Ah, Valentine's Day. It's all about love... real, genuine love. Love that lasts until the end of time. Love, deeper than the ocean and higher than the heavens. Love that binds two souls together and lifts them up on the wings of a snow white dove.....

Screw that. We all know it's about the chocolate. That's real love that stands the test of time. In my 47 years, the men have changed, but the chocolate remains the same.

I can't eat any chocolate this year and it's pissing me off. So if the following thoughts make you want to tell me what a miserable cynic I am, please keep my chocolate deprivation in mind. I had to go to the drugstore twice today, and walk past aisles of screaming red hearts that are off-limits to me.

I swear, I could smell all that sugar and cocoa and sweet, delicious carb-laden death right through the beribboned and laced boxes. For a the briefest of moments, I wanted to cry. Because I love those heart-shaped boxes full of little bite-sized surprises. A box of chocolates combines the pursuit of rich, creamy bliss with the fun of a slot machine. Selecting each piece is a serious business; you hold your breath as you bite into the chocolate shell. Will it be the wonderful coconut filling? Or that disgusting orange cream? Mmmm... caramel!

Even if you do get that orange cream, you know that you can spit it out and try again. And again.

Generally, I'm not such a sourpuss about VD. But like most of us, how I feel about Valentine's depends entirely upon whether I'm in a relationship or not, and the state of that relationship. If your relationship sucks, then a truckload of roses isn't going to change that. (Unless, of course, you find that he paid for them with your credit card; in that case, it will probably change his home address.)

I'm in a very good place this year. Except for the chocolate thing, of course. But standing in the card aisle, it occurs to me that Valentine’s day cards should be categorized differently.

They have sections for mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives, platonic friends and even 4-year grandchildren who can’t even read yet. But they need to break down the whole spouse/lover categories down to more efficient divisions.

Like how long you’ve been together.

On your first valentine’s day together you spent an hour considering all the romantic cards. The ones that say things like: “I’ve been looking for you all my life, you are my world, my soulmate, I’d drink your bathwater and lick the ground you walk on.” And you want the biggest, most elaborate card you can find, in the shape of a giant heart, trimmed in real lace and satin ribbon. Or the mutant cards that are 2’ x 3’ and not only take extra postage, but the postage costs as much as the card itself.

The first Valentine's Day is also the one where the man not only buys an embarrassingly mushy card that says things that would never in a million years come out of his mouth, but a dozen red roses, a box of Godiva chocolates and/or a stuffed gorilla who dances to “Wild Thing.” He takes you to an expensive, special restaurant and orders wine. That night you put on the sexy lingerie you paid too much money for and you have acrobatic sex all night long.

By the second or third valentine’s day, you’re both looking cards that say things like: “You’re still the light of my life.” And neither of you bother to write a poem on it. You just sign it, “Love, Cindy.” In bed that night, you surprise each other with oral sex.

By the fourth Valentine’s – if you’re still together – you’re sending the funny cards with cats wearing clothes and a caption that says “You are the cat’s meow, baby!” You give him a blow job, but you’re doing it with all the enthusiasm of ironing. He makes a gesture at going down on you, but moves on to the missionary position before you reach an orgasm.

A dozen red roses have changed to a nice potted plant; the chocolates are now Russell Stover or Whitman’s; and if he grabs a stuffed animal, it’s small enough to get tossed into the back of the closet without attracting much attention. And yet you’re beginning to look at the cross-eyed teddy bear and thinking you’d rather have had the money he spent on it.

If you make it to the sixth or seventh valentine’s day, you’re sending a card that says something equivalent to “Thanks for still letting me live here.” You might have sex for the first time in months that evening.

By the ninth or tenth Valentine’s Day, you find a card in his sock drawer meant for his girlfriend, not for you. He sleeps on the couch, or at the Holiday Inn. The next day you go out and buy 1 lb box of chocolate that’s been marked down to half price, and eat every damn piece in the box except for the ones with the weird orange jelly centers and try to decide whether or not to just to have done with him and love and all the crap that goes with it.

(Kisses change too, of course, In the first year, you’re sucking face with wet sloppy kisses and tongues that writhe like eels in a barrel.

By the fifth year, you’re not opening your mouth anymore. And by the ninth year -- when you find the card for his girlfriend in his sock drawer -- the only thing you want him to kiss is your ass. )

Understand, those are just some generalizations I've learned from past relationships. My guy and I are in the eighth year, and while there have been some ups and downs, we've gotten to a place that is comfortable but not totally bereft of passion. The card I've picked out for him is actually a rather romantic one, but not too over the top. Maybe it's because we went through the kiss-my-ass phase and now have started over. And he's never given me a potted plant, bless his heart.

But I do have a bone to pick with Doo. He's never bought me a card, not even for Mother's Day. I know, you're saying: where would Doo get the four bucks? He hasn't got any pockets for change, nor does he have a check card. I don't think he can drive, but then again, how do i know what he gets up to while I'm asleep? There is a suspicious amount of cat hair in the drivers seat.