Let’s face it, Valentine’s Day is fraught with peril.

First, there’s the age-old man-woman problem of unexpressed (and therefore unfulfilled) expectations. You know how this goes – SHE expects a gift, a romantic gesture, a little extra cuddling, and HE walks in the door with new recycling bins he found on sale at Home Depot. Mayhem ensues, ending with his plea from the couch where he’ll be spending the night: “You never told me Valentine’s Day was important to you!”

To which I say, baloney! If she is female, Valentine’s Day is important to her. When she says, “Don’t get me anything this year” she doesn’t mean it. When she says “You shouldn’t have,” she is lying. I can’t believe that men continue to fall into the same trap every year. Listen up, guys. Get her a gift and make it good.

Now, long-time followers of the Hanna marriage will remember the tales of Valentine’s Day Debacles: gifts not purchased, bouquets that triggered allergies, last-minute offers of dinner dates with no advance reservations on the month’s busiest night.

Finally, we have solved the dilemma. Sometime prior to the fateful day, a package arrives on our doorstep. I open it, ooh and ahhh, and later inform Keeper of what he bought me for Valentine’s Day. I pick out exactly what I want and he gets the credit.

Now, when I was a young bride, I was not so laissez-faire. I took the absence of romantic gestures from both Keeper and Starter Husband to mean that I wasn’t lovable. Or I was married to a jerk. Either way, I was not a happy housewife.

Now that I’m a grown-up, I have accepted the fact that gifts don’t equal love.

But they don’t hurt, either. So whether or not your sweetheart is cool with ignoring the holiday (and you know she’s not), make an effort, gentlemen. You don’t want her to feel unloved.

And you don’t want to sleep on the couch.

Yet, we still make all sorts of assumptions about people based on little or no information.

Take Keeper, for instance. When we meet all those years ago, I took one look at him and my first thought was, “I’ll bet he teaches social studies.”

Now, the only basis I had for this judgment was the fact that he had a bad haircut and was wearing clothes that were at least 15 years out of date. I don’t know what pegged him as a teacher. With the haircut and the clothes he could have been a felon just released from the penitentiary.

As it turns out, he was still in prison, doing 10-to-life as a counselor.

Anyway, I do try to guard against making up stories about people I don’t know but it’s just so much fun. What else are you going to do with a long layover at an airport?

Two weeks ago, I had to confront the fact that I still harbor preconceptions about people. I was getting a mani/pedi, the one girly treat I allow myself. Usually, during my appointment I prefer to remain quiet, close my eyes, and relax.

On this day, however, the manicurist and I were alone in the shop and it seemed rude not to attempt a conversation.

“Do you have any children?” was my opening line.

“Oh, no!” she said. “I’m not married.”

That’s all it took. Tracy told me her whole life story.

Now, let me confess to my preconceptions. Based on the fact that she worked in a nail salon, I had assumed that she was Vietnamese and worked as a manicurist because she was uneducated. I was half right.

Tracy revealed that she had a degree in business administration, was a registered pharmacy technician, and was getting a second degree in Management of Information Systems from Cal State, Hayward. Her boyfriend, who was doing his residency at a local hospital, wanted to get married, but Tracy was in no hurry.

As she massaged my feet, we had a lively conversation about the merits of Windows vs. Mac operating systems and her desire to land a tech support job.

Some of what I learned played into my ingrained stereotype. She had a large family and they were all close. “Asians like to live near each other,” she said. She planned to live at home with her parents until she married.

Arranged marriages are still common in her culture. According to Tracy, “American men like Vietnamese women because they are faithful and happy to stay home and keep the house.” In fact, she had hooked up a former colleague with her cousin, who came over from Vietnam without having laid eyes on her fiancé, based solely on Tracy’s word that he was a good guy.

I left the salon buffed, polished, and ashamed to realize that I had felt more comfortable with Tracy filing my toenails when I unconsciously thought of myself as her superior. Snobbery is not a good look for me and I need to change it.

Now that my eyes have been opened, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out my newspaper carrier has a PhD.

Everyone has a story. Do you dare to ask?

The after-class conversations of my aqua aerobics buddies sometimes tend toward the subject of aging. Most of us are in our Second Half and are feeling the effects of time and gravity. That’s why we love to be in the pool – we can, for a moment, overcome the laws of physics and once again feel young and graceful. Our saggy parts bounce and our bouncy parts float. It’s enough to make us giddy.

Last week, in the after-glow our of wet workout, a group of us hung out, treading water and discussing our facial hair.

One of us, let’s call her Margaret, had just been to the dermatologist to discover the cause of her thinning eyebrows. Her formerly bushy brows were nearly gone, with just a few hangers-on marking the brow line. The loss, she explained, was a form of alopecia caused by inflammation. She had to apply a topical medication in hopes that her brows would grow back. If they didn’t, the doctor recommended cortisone shots in the eyebrow region. Margaret thought it was payback for the years she spent torturing her eyebrows with wax and tweezers.

The entire group cringed at the prospect of needles in the face; a free-flowing discussion about facial hair problems ensued.

If you’re over 40, you know that Mother Nature has a way of making us feel less feminine as we age, to put it politely. To put it more bluntly, we start to turn into our fathers.

Every single lady in our group is plagued with unruly facial hair. I’m not talking about downy fuzz. I’m talking big, black coarse hairs that sprout out of our chins. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t been greeted in our morning mirror by an inch-long, wiry hair that appeared overnight. It’s a frightening experience.

Some of us have mustaches, too, but I’m not qualified to discuss the merits of shaving over waxing or plucking, because, thank God, I’m still hairless Hanna when it comes to my upper lip (and my legs, too, but that’s a different story).

Our small focus group is, I think, fairly typical. Most women our age are plagued with the indignity of rogue hair growth and/or fallout. At worst, it offers a new career opportunity with the circus. At best, it’s a good excuse to visit your favorite salon.

But ladies, here’s the one thing that makes it bearable: being able to laugh about it with your friends.

“Wha??” Keeper sputtered, his face full of concern and confusion.

“Well, obviously I’m OK,” I added, “but it kind of shook me up.”

That’s the happy ending. Here’s the beginning and the middle.

I was on my way down El Camino to meet my friend at Café Barrone for a cup of tea and a chat.

About to enter the left turn lane at Ravenswood to swing back north to enter the parking garage, I heard sirens. In my rear-view mirror I saw a fire truck bearing down on me. I did what I was trained to do by Mr. Patacsil in Driver’s Ed class in 1968: I pulled over to the right, angling the car into the next lane.

The next thing I knew, the fire truck was screaming past me and caught the left rear of my car, bouncing me around and gouging the hell out of my bumper.

I was a bit disoriented but not too out of it to notice the engine number of the truck that perpetrated the hit and run.

I jumped out of the car to inspect the damage, only to be met by a honking, snarling driver who angrily swerved around me so as not to miss the green light.

I got back in the car and continued south. I passed the accident scene that was the cause of the commotion and I spied the aforementioned fire truck. I made a U-turn and parked a half-block from the accident, sitting for a few minutes to compose myself.

When I saw that the firefighters were packing up and getting ready to leave (another paramedic unit had responded first and had transported the victim to the hospital) I made my move.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said to the man in the fluorescent yellow vest. “You just hit my car.”

“What?” he said. “Where?”

I mentioned the intersection and he said, “Oh, man. We didn’t even feel that.”

“Well, I sure did,” I countered.

He inspected the car, told me to wait, and went to consult with his colleagues. While they were in conference, I tried to reach my friend to tell her I was delayed. (Zelda, if you’re reading this—keeping your cell phone at home on your desk is missing the whole point of having one.)

The trio of firefighters returned with a binder full of regulations and we began what was to be an hour’s worth of paperwork. Obviously, running into civilians is not uncommon, because there’s an official form for it.

While one guy copied my license, registration and insurance information, the others regaled me with tales of drivers who don’t bother to put down their cell phones, let alone pull over, for emergency vehicles. Seeing as how I was hit while obeying the law, I found this slightly ironic.

Nonetheless, I sympathized with the firefighters, who viewed the drivers’ behavior not as ignorance of the law, but as a sign that they just don’t care.

Despite my slight peevishness at having had my bumper mangled by a city vehicle, I felt a bond with these public servants. I kept thinking about how their brethren responded immediately and professionally the time Keeper collapsed at home, and how the boys at the Holly Street station gave Corky oxygen while they found us an emergency vet open on a Sunday night. These guys are heroes to me.

So, they misjudged how wide their truck was and clipped my bumper. No big deal.

Keeper, on the other hand, was not so forgiving. Normally quite a mellow fellow, my husband got himself a bit worked up imagining how I could have been flattened by an 8-ton truck. He wanted to report the police officer that made me tear up with his tough questioning, sue the city for reckless endangerment, and cuss out the driver of the truck for being careless.

I got him calmed down and he’s content to let the insurance companies battle it out.

Here’s the lesson for today: When you hear a siren or see flashing lights, pull over to the right as soon as you can safely do that. And if you still get your bumper clipped by emergency responders, don’t bust their chops. They’re just doing their job.

And when you tell your loved ones the story, start with the happy ending instead of the lurid headline.

Lately I’ve noticed (and a story in this morning’s Chronicle confirms) that people are using coffee shops as their office. These urban squatters move in, buy a single cup of coffee and proceed to occupy a chair for hours while they conduct business.

Shop owners are obviously concerned. Customers, the ones that actually buy stuff for cash, are squeezed out by these guys.

Here’s what happened to me a couple of weeks ago. I had arranged to meet a friend at a Starbucks in Burlingame, the one near the train station. I arrived a bit early, ordered a large Earl Grey (“Do you mean a grande?”) and scoped out seating possibilities. There was a Mom that looked like she was packing up the stroller, but she was just getting out a snack for her toddler.

By the window there was a guy in an upholstered chair with an empty seat beside him, but there was a good reason no one was sitting there, if you know what I mean. The fumes coming off of the guy were actually visible – he had little wavy lines surrounding him.

I settled in with my “Grande Earl, two bags” on a stool at a high table. My table companion churlishly gathered up his scattered papers and moved his laptop an inch to the left. He gave me a dirty look while trying to impress the person on the other end of his conversation with a monologue about market share, webinars, and sales projections.

I smiled in his direction while unabashedly claiming a piece of the 4-person table that Mr. Powerpoint believed was his and his alone.

When my friend arrived with a couple of shopping bags we took up a full half of the table. Mr. Bluetooth stiffened, harrumphed, and turned his back on us. Honestly, you’d think we had stormed uninvited into his private office to have our little tea party.

When we stated talking, he got up, abandoned his briefcase and laptop and stomped outside where he spent the next 30 minutes pacing and pontificating into his headset. We were glad to be spared his jargony jibba jabba, but had the uneasy feeling that we were supposed to guard his computer. I was tempted to send him an e-mail from his own account.

I asked another friend, who is currently a barista-in-training, about this new squatting phenomenon.

“We definitely have our regulars,” she said. “One guy comes in every day at 8:00 and stays until 11:00. It’s usually not too bad, but one day he had a conference with flip charts and everything. It was pretty annoying.”

Annoying? Yes, indeed. But also unfair—unfair to the business trying to make a buck, unfair to the customers needing a place to sit and sip, and unfair to the rest of us who just don’t care to hear the details of your global marketing strategy.

Next time, please get your grade double-shot low-foam whatever to go, and set up your office in your car where it belongs.

This is not as fun as it sounds. If you’re picturing Keeper in a white coat, wagging his eyebrows and asking me to put my feet in the stirrups, think again. Our particular brand of “Doctor” involves Keeper naming a symptom he’s having and asking me if I think he’ll die from it. This is not foreplay, believe me. It is the prelude to 24-48 hours of misery in which Keeper envisions his untimely death from complications of tendinitis, hangnail or bee sting.

“I’m having heel pain,” he whispered in my ear this morning, so as not to wake up the dog. Corky snored blissfully on as I fought to come out of my stupor on this first day of 2010.

“Whaa?” I answered, eyes still closed.

“My heel hurts. Do you think it’s permanent?”

Now, one of my New Year’s resolutions is to be more patient with Keeper’s quirks, but I was not equipped to keep that particular promise to myself without the aid of caffeine.

I suppressed the retort that popped up first. (Permanent injury? I’ll show you a permanent injury. Blam!)

Unfortunately for Keeper, I could not control the second response: “It’s probably heel cancer. It’s 99 percent fatal.”

Now, most people familiar with my sarcastic nature would recognize this comment as (1) a joke; and (2) an invitation to back off and go make the coffee.

Keeper, however, was lost in Hypochondria and stared at me, dumbstruck. “Really?” he whimpered. “Can’t you offer me any reassurance?”

True confession time. I made the “more patience” resolution the morning that Keeper left for work with these words ringing in his ears: “Suck it up! Some of us are in pain every day of our lives!” This was in response to last week’s query about his heel pain.

As soon as he left, I regretted my outburst. Sure, Keeper has a probable heel spur that starts to hurt as he rounds the track for mile 3 of his weekly run. A nuisance, I’m sure. But he’s looking for sympathy from a woman with a heel spur that sends shooting pains up her left leg, unexpectedly crippling her as she goes about her daily activities. In the World of Pain, he wasn’t even in the antechamber.

Still, I’m supposed to be Keeper’s soft place to fall, according to Dr. Phil. So, I’m going to work on providing comfort during his frequent episodes of hypochondria.

Today, though, I couldn’t do it. Keeper turned to the Internet for medical advice, which made him even more paranoid and confused. I suggested he think about something else for a while. Maybe he’d like to go to a movie?

Then he said those four little words I’d been longing to hear: “I’m calling the doctor.”

Here’s wishing you a great new year, and best of luck with keeping your own resolutions.

I wouldn’t say I’m making an excuse to slack off; let’s just say I believe EVERY day is a reason to celebrate.  Yeah, I’m a regular party girl.

The key is to plan ahead, especially if you are going to call in sick on a particular holiday.  You’ll need plenty of time to come up with a plausible excuse.

For your convenience, I’ve compiled a list of the major holidays for the next few weeks so you can think about how you want to celebrate.  Suggestions for appropriate observances are included.

Ready, set, mark those calendars!

Take Your Houseplants For a Walk Day (July 27)

Observance: Put your plants in a wagon or wheelbarrow and walk them around the neighborhood.  It will bring them a sense of well-being.

Notes: Make up excuses to offer neighbors who are out walking.  (“We can’t have a dog; Tanya’s allergic”)

Walk on Stilts Day (also on July 27)

Observance: You couldn’t do it as a child, but maybe you’re more coordinated now.  Mastering this skill will bring self-confidence and perhaps a new career with the circus.

Notes: Do NOT try to walk on stilts while dragging your houseplants around the neighborhood.  You’ll just attract the wrong kind of attention.

National Mustard Day (August 1)

Observance: Celebrate the king of condiments by slathering the yellow stuff on anything edible.

Notes: If you are really into it, travel to mustard festival headquarters, Mount Horeb, Wisconsin., where you can sing along to the mustard college fight song with the “Poupon U.” marching band.

Psychic Week (August 3-7)

Observance: A time to concentrate those psychic powers on good causes.  But you knew that already.

Notes: When you’re through manifesting world peace, could you tell me where I put my iPod charger?

40^th Anniversary of Woodstock (August 15)

Observance: We all remember Woodstock, even if we only read about it in Life Magazine.  Lots of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll.  Good times.

Notes: Put on a little Country Joe & the Fish, light up a doobie, and roll around in the mud.  Good times.

Black Cow Anniversary (August 19)

Observance: On this day in 1893, a Cripple Creek, Colorado, brewer dropped a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a glass of root beer, thus inventing the root beer float or “Black Cow.”  Pay homage by slurping one up.

Notes: Raise a toast to my Dad, who never met a root beer float he didn’t like.

Anniversary of Pluto’s Demotion (August 24)

Observance: On this day in 2006, members of the International Astronomical Union voted to demote Pluto from planet status.  In a statement that smacks of size discrimination, the astronomers declared Pluto a “dwarf planet.”

Notes: If your Mom saved that model of the Solar System you made in 7^th grade, it may be worth some money.  Put it on eBay.

Well, there you have it—a pile of reasons to celebrate in the upcoming weeks.  If you can’t take the time off, have a little party at your desk. (NOT recommended for Woodstock celebration.)

Enjoy.

This 38-year-old perp not only harassed people by ringing their doorbells, he also led sheriff’s deputies on a high speed chase, then jumped out of the car and kicked in the door to someone’s house before he was finally subdued.  The cops had to shoot beanbags at him while he was hiding in the bushes.  This crime spree is bad enough.  The capper is that he was naked the whole time.

Now, this gentleman helpfully demonstrated several “don’ts” of nude behavior, i.e., don’t ring people’s doorbells while naked, and don’t try to resist arrest, clothed or unclothed.

Please, if you must be naked outdoors, save it for the anniversary of Woodstock.  And furthermore, let me reiterate so there is no mistake: do not be ringing my chimes with all your parts exposed.

You may be wondering what prompted this tirade against being bare.  It’s simple.  Keeper and I recently joined the Y and I haven’t seen so much flesh on display since I accidentally mistyped a common URL and up popped multiple windows of air-brushed people wearing pouty lips (the women) and sneers (the men) and nothing else.

Now, I realize that in order to shower, one needs to disrobe.  I have been showering for more than 50 years and never once have I gotten my clothes wet while doing it.  (Well, OK, there was that time my college roommate tried to cure my hangover before my 8 a.m. exam)

Anyway, the Y makes accommodations for those of us who are modest. There are three individual showers with curtains.  The process of undressing, showering, and dressing in dry clothes can be done with a minimum of fuss in 12 easy steps that include sticking one arm out to retrieve the shampoo, then the towel, etc.  The poses you learn in yoga class help ensure you won’t fall over while trying to get your pants on without them touching the wet floor.

I’m not saying it’s easy, but it’s a time-honored process that girls like me have practiced since we were first forced into public nudity around 7th grade.

But, kids today?  They have no apparent hang-ups in this department.  The reason I’m always able to get a private shower stall is that the public shower is THE hot spot in the ladies’ locker room

Now, I applaud women who are comfortable enough with their bodies to carry on lengthy conversations with strangers in their birthday suits, but there should still be some rules.  (You saw this coming, didn’t you?)

Rules for the Ladies’ Locker Room

1. Please, wear your towel back to your locker.  Nobody wants to see your wobbly bits quivering while you dry your hair, step on the scale, and discuss child care options with your friend.
2. Please, PLEASE, don’t let your sons run around the ladies’ locker room.  Little Conner is at eye level with my yoohoo and it makes me uncomfortable. Call me a prude. There is a “family” shower available.  Use it.
3. And PLEASE, for God’s sake, don’t let your husband take your little daughter into the men’s locker room for a shower. I cannot in my wildest dreams imagine a scenario where my father would have taken my 5-year-old self into the shower with strange men. Keeper finds this quite disturbing.  Are we hopelessly old-gashioned?
4. Please don’t stop to do an inventory of your moles in the mirror.  Some of us are trying to brush our teeth without making eye contact.
5. Please pardon my seeming rudeness if I don’t talk to you in the locker room.  I’m busy trying to wriggle into my bra while wearing my shirt.

In summary, you do your thing at the gym and I’ll do mine.  I’ll meet you back outside where almost everyone is dressed.

Second Half is a running commentary on everyday life for Baby Boomers and those who love them.

It has been hailed as “hysterical, sophisticated, biting, thought-provoking, and just plain funny.”

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