As I write this, it's Valentine's Day and Facebook is filled with three main topics: 1. the snow, snow, snow; 2. I LOVE Valentine's Day; and 3. I HATE Valentine's Day.

Apparently, many detest Cupid's Day of Love.

But, let's face it; when you're left with a gaping hole in your heart from a misfired Cupid's arrow, the day can stink. And so can shopping for a lovey dovey card for your mate when you're mad at him or her. So Hallmark, listen up:

"Roses are red, violets are blue; I feel really miserable, when I'm home with you."

"Dear, it was love at first sight; I had nary a doubt; wish instead that I'd gouged my eyes out."

"You came in like a wrecking ball. Please swing back and stay there. Happy Valentine's Day; pass me a beer."

"I love the little things you say. I love the things you do. The only problem that we have: I don't think I love you."

"I searched and searched for the perfect card, one with perfect words. I finally agreed on this one, because it says you're for the birds."

Don't all of us, regardless of what our relationship status is, entertain a slight wish to get a card from a secret admirer?

I can picture it now:


You're nicely-dressed and preparing a gourmet Valentine's Day meal in your kitchen. Forget that, I'm making it real. You're sitting in front of the TV and you're wearing your old sweatpants and that beige T-shirt with the soup stain on the front. You're in sweats not because you've just worked out or because you have any inclination to do so today, but because you want to be comfy watching a rerun of "King of Queens". You know nobody's looking so you eat about 20 more chips. What the heck? It's Valentine's Day and things are still quiet so you wash down the chips with a couple York Peppermint Patties as you browse through the mail.

You spy a pretty pink envelope; there's no return address on it, but the handwriting looks familiar. You open it, smile at the card, and make a mental note to thank your Aunt Matilda for thinking of you and sticking the dollar bill inside.

You sift through the bills, and there's another card. No return address, but the handwriting looks just like the other one. Dear Sweet Matilda. Apparently, the meds aren't working for her yet.

Next you come across a bright red envelope. It also has no return address, but this time, the handwriting isn't familiar. In fact, the writing is a little smeary and your last name is misspelled.

Could it be that your mate has disguised his writing and is surprising you? How romantic!

You open it and find a beautiful card. The words looked etched in gold: "My darling, you mean everything to me. I think about you day and night and I can't wait to see you again."

Aw, my dear, sweet husband.

And then, scribbled under the text and next to some splotchy mark, you see, "Harry".

Huh? Who the heck is Harry?

You have no clue, but you figure you can use this golden opportunity to teach your husband not to take you for granted anymore. "Harry, whoever you are, you're doing me a favor, dude!"

Your eyes bug out and you grin mischievously as you rehearse the better of two options running through your mind. With a sly smile, you'll sing, "I got sommmmething in the maaaail today . . ." Or should you just calmly say, "Oh, by the way, I have a secret admirer!"? Either way, you can't wait.

When your man finally walks through the door and sees the well-placed card on the table, he says matter-of-factly, "Looks like somebody's thinking of you."

You bat your eyes. "I guess so!"

He opens it and grins. "Harry?"

"Yep!" you say, grinning ear-to-ear.

"Harry, the greasy-haired little kid who works in the deli?"

The blood drains from your face as you remember the adolescent winking at you when you and your hubby went for groceries last week.

"That's Harry?"

"Yep," replies your hubby, trying not to laugh.

"I recognized the mustard stain next to his name."

Who needs a secret admirer, anyway?

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