Today is Valentine”s Day.  We’re surrounded by love songs, conversation hearts and privy to mobile uploads of romantic dinners and sappy words of love on Facebook and Twitter.

But let’s be honest. Before you found the love of your life, you had to endure a lot of frogs. Although a day doesn’t go by where my husband and I don’t say the words “I love you’ to each other, it’s always good to put things in perspective.

Back in my single days I met a self-professed matchmaker. She was the neighbor of a friend and, after repeated offers of introducing me to my perfect match, I gave in. She did not charge for her services. The only requirement was that she would be invited to the wedding.

The man she extolled sounded promising. He was a lawyer who frequently appeared on talk shows like Phil Donahue (The “Oprah” of his day)  to share his expert opinion on the trial du jour.

Ms. Matchmaker described him as tall, good-looking, fit, funny, successful, charismatic and owner of his apartment in Manhattan.

When Ted called we had that lightly disguised blind date pre-interview to determine if we would detest each other. Since the conversation went well we made plans for dinner. Much to my delight, he suggested one of my favorite restaurants in New York – a little New Orleans-style cafe in Chelsea.

Ted asked if I would mind meeting him at the restaurant since it was in his neighborhood. I did mind, because I believed that a mensch looking for a shidduch  should call for a woman at her door for the first date.  However, this was New York in the ’80′s so I said, “Of course I don’t mind. ”

The night of The Date, he called again to ask if I would meet him at his apartment instead. I bristled at that idea. I didn’t know him or Ms. Matchmaker who vouched for his upstanding reputation. These were the days before the Internet and “googling” him was not an option. Reluctantly, I agreed. I would meet him at his apartment, but I would not go inside. For all I knew, he was a crazed murderer / serial rapist. I was feeling less and less optimistic about The Date.

When I arrived at his door, he asked me to step inside while he got his coat. I did so, with my back against the open door so I could run into the corridor when he pulled out the huge butcher knife that he, no doubt, had hidden in his hall closet.

What came out was not a knife, but about 100 empty soda bottles, tumbling in every direction. He kicked a few out of the way and, as we walked the 20 blocks to the restaurant (not what I would call in his “neighborhood”)  he explained that each bottle was worth a nickle. It wasn’t as if he was concerned about recycling or the environment, he just wanted his nickle back. “It’s not their nickle, “ he said defensively, “It was a deposit. It’s my money. They owe it to me. It’s mine.” Uh oh.

I had dressed to impress, not for comfort, so by the time we walked into the restaurant I was freezing and my high-heeled encased feet were throbbing but I had worked up an appetite on the walk. I knew from experience that the food was good and, on weekends, the restaurant had a jazz quartet.  If nothing else, I’d enjoy my shrimp etouffee and a little music.

As we checked our coats, Ted said that he ate at the restaurant often since the owner was a client of his. I thought it odd that he didn’t receive a warm welcome as the restaurant’s counsel or as a frequent customer. We were seated abruptly and menus were unceremoniously shoved into our hands. Although I would have enjoyed a glass of wine, Ted discouraged me. He explained that the owner owed him money for his legal services, so he ate there for free but alcoholic beverages were not part of the “deal.”

I was ready to bail but after the cab fare, a Doctor Zhivago-esque walk and sacrificing an evening with friends (who were accustomed to paying for their meals) I hung in there. Maybe the evening would turn around.

What might surprise you, Gentle Reader, is that Ted was attempting to impress me.  Apparently, he was having a great date. Settled in with our entrees (appetizers were also discouraged ) Ted felt comfortable enough to show me the humor and charisma that had so charmed Ms. Matchmaker.  He told me that he was an amateur comic and did impressions. Since I felt like crying at this point, I encouraged him to share some with me.

His first impression was of Herbert Hoover. The second was of J.D. Salinger. Gentle Reader, you know that nothing will impress a lady more than impressions of pre-television era dead presidents and known recluses.

Dinner finally ended. If it was possible to stun me further, he did so. He signed for the meal and loudly announced (to the chagrin of neighboring diners) that the amount would be deducted from the past due bill for his legal services. Apparently our server must have owed him money too, because he didn’t leave a tip. And the coat check girl must have been a client who defaulted on her legal fees as well.

I slunk out of the restaurant, knowing I would no longer dare to show my face there again. Once outside, I raised my arm and, in a rare stroke of luck, a cab pulled over immediately. Despite  the etiquette my parents had instilled in me, I was completely unable to utter the words “Thank you” to my date.  I could only shake my head in horror as Ted stood smiling on the sidewalk shouting after my retreating cab, “This was fun. Let’s do it again.”

On the ride uptown, I sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. “Happy that’s over?” he asked. For the next 15 minutes, I regaled him with the story of The Worst Blind Date Ever. I told him I should have left at the first sign. The cabbie explained that he had quit his Wall Street job because he hated each and every day. Yes, he made significantly less money now but, at least for the present, he was happy, driving around and talking with people. “Sometimes, “ he said, “You just have to listen to what your heart is telling you to do.”

As bad as my Blind Date was, my evening ended on a spectacular note.

Like many other writers, I thought it would be appropriate to focus this week’s blog on motherhood.  After a couple of false starts, I abandoned the idea.  I am not a mother, so all of my thoughts were sentimental tributes to my mother.  Being my biggest fan, she certainly would have enjoyed them, but the nostalgic recollections might leave even my gentle readers a little bored.

However, after the Hallmark Holiday (which is what I call any occasion that involves card-giving, gift-giving, flowers & dinners in a restaurant, all from which I am excluded,) I had an epiphany.  Why not have a “Non-Mother’s Day?”  Many members of our society also  share responsibilities similar to a mother.  Why can’t we have a day to elevate what we do to a Hallmark Holiday, too?  I will let you, gentle reader, be the judge.

Although my husband has never uttered the phrase, “You’re not my mother!” I am sure that many of you have heard this.  That’s my point:  we’re not your mothers, but, at times, it may be difficult to differentiate between life partner and Mom.  What do you think?

We shop for food
We decide on recipes and lovingly prepare meals that you’ll enjoy
We make sure all of the food groups are represented
We discourage you from living on hamburgers, pizza and chicken nuggets

We clean up after cooking.
We pre-rinse the dirty dishes before loading the dishwasher
We search the house for the dirty glasses and plates mysteriously hiding in the most obscure places
We empty the dishwasher and know where everything goes

We pick up the dirty laundry from wherever it’s been peeled off (the living room, the bathroom, the garage???)
We do the laundry
We know which cycles to use for the best results
We understand the use of bleach
We add fabric softener so your clothes are soft and smell nice
We surreptitiously throw out shirts with stains or the socks with holes
We fold the laundry and put it away

We clean hairbrushes and combs
We clean the bathroom mirrors of toothpaste foam
We make sure there is shampoo and soap in the shower
We are the only ones who know how to re-load a roll of toilet paper

We feed the dog
We clean out the litter box
We make the vet appointments

We schedule play-dates with others
We remember the dates of specials occasions and shop for the gifts
We make sure that there are snacks & drinks for when your friends come over to play

We listen to your excitement or your disappointment when you tell us about your day

We encourage you to keep your own space neat & tidy
We remind you to do your chores

We know when to walk away from a silly tantrum

We tuck you into bed when you’re not feeling well,  hold you close,and kiss your forehead
We know where the thermometer, band-aids and aspirin are kept
We’ll stay up all night while you sleep, just in case you need us

We love you unconditionally.

A friend of mine called the other day to remind me of a mutual friend’s anniversary. It would be one year since her husband left.

I admit that I’m not very good at remembering birthdays and anniversaries. I remember my husband’s birthday, our anniversary and a handful of other dates. If I remember (or if Facebook remembers for me) I may call or send an e-card.

However, I make a big deal over my own birthday, which never ceases to amuse Rich. For him, a birthday is just another day. I see it as the one day of the year where I can be completely self-absorbed. All the rules are suspended. I don’t feel obligated to do anything I don’t want to or listen to anyone else’s bullshit. June 4th is the “all about Ellen” day and I have a 24-hour free pass. If you’re not going to party with me, don’t show up to the event.

My 78-year-old mother is the same way. She was born on July 11, and she believes that she has ownership of the number 711. Any time that number is mentioned, she sing-songs, “That’s my birthday, that’s my birthday!” (This is one of the reasons that I will never accompany her to Las Vegas or Atlantic City.)

I don’t begrudge anyone’s celebrations but, as we grow older, we don’t need the yearly birthday parties with brightly wrapped presents and balloons and cake and ice cream. It’s enough to simply have another birthday to celebrate and, if we’re lucky, at least one good friend or partner to share it with.

That politically correct philosophy aside, I confess that I am disappointed if there aren’t some heavy square hand-addressed envelopes mixed in with the bills on my birthday. As illogical as it is to expect something from others that I don’t give, I still have flashes of disappointment. I have done my best to remember my friends’ “big” birthdays and will splurge on a $4.99 mass-produced sentiment plus $.42 on the stamp for those occasions. As corny as the Hallmark cards are, we secretly are tickled pink when we get one. It makes us feel special and that’s how birthdays should make us feel.

However, I never understood why people made a big deal over anniversaries (excluding “The Biggies.”) Rich and I shared our wedding with our friends and family, but our marriage is between the two of us. Why do we need to receive cards or calls on our anniversary? And why do these callers and card-senders express their “Congratulations?” Is another year of marriage that rare an achievement? Thank you, but I’ll celebrate the occasion quietly with the only one who matters.

So, this leads me back to the non-anniversary anniversaries. There are days that have a negative significance. I don’t begrudge anyone’s sentiments to acknowledge those days. Both Rich & I call our widowed mothers on our fathers’ birthdays. We understand the need to remember loved ones and to take the time once a year to reminisce.

However, if we fully participated in everyone else’s celebrations and sentimental occasions, we would be doing so every single day of the year, including February 29th.

I empathize with my friend. Divorce is never easy. Is it callus of me to say that she already knows this, having gone through the process once before? Of course, which is why I keep that thought to myself. During the past year, I have offered my shoulder, lent my ear and have made all of the right sounds at the right times during her weeping or venomous monologues. I understand that there is no place for honesty during times of emotional upheaval. Each conversation I have had could have been accompanied by a thought-bubble: “ It isn’t as if she has young children to raise…” “She’s lucky that she is in a strong financial position to take care of herself….” “She has her health….” There are some other thoughts I’ve had, gentle reader, but in the spirit of good taste, I will keep those to myself.

I didn’t write down the anniversary of my friend’s husband’s departure in my date book. For the last year, she has blamed everything on her ex. I have no interest in fanning her fires. I don’t plan to call, I don’t plan to send her a card, and I certainly don’t plan to be at her side. It would be too awkward: I would have no idea what to wear or what gift to bring for the occasion.