Unhappy Monday

If dreary February weren't miserable enough, Valentine's Day-a holiday that seems to have been created for no other reason than to make a gal feel crappy-is once again upon us. If you're a single lady, you're obliged to feel like a loser because, gasp, you're alone. Or if you're taken, you're not much better off because you inevitably wind up with some hideous stuffed animal or a pair of itchy crotchless panties.

If you're a guy who happens to have the bad luck to be in a relationship on The Big Day, you'll suffer the most. Because you're the one who screwed up dinner after forgetting to reserve a table months in advance, and you never did quite get around to calling the florist either. And so you wind up gifting your seething sweetie with a droopy bouquet of day-old aqua carnations, some Chinese takeout and a sixer of Bud. In fact, the only people who benefit from Valentine's Day are single straight guys, because easy doesn't begin to describe picking up chicks on this particular night.

But as I am a romance-type columnist, Valentine's Day is supposed to be my day. A day to cast aside cynicism and take time to celebrate love and relationships and all that drek. So I thought back to a kinder and gentler time: grade school. Remember how everyone in class walked around, slipping little dime-store valentines into paper-bag mailboxes you'd carefully crafted in art class? Thinking back to those more innocent times, this year I've decided to send out some Valentine wishes of my own:

Melania Knauss-Trump: I realize Donald has probably bartered you a pricey-yet-tasteless trinket from one of his show's many advertisers, but my wish for you is a new facial expression. Honey, Zoolander was a comedy. When Ben Stiller's character perfected his patented "Blue Steel" look, he was kidding. You're a pretty little golddigger, but the narrowed eyes and perma-pout have got to go.

Jennifer Aniston: Two DVDs: Grease and Living in Oblivion. I reckon that as your husband left you for a crazy broad, you might want to do a Sandy-style makeover in order to win him back. I hear you've moved in with your hairdresser, so at least you won't have to rely on a beauty-school dropout for pointers. If (and I truly hope this is the case!) you have decided to move on, please watch Living in Oblivion repeatedly. Director Tom Dicillo based an entire movie on what a pretentious shitbag your to-be-ex-husband was even before he was famous. Plus, Steve Buscemi's in it. (He can be my Valentine.)

President Bush: A heart-shaped pretzel. Spreads democracy across the globe and yet still finds time to attend inaugural parties worth $40 million-our commander-in-chief is nothing if not a hard worker. He deserves a salty snack.

Courtney Love: Custody of Blanket, Prince Michael and whatever the fuck that poor little girl's name is. Though Crackhead Courtney has surely screwed up young Frances Bean for all eternity, she can't possibly be as frightening a parent as Michael Jackson.

Libby Pataki: A Fresh Direct account. Libster, there's no need to send your state-paid assistant to the grocery store when Fresh Direct will send an entire truck filled with goat's milk yogurt right over to the mansion.

My Boyfriend's Clingy Ex-Girlfriend: A new telephone that's incapable of dialing my man's number. You cheated on him when you had him; now go away.

Al Reynolds and Star Jones: Nothing. Because you two already have the perfect love. The kind of love that we mere mortals can only dream of. A love that will surely stand the test of time. (And well-hung pool boys.)

Lara Flynn Boyle: A sandwich and a sedative. Until you eat a little something and fill out that bra, please don't run around airplanes flashing peeps.

Oprah Winfrey: A dollop of humility. Yes, you do many good deeds. True, you've given away tons of money and inspired a nation of morons to pick up books and start reading. But quit devoting entire shows to patting yourself on the back. It's unseemly. Plus, you also gave us Dr. Phil. That pretty much evens the score.

Cynthia Heimel and Merrill Markoe: Your very own tv show. With books like the far funnier precursor to Sex and the City, Sex Tips for Girls (Heimel) and Markoe's It's My F---ing Birthday, these are two of the funniest bitches around. But in a business that elevates humorless skanks like Paris Hilton to star status and neuters any female who's had the nerve to turn 40, that doesn't seem likely.

My Special Naked Friend: A night in spent chugging Guinness and dyeing everything we own green in preparation for the second-worst holiday of the year.