enormously comfortable, and while I will admit to rocking the odd pair of seals-marooned-on-icebergs-print pajamas*, you will not catch me in sweatpants EVER, unless I am dead. And if you see me, dead, in sweatpants, please take them off me, because I would sooner be caught in a car wreck with dirty underwear than in a pair of sweatpants.

6. I can put on whatever I want to watch. It will probably be either Twin Peaks, or Wings of Desire, or something totally silly and indulgent, like Sex and the City, and I will not feel bad for watching it, or for throwing whatever snack item I am eating (most likely either whole almonds or edamame) at the screen whenever Sarah Jessica Parker does something particularly stupid, or sighing when Special Agent Dale Cooper does something especially swoon-worthy, or scooching my chair all close to the screen when the Nick Cave bits come on.

7. I can enjoy most or all of a bottle of Champagne. I will not be chagrined that think Freixenet is actually pretty good, as long as it’s Brut—I’m not much of a oenophile, and I won’t have to pretend, or be all like, "Pfft, the Shirazes from August are soooo acidic." Hell no.

8. I can retire. Everything will be cool. I will not feel weirdly pressured. I will not be kicked, deafened, or elbowed violently during the night. I will have most of the covers, and Guinness can still sleep on the bed. And in the morning, I can get up and bang around without having to worry about waking anyone. I can make just two cups of coffee (I will still be alone; I drink a lot of coffee) and then perhaps I will skip the bagel and just have a spoonful of marmalade out of the jar. Because I can. Because being alone totally rules, dudes! clm.

Actually, we are having a party on Valentine's Day, so I won’t get to do any of the aforementioned stuff. Which is why I already did it this weekend! Ha!

* An annual Christmas gift from my father, who exhibits classic denial of his daughter’s having matured, etc. A few years back I actually got a flannel nightgown—floor-length—neck-high—long-sleeved—with lavender flowers sprinkled over it, and lace at the edges—! I looked like an escapee from American Girl Zombie Circus en route to a Peoria production of Little House on the Prairie, only more cracked out. Come on, Gary, get with the program.