As you all know, it's that time of year again: the week before Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day is a treasured part of religious history. It's named for St. Valentine, patron saint of Mockers of the Terminally Single, and has been a holiday for hundreds of years. Or six. I'm not sure which.

If you're attached, do something nice for your significant other next Saturday. Buy her flowers. Bake him cookies. Take her out to a restaurant you really can't afford. Go to a hockey game with him. Give her a gift certificate for free liposuction. Kick him where it hurts. Maybe the last two aren't such good ideas. I don't know; try them and tell me if they work.

If you're a single female (or an unsigned catcher--you know what I mean) this V-Day, make sure everybody knows it. Constantly bemoan your loveless status in front of your friends. Act desperately slutty and pickup-able if a fellow so much as enters your peripheral vision. Rent romantic comedies and throw things at the TV whenever Meg Ryan kisses somebody. Read Cathy. Remind yourself that one day, you, too, will be 40. Practice for your old age by borrowing your friends' cats (you'll need at least ten) and shrieking at the neighbor kids.

Incidentally, Cathy, that traitorous bitch, will be getting proposed to on February 14. That's right, Irving's gonna pop the question. This paragraph is going to have to be a short one. It's just so hard to care.

If you're a guy and still dateless by the 14th, I dunno, buy some Playboys or something. Watch sports. Do whatever it is you do. Unless, of course, you're 16-17 years old, not a leper, and a resident of east central South Dakota. If that's the case, call me.

Happy week-before-Valentine's Day, everybody.