Unhappy Valentine's Day

There are days when I love my life in Denver. I love my job, my house, my ….. friends … Other times I wonder what particular episode of the 'Twilight Zone' I am currently in. How did your day go?

I now know a secret that could reshape American history. I know that there is physical proof of a previously unknown aspect of President Lincoln's life, and it is in a cigar box with Norman! Sweet, clueless Norman could, if he wanted, rewrite history. Seems legit.

I also know that Rita is officially 'Miss Special Delivery'. Apparently the previous winner is now appearing on Broadway as the 'really miserable one' in Les Miserables. I hate to break it to you Norman, but everyone in Les Mis is miserable! The clue is kind of in the title. The first runner up is touring with her group 'Postal Mama' (USPS workers are really something else. What sort of a name is that? Wait … I work for USPS. Does that mean that I am becoming a philatelic weirdo too?) Moving on, the second runner up is pregnant (so not a miss then?) and the third runner up is in jail for selling counterfeit Elvis stamps (yup more USPS oddity right there) which means that Rita is it! Norman is happy, but devastated. Rita is missing their first Valentine's Day as a couple.

Another fact that has come my way today is that there is a monastic order in Minnesota called the 'Little Brothers of Perpetual Frost' or something like that. Meditation and contemplative ice-fishing are their thing. I mean, okay?

Serge is still weird. That is all.

I know that if one more person says I talk like Oliver I may have to throw a shoe at them. I clearly don't. You tell one person not to end a sentence with a preposition, and suddenly you are a pedant. Oh no! It might be true! Pedant? Where the Sam Hill did that come from? No! Make it stop!

I am absolutely certain that there is no such thing as a 'fancy' taco truck. What was Norman thinking? A mariachi band does not fine dining make! I mean, it is better than what I have going on, but still …

I minored in philosophy, and so had a vague recollection of Greek theories on love, but I admit I was a little rusty. After some research, I know more about ancient Greek philosophy, or more particularly ancient Greek philosophy concerning love than anyone who is not an ancient Greek needs to. (Should I reword that Oliver? I mean, I wouldn't want to end that with a preposition.) Eros, ludus, philautia, mania, pragma, storge, philia and agape, I have studied you all. At the moment, however, I am of the opinion that all love is hooey!

Yoo-Hoo is not as vile as I thought it was going to be, but I am not planning to make it a habit.

Oliver and Norman need man time? Really? Axe-throwing convention in town boys?

I have been arguing with Oliver O'Toole for more than eighteen months, and yet he is surprised I was a debater? I, however, am surprised he was not. I would have thought it was one nerdy thing we could have had in common.

Oliver O'Toole has done precisely two unscripted things in his life. He married a narcissistic, mediocre poet because he thought an accident was fate, and he varied his mail route because he was crushing on a police officer, which caused a mailbox to be exploded by a clown car (not a metaphor – an actual clown car). I can almost see why he is so buttoned up.

Which leads me to questions. Who even says 'putter' anymore? Why is my computer freezing excellent? How dismal would a Main Facility Desperate and Dateless Valentine party be? How could Oliver manage to order coffee fifteen years ago, and yet could not navigate a coffee cart last year? How many clown-related accidents are there in any given year?

Diary, I know that I have been a bit frivolous today, but really, it is all that is keeping me together. Now for the truth. We are dealing with a person who was admitting to killing someone in a letter, and that letter never arrived. Sometimes, the things we see in the DLO are life changing. I know that Oliver says we should trust the timing, but this seems like a very heavy thing. He wants to 'restore what was lost', which is noble and good, but what are we restoring here?

Finally, diary, you know that I have a fraught relationship with Valentine's Day. As far as I am concerned, February 14 is the chronological embodiment of me not being quite enough. Shane Shannon McInerney, the girl that is good enough to date through college, but not good enough for meeting the parents or declaring that you can't live without her. The girl you invite to a romantic dinner and then dump before dessert, leaving her to not only cry alone in the ladies' room, but also get the check! The woman who you expect to drop everything when you are in town, but is not enough for you to think of staying. And now? The woman that you pull closer with sandwiches at national monuments, a thousand looks and a porch swing, but push away with silence.

Even Mum didn't send me a card this year!