how are you planning to skatell her THIS valentine's day?

everybody needs a little time away.

i heard her say.

from each ooooooooooooooooooooooother.

even lovers need a holiday.

far away.

from each oooooooooooooooooooooother.

HOLD ME NOW.

IT'S HARD FOR ME TO SAY I'M SORRY.


this does NOT mean i haven't fallen in love with poetry again, dropped ten pounds, and begun daily meditations. because i have. and i have bob hicock, c.k. williams, and my trainer merry (like the christmas) to thank.

but hannah seems to think my sebbatical has put a strain on our relationship. which is bullshit. not that i don't take each and everyone of her emotions/personalities seriously. because i do. i do.

and, well, the whole guest blog thing. don't get me wrong, stevie. you're brilliant, which is precisely the problem. this open relationship has made me a bit irritable and oddly posessive.

whatever. i'm not back, exactly. i'm guest blogging on my blog as a means of spicing up our platonic you-can-go-to-hell marriage.

now: valentine's day

i'm jessie spanno excited about v-day, people. lame, you say? lame? don't care. every year in high school, we'd buy carnations for our friends. seriously. it was a certifiable school fundraiser. in homeroom, you'd fill out this card and attach money. a dollar a piece. for your boyfriend, girlfriend, the hot librarian, whatever. then, at lunch on v-day, they'd be delivered to you. i was undefeatable. i made it my goal to get the most carnations every year. to conquer the hearts of friends, enemies, boys who had perhaps met me once at a party two spring breaks before.

it had little to do with love, of course. it hardly ever does. boys who suck always score big on valentine's day, because it's just SO EASY not to f up. flowers. dinner. dunnzo. it's always the nice guys who mess up. they think it doesn't matter because they love you so much all the time. they made you a mix cd on january 12th, went out to dinner with you and your friend liz even though every guy you've ever dated hates liz. they allow you to talk about your exes, your dreams of becoming a wedding planner, parataxis, your theory on octavio paz's preoccupation with the time of day...whatever. these lovelies are the ones who mess up valentine's day, which is a shame. it's a shame because they think it doesn't matter.

that being said, i am a waitress. i am a waitress and a teacher who instructs people to steer away from sentimentality (irresponsible emotion, dishonest emotion), to think about what the sign is signifying.

i still don't care. give me yellow roses, a whitman's sampler i'll never eat, a harry connick jr. cd. and do it all in front of tons of people--ex-boyfriends, coworkers.

there's something hot about the disgusting display of capitalism and false affection that I LOVE.

today, hannah passed a cookie cake in the mall that had shackles drawn on it in icing. underneath, it read, PRISONER OF LOVE.

that's the kind of shit i'm talking about.

now, back to waitressing. let me be frank with you. these weeks without you have been interesting. the boyfriend stopped being the boyfriend. my favorite uncle passed away. hannah went to new yawk without me. i haven't spent time with the niece and nephew. and, finally, phoebe damrosch published a memoir entitled service included, a tale about a woman writer who waits tables at thomas keller's per se. technically, it was unveiled in september. the sommelier who teaches my wine class recommended it, though, only two weeks ago.

let's just say my world is shattered. i was in the middle (okay, beginning) stages of writing--gasp-- the very same book. along with about a third of american graduate students who wait tables.

and i can understand why. i love what i do. and in no other capacity do we will ourselves to be around strangers (strangers in an intimate setting, i might add) on purpose. what i do, in a strange way, matters. now, no doubt the teaching "matters" more.

but, people in a restaurant? they're there because they just put their dog onassis to sleep and need no less than 6 glasses of wine a piece. their last child just went off to college. they're discussing the terms of their pending divorce.

hell, people, i can make or break that 21st birthday swaree, that first date with the scruffy guy who renovates kitchens for a living.

and none of this matters more than on valentine's day. i love people who love each other. i love 60 year-old men who can't shut up about their wives. or my friends chadd and chad who've been partners for a decade. or the couple in their thirties who have two babies under three who haven't made eye contact in a year.

it might come as a shock to you that hannah doesn't share my love for valentine's day. in fact, she's getting ready to rebuttle EVEN THOUGH I HAVEN'T POSTED THIS YET. something about how i'm like the boyfriend who breaks up with you and returns, saying, maybe we could just slow this down a little...

and now, an insight into our relationship. earlier, on the phone:

han: should i get kanasta a corduroy skirt, what with the pending warm weather?

me: have you heard the mark ronson remix to "when you go your way and i go mine?"

han: shit. i almost got her tap shoes by accident.

me: i'm hungry.

han: yeah. you don't really eat. which reminds me, sim wants me to go to some ballet class with her today. oh, wait. i like this skirt. it has ladybugs on it.

me: like my tattoo.

han: what tattoo?

me: the one on my back. beside the one of a house frame.

han: i thought this summer i saw you in the early morning wearing only bermuda shorts. never noticed it.