Bah, humbug valentine

Happy Freakin Valentine. I'm in a pissy mood. I know I have no right to be. I have a devoted husband who brought me roses and tulips and took me out to dinner last night. But my mood went bad last night when I heard a Congressman really grilling Roger Clements and his personal trainer. I wanted to scream. Who cares about baseball and steroid use? Why don't you go after the President and Vice President who have lied and tortured and sent our soldiers to fight an unnecessary war? Why don't you go after the oil company presidents, who were allowed to testify in Congress without being under oath? But they put the baseball players under oath. Hmmmm. Who is going to affect my life more?
So, I was pissed. Don't we elect these reps to make our lives better. Baseball and steroids. Who cares?
FOCUS.
So at 7:30 a.m. this morning, still feeling a little disgruntled, I stood in the CVS with my two sons as they looked at boxes of heart-shaped candy, trying to decide which to get for their "girlfriends." Middle-school girlfriends are questionable. They seem to change quickly.
My 11-year-old grabbed a box wrapped in clear red paper and was ready to go. My 14-year-old hemmed and hawed. He was surly. I suggested this then this then this. "No," he replied each time. A woman standing in the row, exchanged a look and a smile with me.
That set him off.
"You just want me to get her candy so you look good to the other moms."
He accused.
"That's it," my brain said. Actually, it said, "What the f***?"
I know my mouth was open and I stared at him.
"Forget it," I said, starting to walk away.
He grabbed a box of candy and joined me at the register as I forked over money for my boys to woo their girlfriends.
My older son hid his candy in his backpack, saying he would give it to her only if she gave him something. My younger son hopped out of the car in front of the school, clutching the red box in his hand and his brother yelled.
"Hide it. Put it away."
He didn't care. He'll probably have a different "girlfriend" in a few days anyway.
As we drove around the corner, just me and my surly son, I remembered that my anger at his behavior rarely has an effect.
"You really hurt my feelings," I told him.
And he apologized as he slipped out of the car, looking around like a spy before he put on the backpack that held the offending red and gold box of Valentine candy that would go to a girl who loved talking to him before they were "dating." Now she barely speaks to him, because that is the code of middle school girls. Once you have them on the hook, you must keep all hopes and dreams secret.