Hi all, La, here, from The New Fanny. I’m filling in for the lovely Barbie whilst she is off sunning herself in much warmer temperatures than I am currently enjoying. (Which, according to weather.com, ”feels like negative eighteen”. Which is awesome.) I was flattered and thrilled when Barbie asked me to fill in for her, because Barbie is my girl. She always has my back, and in the midst of a particularly craptastic time in her own life, she took the time out to pause between her own tears and say to me, “But how are you?” I know you all know how fantastic she is, or you wouldn’t keep coming back, day after day, just like I do. Barbie is the writer of tremendous blog posts, of heartfelt, compassionate emails; she is the wee early morning phone caller, super text messager, and has the sweetest little voice in the world. She supports her friends ferociously, and I’m so thankful to have her in my life.

Though now I’m sort of panicking at the thought of thinking of something riveting for all of you girls. Because I’m super, super sick. But I decided that during this romantical week, I will dedicate my post to that dichotomous holiday, Valentine’s Day. While this year, I have a super valentine, and can’t wait to spend the entire long weekend with him, I thought I’d share some of my more disastrous Valentine moments. Two, in particular, come to mind.

When I was in high school, I started dating this guy, Steve. I believe it was tenth grade. I didn’t know much about him, only that he had an awesome skater haircut and a super hot older brother, and he was in polyphonic choir with me. Which is a little gay, I realize, but as it turns out, I enjoy the gay. However, I didn’t enjoy Steve much. Our entire relationship consisted of us holding hands in front of our locker before school and talking on the phone a few times at night. But I figured since it was Valentine’s Day week, I would hang in there, hopefully get a nice present from him, and then, we could break up. But he beat me to the punch. The day before Valentines Day. I handled it extremely well; I proceeded to spread vicious rumors about him, do donuts on his front lawn with my friend Karen, wear black every day for weeks, and maybe sent him an anonymous mix tape for his birthday that started off with The Smiths’ “Unhappy Birthday”, which, if you’re not familiar, includes the lyrical gem “I’ve come to wish you an unhappy birthday, because you’re evil, and you lie, and if you should die? I may feel slightly sad, but I won’t cry.” Maturity. I has it.

Cut to fifteen or so years later, when I was spending what would be one of the last Valentine’s days with my ex. My ex was not the most romantically minded, and whenever a gift-giving holiday was upon us, he would ask me what I wanted and what I wanted to do. The one thing he did do on his own, something I came to sort of rely on? He always sent flowers to my office. It was always just arbitrarily two dozen roses. It didn’t mean anything. But this particular year, it was only one dozen. And I developed a case of the Crazy, and was in near hysterics for most of the day, trying to figure out why the roses had gotten cut in half, and why it was taking so long to get an engagement ring from him. I spent the entire night crying, with him constantly asking me what was wrong, and my only answer was a curt “Nothing”, and then an explosion of tears. And all I remember about that Valentine’s Day is lying in bed, crying, watching The Gilmore Girls. Also, I seriously miss The Gilmore Girls. Hardcore.

Here’s hoping that your Valentine’s Day is filled with hearts and flowers, and that Barbie is having a kick-ass time and comes home to regale us with jealousy-inducing tales! Love you, B! Come home soon!