Choose being a bit of a euphimism, here, since if you wait until the evening of February 13, your options are either hula-hooping squirrels in pink pajamas, or still-unsold Knight Rider cards, ca. 1982.  Malpractice, pure and simple.  But I digress. This year, we sort of hit a groove.  Or rather, stumbled blindly into one.  It all started  when housebound  a