Taking care of it myself, thank you very much.

I think I’m kind of over blogging.

Mostly because lately it seems that every time I think of something to blog about . . . I realize halfway through the post that my subject matter only serves to demonstrate how lame I am. Like today. But we’re forging ahead, just the same.

So I haven’t had a good Valentine’s Day since 1993. That’s not a lie. Or an exaggeration. Holly F. and Megan C., you do the math. That’s right, Nate (my then-boyfriend) was on his mission. He made all these arrangements all the way from South Africa that his family (mostly his mom) so thoughtfully carried out in his absence so I’d still have a good Heart Day. That was awesome.

Fast forward to this past weekend. My kids were leaving again (I’m telling you, our schedule blows, plain and simple) and I was looking forward to a long weekend on my own. In the same way one looks forward to having one’s fingernails ripped out with pliers.

I was supposed to go to a very nice dinner at the Melting Pot with my friend, however, we didn't get to go. Candidly, even if we’d gone, that's not what I'm looking for, if you know what I mean. Cue U2 track now.

So I got online and did the only logical thing to do. I ordered myself up a batch of tulips. To be delivered from my children. To me. At my house. In a cute vase.

When they were delivered, Rachel seemed to know all about them but couldn’t remember placing the order.

Girl. Good thing you’re cute. Play that up.

Now I smile every time I walk past my table. Which was the point, right? At least I’m not pretending they’re from my boyfriend in a foreign country. Like South Africa.


p.s. This is not a solicitation, I swear on the Bible. Please don’t send pity flowers or cards. That would make this all the more embarrassing.