"Happy Valentine's Day and all that MUSHY [crap]."

What the Oscar-the-Grouch Valentine set my boss brought in today said. More or less.

Just a quick note obliquely related to Valentine's Day:

If you know me, and you think you might ever, at some misty point in the future, have cause to get me flowers, let me assure you: you don't.

I can't think of a more pointless gift than flowers, unless it's a...no, I really can't think of anything.

Don't get me wrong; I love flowers. I think they're gorgeous and frequently I wear a ring with my favorite flower, the calla lily, on it. However, if you're going to spend money on me, which I thoroughly encourage, make it something that I'll actually like. Namely, cash. (My mother got on this bandwagon this year—she sent me $10 and a baffling cartoon of two toasterheads from the New Yorker. I bought a shirt. And just to prove I'm not a total V-Day hater, I'll tell you that it was pink, and I wore it today.)

Or, you know, a nice gift certificate. Or a book if you must. Something along those lines. Not something that's going to die in a week, leaving me with a mess of dry petals and a cheap vase. If you insist on being pedestrian, I like chocolates, but no nuts.