Things About Chasing Tail(s)

I've figured out that life is a never ending game of tail chasing. Either you're chasing someone else's tail or you're chasing your own tail of self-identity. If you're lucky, the game of chasing tail that does not belong to you will be short lived and the victory will remain for ages. Or, if you're like me, it's an endless game of both. Many of us find ourselves in the confusing world of perpetual self-tail chasing along with the constantly frustrating and disillusioning chase of tail that isn't our own.

I've got no advice to offer on the subject of chasing the tails of others since I have little success from which to draw, but I am gradually learning a thing or two about chasing my own tail. 

Lately (loosely translated: all the time in my whole life), I find myself in the midst of an identity crisis. When I was 19.5 years old it was the teenager fresh from the bunkbeds of a shared room with a little sister to the bumperpad-to-bumperbad cribs of two small infants in a studio apartment with a husband I barely knew. When I was 26 it was the almost-certified wildland firefighter banished from the practice controlled burn because it was "unsafe" for me at 6 months pregnant with child number four. At 32 it was the untapped teenage angst in the body of a single mom with four kids, three jobs and a full credit load of online college classes and a penchant for microbrews. I've always been seeking "myself," but it isn't until I got to be 41 that I realized that my "self" might be just as enigmatic to me as it was when I was three years old and climbing to the top of my Dad's Oak etageres to see if I could fly. But my "self" is also as familiar to me as the pillow I keep tucked between my arms every night. I know who I am. Sometimes, I just can't see the forest for the trees. 

Mark Manson talks about the diversification of identity, and I guess that's what I've always struggled with. I know how many things I am, and I know that a lot of those things don't fit the prescribed mold, or at least, not in the moment. Three year olds don't generally fly, even from a six-foot etagere. 19 year olds aren't the best mothers, unless they're a saint, like my younger sister might have been, or maybe even my Second Daughter given the chance (but thank you for waiting). Pregnant ladies aren't the best suited for wildland firefighters and 32 year olds should just stay away from microbrews, I've learned. 

But through it all I keep pushing, keep seeking"myself." And now I am 41. I am older and wiser and doing 41-year-old things. Going to my kid's ball games and graduation ceremonies. Paying my bills and having a savings account and learning the correct pronunciation for Roth IRA, etc. I wear jeans without holes (occasionally)(unwillingly) and craft lofty and condescending justifications for my tattoos. Deep inside though, I am still chasing my own tail. Trying to figure out just who I am, and the difference between what I WANT and what I NEED and who I AM. Those lines get blurry. But the definitive moment is always just barely out of reach. Like my tail.  

I always imagined that grown ups had no question about who they "are." They are just THEM. Doctors, teachers, mothers, transportation planners, rocket scientists. It seemed so simple. I thought maybe if I decided What to Be, that I would suddenly find this serenity and zen about self-identity that would once-and-for-all end my need to climb etageres. (By the way, if you haven't Googled etagere yet, you can click on the link.) But I've decided at least 23 times what to be when I grow up and I am still not completely sure that I can't fly. Because what IF?

So the tail-chase has continued. Sometimes I thought that if I caught the tail of someone else that I was chasing, I would suddenly KNOW. The epiphany of why I exist would descend upon me in an opaque and irrefutable destiny and all of my seeking would come to an end in the person that I belonged to. I'll admit, it seems to work for a year or two, maybe even close to a decade, especially if you bury your soul in the fabric of another person and/or community who Clearly Know What's Best For You and Don't Mind Telling You. But at the end of the day, or the decade, it's really up to you, or, in this case, up to me, to know who and what I am, and what's best for me, and if I know ANYTHING, it's that nobody can tell me What's Best for Me but my very own self. (I have at least 6 for-real psychologists who will back me up on this in their less-than-helpful-self-help-techniques. For a fee. )

But anyway, here I am, 41 and still chasing tail. Still slightly insecure about what I know about myself, but knowing, deep-down and just-the-same that I KNOW who I am. I am Liv. Not Liv the mom, Liv the firefighter, Liv the Writer, Liv the EMT, Liv the girlfriend, Liv the NOT girlfriend, Liv the former wife, Liv the messy, Liv the teacher, Liv the Cashier's Assistant, Liv the student, Liv the Avett Fanatic, Liv the emotionally unstable, Liv the self-aware (The psychologists told me that. For a fee.), Liv the beer girl, Liv the wannabe... I mean, yes, I AM all of those things... but I am not just one, I am every one, all of the time. And if Liv the writer is feeling angsty at Liv the mom's basketball game, then Liv the self-aware can take the steps to do what she needs to do and get the words out. And if Liv the former wife (please review my stern disapproval of "ex" terminology") is making a mess of Liv the girlfriend, or even Liv the NOT girlfriend, then Liv the self-reliant can make the adjustments she needs to make because ALL of those things in me have given me the tools to adapt. 

Chasing tail makes the world go 'round, as it happens, both biologically and psychologically. It's the ones of us that keep seeking and keep asking questions, like "Why am I cooking french fries at 41 years old?" that make life bigger than a single wide mobile home and a 1992 Ford Escort. Not that there's any shame in starting there, Daughter with said vehicle. 

Mark Manson, whom I clearly revere and tend to overcite, says that the idea of seeking your passion is bunk, because we're already putting our time into the things we're passionate about. For some of us, that's a 9-5 job that gets us where we need to be financially, a legitimate passion to pursue. For some of us, that's hours of journaling hopeless love letters that will be burned, unread at a later date. I know people in both camps - some more intimately than others, and I believe it's true that we put our money (read:time/energy) where our real passion lies. For me, when I get writer's cramp from journaling, it seems to be at the local brewery. I am not ashamed. I am me. And I've got some fine tail to keep chasing. Plus I MIGHT be able to fly. Who knows? 

Did I mention Liv the Whisky Drinker?




Things About Beer, and Words

Today, it happened. Today, as I sat cozied up to the bar at my favorite brewery, some guy came up next to me and started talking beer. It wasn't ten minutes into the conversation that he asked me if I was the "one who writes the stories in the paper." I answered in the affirmative and he said he recognized me from the headshot with my beer column. This means I am famous. This makes me a celebrity. I have arrived. I will be selling autographs later.

It's not really that I am famous. It's really just that beer is the great equalizer. It brings people together and levels the playing field across generations, fashion sensibilities, mood swings... Beer is love. Beer makes every conversation bearable, every task (almost) enjoyable, and any company endurable. Beer is the best.

Lately I've been having a hard time writing. I mean, I can do the stuff I have to for work, but I have certainly been feeling less than inspired to spew original ideas that have any real merit. Running into somebody who reads, and actually digests, and maybe even enjoys, the words that I write, helps me feel like I am not always screaming my words into an echoless void, which might be a writer's worst nightmare - it's definitely mine.

When I left my post as the writer at the Silverado, it was more of a release of the THING that offered me a pathway into the community than it was quitting a job.  Much like beer lubricates a conversation, or a relationship, or a bad decision, writing for a local paper gave me an in. I let it go because I knew my heart was headed in a different direction, which it always it, the direction with less commitment and more insecurity, because I like adventures. And suffering. And I like having an "in," but I've found that I also like to sit back and observe in anonymous ambiguity, watching and waiting for inspiration.

I love writing about things I love. Like beer. Or history. Or psychoanalytical bullshit that I make up randomly. I don't love writing about things that I don't care about and then having to have conversations about those things with people who read my stories and expect me to be interested and/or have expertise, when in reality, I did what I was told. And doing what I am told has never been my favorite.

So back to the beer I go. For drinking and writing and making friends. And back to the writing, for thinking and understanding and being famous. Or not. Either way, as long as there's beer.







Things About Feathers and Angels and Heroes



In 2015, my life was forever changed during a very short visit to the shores of the Normandy region of Northern France. My fascination with the history of the World War II battles that transpired there had made it one of the most compelling places in the world for me to visit, and I finally got to, with my mom and Dad (who is also a war history buff) and sister. What I experienced in the brief time I spent there in the surf, on the once blood-soaked sands where the fate of the world changed forever on that June day so long ago, in the villages that still wore the battle scars from days and weeks and months of onslaught, and in the American Cemetery at Normandy - what I felt, I don’t know that I’ll ever have words for.



We stayed the night in an old bed and breakfast overlooking the town square of Sainte-Mère-Église. my bedroom window looked directly out on the bell tower of the old churchyard where American paratroopers had dropped, miles off course from their intended target, and many had met a quick end, falling into German guns like gifts from above. I stood in the moonlight by my window that warm June night in 2015, some 71 years later, and could see it all happening.



But the most surprising revelation on my trip to Normandy wasn’t on the beaches where the boats landed, or the cliffs that the Rangers scaled, or the cobblestones where thousands of American boots marched, although those places left a deep mark on me.

 The most peculiar and unexpected awakening happened for me at a castle. The most ironic part was that I wasn’t very happy to leave the battlefields and war museums to visit a castle, but my family was keen on it, so I went along grudgingly. The castle had once functioned monastery, and a prison, and many other things throughout the centuries.



The dramatic spires of the place jut up out of the ocean from the giant rock perch where Mont St Michel sits against the backdrop of the English Channel. The ancient church is an island when the tide comes in, and somewhat inconvenient to reach even when the tide is out. Surrounded by sea water or bog-like sand, the old monastery and it’s supporting village were built in and ever climbing spiral upward, as the rock allowed no more outward growth.

Toward the top of the man-made mountain is a Great Hall, where perhaps once Kings and nobles dined. Where once monks chanted in echoing reverence and solemn glory.  The ceiling of the great hall, arching nearly 30 feet overhead, was filled with floating white feathers. Suspended magically in the air by some invisible force.

I asked several people what the feathers meant. I went home and googled it, and found no cohesive answer.

While I was there, I sat in a courtyard and wrestled with my own soul over some of the never-ending personal battles I was facing. I was staring up at a golden statue of St. Michael, the patron saint of soldiers, law enforcement, fire fighters and EMTs. The monastery was dedicated to him, and emblems and depictions of the arch angel were everywhere.

I sat there, while my family milled about the passageways and halls of the ages old stone buildings, and I had a talk with St. Mike. I made him some promises, about keeping my faith for as long as he would keep my brothers and sisters safe. The cops I love and the soldiers. My firefighter daughter and all of my friends on the line. I promised I would hold fast to believing in the protection he offered and the reasons that so many people run bravely into the fray for the freedom and safety of others.

St. Mike answered me, in a way, with the feathers, which, three years later, I learned were part of an artists display for an evening event. But for me, they were the floating remnants of a battle between good and evil. Pieces of an angel's wings left suspended throughout the ages as he wrestled the dragon. I saw the fight between right and wrong, between freedom and tyranny, between danger and security being waged in a timeless space that continues every day that brave men and women engage in the battle.

Francesco Maffei, The Archangel Michael overthrowing Lucifer, ca. 1656

Shortly afterward, I had the feather of a Red Tailed Hawk tattooed on my arm, because those are the feathers of my homeland (now you know why!), and because I wanted a constant reminder of the war being waged and the pledge between me and St. Mike for my loved ones. Most days I wear his medal too, right next to my heart, where I hold the faith that good will always triumph, as it did on that fateful June day so long ago in Normandy, when thousands of heroes ran up against the dragon of evil and remain buried on that shore.

Normandy will always hold a very special place in my heart, and I can't wait to go back and have another chat with St. Mike about our deal and all the ones we are proud of.






Things About Crying in the Sink

I used to joke that all of my exes*, rather than being from Texas, were from Wisconsin. Back then I took some pride in the fact that other than the mere fact that I had more than one "ex*" to claim, there wasn't much else about my life that resembled a country song. The fact that they were from (as I think it should be called) the Middle East of the U.S.A., just meant that there was less deep-south heartbreak to correlate with my breakups, plus, my dogs were still alive and my kids were all smart and attractive, and nobody in my family had been thrown in jail in a couple of generations.



Lately, my bragging rights to a relatively melodrama free life have been circling the drain. Both my big dogs died, leaving me bereft and without a hound dog to ride shotgun in my pickup. My employment situation wavers perilously on the brink of the down-and-out blues, and my love life went tits up, relegating me to a life that is the smack dab epitome of a cry-in-the-sink country song.

Most of these things, with the exception of two dead dogs, I can boil down to matters of choice. My career path has been, to say the least, a meandering one, for which I make no apologies and generally thrive in the flexibility and enjoyment that I usually get out of it, however much stability is lacking. That's a choice I've made and I own it.

 In love, I can only blame my choices for the broken hearts I have borne. Either I chose the wrong guy, or I chose the wrong behavior. And maybe sometimes, like my recent past, I chose both.

I'd like to say that my choosing has gotten better over the years. Albeit much too gradual for my impatient taste - but I know that I have been choosing better and better in the men department and I know that as far as behavior goes, well, I wouldn't hardly recognize the girl I was ten years ago if I bumped into her today. I am getting better, no matter what they say.

But still, no matter how real those increments of improvement might be, they haven't arrived me at blissful perfection yet, and while the number and geographic diversity of my "exes*" have grown a little, so has my ability to be the kind of person that someday, when I choose the perfect guy, will make me nigh unto perfect myself, and I'll be singing the B side of that heartbreak album about heaven and having everything I ever wanted. Someday.


*Authors note: I am strongly adverse to the terminology of "exes" - I tell my girls that once a relationship ends, you aren't their anything, and they aren't yours. I don't like the ownership idea that it conveys. I have former husbands and past boyfriends (don't really like that word either...)... but they aren't "MY exes."



Things Lately

It's been a rough couple of months. I feel like I keep saying that over and over and the months get rougher rather than better. The sun is out now so that helps - it almost looks like we might have a spring after all, now that it's summer.

A few weeks ago I said goodbye to one of my all-time besties, my old hounder Truck. Truckles. Trucker. Truckladite. Even now, sitting in a conference room on the last few minutes of a lunch break at some sort of fire training, listening to my classmates talk about sales on RVs, I find myself choking back tears. Even now it's still too soon to talk about it. Maybe it always will be.

Since then it has been a marathon of work hours, training hours, writing deadlines, softball games, track meets, doctor appointments, surgeries, conference calls, multi-hour drives, etc, etc, etc, and never less than two of those at once, all day, every day.

And then there was the day that my romantic entanglement became disentangled. One day I have a boyfriend and Big Plans, and the next day I am single and not a plan on the horizon. I swing wildly back and forth between feeling the most lost I have ever felt and feeling wide open to new adventures, what ever they may be. Something big is coming. Something good is coming. Life is never what you expect.

In all of that, I am still learning. Or maybe I am learning more. I am learning that it's ok to not be ok. I am discovering that no matter how important and necessary you feel a person is in your life, the power they have is really your choice. I am finding out that absolutely NOTHING is so important that it should keep you from being true to yourself, proud of the path you've carved and honest to the people around you.

I am learning that I have a herd of badass kids that are more awesome than even I know, and I am truly grateful. I am learning that you can't underestimate the power of the love of Good People. And there are lots of Good People.

Things About Good People

I am not a Luke Bryan fan. Ima just get that out there right off the bat. But he's got this new song out and with some of the stuff that's been happening in my life lately, it fits the bill, and I can't avoid it.

I started a blog post about the things in my life that have been hard lately. I said goodbye to my old hound Trucker a few weeks ago. My kids are all growing up and facing Real Life struggles that I can't (and shouldn't) help bail them out of. My little pod of security that is my kids and dogs and small town life is unraveling in every direction, and the transition is hard. My life plays a little bit like a country song right now. But the bigger thing than all of that is the GOOD. The AMAZING things that have been happening. HUGE things and teeny things, but AWESOME things.

Because most people are good.

Some friends came and mowed my lawn, raking up piles of thick, wet grass with their bare hands after I asked just to borrow their lawnmower. They refused to let me help. Then a few days later, they showed up and dropped off a brand new lawnmower on my front porch. Not because I deserve it. Not because they're looking for credit... because they're good, kind people with big hearts in the middle of their own adversity. They're the kind of people I want to be.




Somebody else donated enough money to sponsor FIVE local Veterans to participate in the Catch 22 Memorial Day Shootout. I can't even tell you how big that is in my heart. For every business that I have marched in to, and every email I have sent, and phone call I have made (and I HATE talking on the phone) - this one donation made every step worth it. Because the donor (who asked to remain anonymous) is Good People. Like all of the local businesses who pitched in, big and small, to help out local vets. Good People.

I wrote about my friend awhile back, and her lifetime love that was slowly slipping away from her. An optimistic note from her and the love she has for him, in the hardest of hard times, give me faith that it's out there. Deep and abiding love. She's Good People.

When I am having a hard day, my kids, the ones I never give enough credit to, rally around me like my own little Secret Service Detail. Somehow even I raised some Good People. They're amazing.

I don't even have enough thank yous for all these Good People. But I love you all.




Things About 104

The other day I got to visit somebody who will be 104 in a few days. 104 years old - in human years, even - and she's got a quick tongue and a sharp wit and sometimes gets those two things confused, which, at 104 is Exactly All Right.

She told me that perhaps it was time for me to consider a new profession because what I do and the means of doing it can be rough on a body. She's not wrong. At 104, you aren't often wrong. She wasn't quite feeling herself, a little disoriented, as so she was in the hospital. She told us that if anything she said made sense that somebody should take note of it. If you're 104 and aware that you might be saying things that don't make sense, I think you're probably doing pretty well.

She said that she never planned on being 104 and wasn't quite sure how it happened. It just flew by, she said, and the closer she got to 104, the faster it seemed to come. Here I stand at 40, thinking it took me positively forever of doing All the Wrong Things to get here, and she says that 2.6 times my years happened so fast she can't account for it.

She said that she wasn't sure why God wanted her to be 104. That she wasn't sure what she was supposed to be doing. As if taking some time to visit the Critical Care Unit at the local hospital wasn't preoccupying her, or even important in the slightest.

At 104, she has plenty of advice to give, and absolutely no reason to not give it. She recommended thinking hard about my future, and how I want it to be, which is something that I tend to avoid because it's Scary. She said that I can do whatever I want. At 104, I guess she would be an expert. Maybe she became an expert from doing things other than what she wanted, or maybe she always did exactly what she wanted. Either way, it's good advice, because I CAN do anything I want.

She thinks being 104 isn't a big deal. It's just something that happens. Granted, it happens to less than .02% of the population in the U.S., but still... I don't think I have ever belonged to a demographic so elite. Other than percentage of Homeschooled U.S. Residents with the Last Name Stecker and Multiple Pet Dachshunds, or something ridiculous like that. Actually, there's probably a lot of us like that, so never mind. 104 is special. It's rare. Although researchers say that by the year 2050, that percentage will have grown nearly tenfold, so in another three decades, our odds of making it to that age improve greatly.

In the meantime, my 104 year old friend is a long term anomaly in a world with a shrinking attention span. She's pragmatic and practical, still sporting a sense of humor and an analytical eye for success and efficiency. She was born in 1914. She's seen this country through a half dozen wars, technological progression, economic depression, recession, and cultural revolution. When she was born, most homes didn't have electricity. Now most INDIVIDUALS have hand held devices that connect them instantly with The Whole World. When she was born, automobiles had only been commercially available in the U.S. for six years. In 1914, planes had barely gotten off the ground. When she was born, white males were the only legal voters.

Compared to the changes that she has witnessed, our own societal and cultural changes seem to be crawling at a snail's pace. It's hard to imagine, but it's easy to understand the black and white worldview that more than a century has given her. Of course I can do anything I want. Look at the last 100 years. Anything is possible. Who knows? I might live to be 104, and I can only hope, still possess a quick tongue and a sharp wit - only occasionally confusing the two.

The view from a 104 year old's home. She's got it figured out. 

Things About That Time of the Year

Call it Spring Fever. Call it Cabin Fever. Call it discontent. It's that time of year again. The time when it's too warm for boots and too cold for flip flops and everything I try to wear is Exactly the Wrong Thing. The weather is having an identity crisis just like I am. The house is too stuffy and the yard is too mucky and the only thing that feels good is being in the car and cruising down the road to anywhere, slightly over the speed limit with loud music and somebody that doesn't annoy me. Or a dog.

Unfortunately it's also that time of year when it seems more important than ever that I remain gainfully employed and so I find myself cruising up the road to places I'd rather not go, slightly under the speed limit behind a chip truck (if you have to ask, then you've never been on HWY 25 to the Canadian border) that has just thrown a rock the size of a golf ball into my already cracked windshield. It's ok, I didn't like that windshield anyway.

Seems like of All the Years that I've been complaining, this one should be the least complain-worthy. I've got a brand new-to-me house, living in the "Big City," and all-in-all, thing are looking mighty upwards for me. And yet, here I am, with complaints to register in spite of it.

I was reminded the other day, while talking to Someone Amazing, that this is part of my cycle, something I go through every. single. year. Like in 2017, and in 2016  and again in 2016 , and in 2014, and a lot of other times in between and before and probably ever afterward. It's just part of my year. Part of appreciating the other seasons when I am happy to be home and snuggled in, waiting anxiously for the first snowfall of the year and getting Christmas Trees. Or escaping the sweltering heat with a cold beer in a shady hammock. Spring is a restless season for me. And that's ok. It makes me re-examine and re-evaluate where I am at and what I am doing. Sometimes I come out knowing I am on the right path, and sometimes I get to re-adjust. Discontent isn't bad if it moves us to the next step, or the next phase, or the next level of commitment to the thing that we have been dragging our feet about, like a retirement plan, or a book to write, or Someone Amazing.

The good news is I get to bust out soon. In a few days I will be on my way to sunshiney and oceany things in Mexico with people that don't annoy me. And then it will be time to get to work. Time to travel and be busy and be homesick and discontent that I don't have endless hour to kill in my stuffy house and mucky yard with somebodies that do annoy me. And dogs.



Things About Poohology



In answer to a flagrantly libelous article that went viral on Ranker, wherein the author made some wild extrapolations in regards to the characters of A. A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh books, I have this response: You are wrong. Cheryl Adams Richkoff, although your list-format blog post was based on the research of neurologists and pediatricians, namely Sarah E. Shea, Kevin Gordon, Ann Hawkins, Janet Kawchuk, and Donna Smith in a study in 2000, I have to question whether any of y'all have ever read even one of Milne's classic books. The assumptions about the psychological disorders that the playmates of the 100 Acre Wood suffer from over-analyze, overreach and overlook the most important theme of Milne's characters: childhood innocence and imagination. From my extensive research into the material, I believe Milne actually stumbled upon childlike versions of what are actually full fledged personality types in the psychological realm. So, Mr/Ms. Richkoff, Shea, Gordon, Hawkins, Kawchuck and Smith, try some Poohology on for size. I'm betting you're a bunch of Owls.


Poohology: a rough breakdown

Christopher Robin: The Reluctant Leader

"Christopher Robin came down from the Forest to the bridge, feeling all sunny and careless, and just as if twice nineteen didn't matter a bit, as it didn't on such a happy afternoon, and he thought that if he stood on the bottom rail of the bridge, and leant over, and watched the river slipping slowly away beneath him, then he would suddenly know everything that there was to be known, and he would be able to tell Pooh, who wasn't quite sure about some of it."

Christopher Robin is a young boy with very little life experience, yet in the eyes of his friends in the 100 Acre Wood, Christopher Robin is an unstoppable force of brilliance and a magnetic director of events. Christopher Robin is unintentionally the guiding voice to people all around him, in all walks of life, old or young, he is a natural, however accidental, leader. People look to him for advice and direction, and unwittingly draw insight from every casual remark. Christopher Robin does not seek followers, nor consider himself much of a leader. He is charismatic but matter of fact. He is pragmatic and black-and-white about issues. He is logical and develops solutions without really trying. Christopher Robin’s weakness is a certain ambivalence to his ignorance. He is the master of fake-it-til-you-make it, and can lead the blind blindly into chaos and mayhem. A wiser and more mature Christopher Robin begins to operate in awareness of his followers and make choices based on the outcome for all. He is confident (externally), curious and occasionally prideful. He can be defensive, or humble, depending on maturity and context. Christopher Robin is a loyal friend unless his aptitude is questioned. He can easily walk away from a person that threatens his self-confidence and perceived position in life. He usually has many casual friends and one or two close confidences. Even with those he is deliberate and guarded in communication. Vulnerability is a rare trait for Christopher Robin, but demonstrates health and maturity. He works well with all of the other characters, but has a special fondness for Pooh (the abstract intellectual) and Piglet (the selfless loyalist). He is a problem solver and an instigator. He is relied upon heavily by all of the other characters. He thrives on taking care of the others and being dependable and trusted. He is a hard worker but can be easily misled or distracted sometimes, this also depends on maturity and humility.

“Always remember... Yo are braver than you believe. Stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.”

Winnie The Pooh: The Abstract Intellectual

"When you are a Bear of Very Little Brain, and you Think of Things, you find sometimes that a Thing which seemed very Thingish inside you is quite different when it gets out into the open and has other people looking at it."

Nobody quite knows where Pooh comes up with his brilliant ideas, but somehow, they always make sense. Getting from point A to point B is usually a profoundly complex route through Pooh’s stuffed-with-fluff head, but he gets there, and usually right on time. Pooh is predictable, dependable, logical in his own strange way, and a steady emotional anchor. A mature and healthy Pooh provides an atmosphere of safety and reliability to all of the characters, all though they lose patience with his round-about reasoning. He is not usually very industrious, but will pitch in when asked, and promptly get distracted. He is usually not a multitasker. Winnie the Pooh is somewhat of a mystery to many of the other characters. He is usually well liked, but often held at arms length. He works best with Piglet, who serves as his interpreter to concrete thinkers like Rabbit and Tigger and Kanga. Pooh is quite intelligent, but not always in a practical way. His solutions are not always implementable, but his thought processes provoke some fascinating insights. Characters like Piglet and Roo, and occasionally Tigger, are drawn to his rambling intelligence and can be followers. Pooh is usually somewhat unaware of the other characters and their needs. He can be somewhat introspective and be blissfully unaware of crises around him. When these problems are pointed out to them, he is eager to help, and sometimes happens to land on a stroke of appropriate genius. He is a giver, but he is also mildly greedy. He cares deeply for people but an immature Pooh does not communicate this very well. He can come across as self-focused and uncaring. Pooh likes everyone but does not feel the need to seek out or pursue relationships, other than with Christopher Robin. Most friendships come find him, and if they go away, he won’t necessarily notice.

Piglet: The Selfless Loyalist

"And then Piglet did a Noble Thing... 'Yes, it's just the house for Owl,' he said grandly. 'And I hope he'll be very happy in it.' And then he gulped twice, because he had been very happy in it himself."


Piglet is an odd little man. He is fiercely loyal, to the death, of his friends and perhaps even total
strangers – when it comes to the protection of someone else, he is fearless and proactive. His self image is usually frail enough that he can’t see the same course of action in his own defense and is often taken advantage of by characters who prey on his loyalty. Piglet is intelligent and very logical. He is successful in most endeavors and unfortunately, much of his success is usurped either intentionally by unhealthy individuals or unintentionally by unaware characters like Pooh and Owl. Piglet will be the last one to state his own needs, but he is a homebody and is very particular about his own lifestyle. He is expressive in his own comfort zone, but does not feel the need to broadcast his individuality. He would very much rather not ever be the center of attention, and when he springs to someone else’s defense, his only holdback is the realization that he is drawing attention to himself. Usually a price he is willing to pay. Piglet can ultimately develop hard feelings and become cynical, but he compartmentalizes these feelings and tries to pare out bad relationships. He is a one-friend kind of guy usually. He gets along with most characters but will only invest heavily in one or two characters at a time. He likes Pooh because Pooh needs an advocate, and Piglet is just the man. He and Rabbit identify in certain areas, as well as Kanga, but Tigger overwhelms and annoys Piglet usually, unless Pooh is there to run interference. Piglet avoids conflict and is a peacemaker, usually at his own expense. He is also a little bit prideful, and easily embarrassed (refer to center of attention discussion before). He doesn’t handle attention very well, negative or positive, and would rather just not be noticed.

"Piglet lay there, wondering what had happened. At first he thought that the whole world had blown up; and then he thought that perhaps only the forest part of it had; and then he thought that perhaps only he had, and he was now alone in the moon or somewhere, and he would never see Christopher Robin or Pooh or Eeyore again. And then he thought, 'Well, even if I'm in the moon, I needn't be face downwards all the time,' so he got cautiously up and looked about him."


Eeyore: The Emotional Realist

“We can’t all and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

Thanks to Walt Disney, everybody has got Eeyore pegged all wrong. Eeyore is a realist. He sees things the way they are, in black and white. He has good days and bad days and expresses them very openly and emotionally. While everyone else can make the most of a bad situation Eeyore will patiently face the negative and hope for better luck next time. Eeyore is intelligent and thoughtful, aware of others and their needs to a fault. Eeyore can be depressive or exuberantly joyful. He is creative whether he is talented and artistic or not. He is a plodder. He keeps going, a slow and steady pace, regardless of the situation. He is a great friend for those that can tolerate the emotions he wears on his sleeve. He’s somewhat competitive and enjoys a good friendly debate. He doesn’t like conflict but he does enjoy negotiation. He has utmost respect for Christopher Robin for his creativity, but can see CR’s haphazard underqualifications. Eeyore acknowledges Rabbit as the leader he is but loses patience with Rabbit’s disconnected emotions. Eeyore and Tigger have a love hate relationship because they are the most emotionally expressive characters, and often find themselves in direct opposition, i.e. the thing that makes Tigger exuberant is often Eeyore’s bain, and vise-versa. He is good friends with Piglet and one of the only characters intuitive enough to not abuse Piglets’s selflessness. He is one of Piglet’s only defenders. Eeyore has little use for rambling philosophies or bloviating. Pooh and Owl often annoy him, as he can be somewhat selfish and doesn’t like to waste time or energy on things that seem vain or useless to him. He does not like to be mothered or bossed around but he can establish a good rapport with Kanga and Rabbit. Surprisingly, Eeyore gets along well with Roo, and can tolerate immature characters better than most, perhaps because they also wear their emotions honestly and unabashedly.

“'Oh, Eeyore, you are wet!' said Piglet, feeling him. Eeyore shook himself, and asked somebody to explain to Piglet what happened when you had been inside a river for quite a long time.” 

Tigger: The Well Intentioned Blunderer

'“Oh Tigger, where are your manners?”
“I don’t know, but I bet they’re having more fun than I am.”'

Tigger is a whirlwind of emotion and energy and spastic motivation. He is intelligent but so often distracted that his thoughts don’t ever connect. Tigger likes almost every one immensely, but his chief concern is being known for who he really is,“the only one”. Tigger is compelled to feel unique. He becomes intolerable when his uniqueness is threatened or the attention is not fully on him. Tigger is highly opinionated but lacks the pride that causes conflict in this area. He is overwhelmingly curious and opposing opinions trigger more questions in his mind, which he will pursue until he gets distracted. Tigger rarely follows something through to absolute completion. He is full of big ideas and great beginning energy, but finds it hard to stay on target until the end. Most of the other characters enjoy the entertainment that Tigger provides, and calculate the loss that Tigger’s unintentional clumsiness may cost as well worth the friendship. Tigger is the character that will make everyone else late for an event, or invite too many people, or commit social faux paus without even knowing there are lines to be crossed. He creates a headache for Rabbit who truly admires his wanton joy, but feels compelled to complain about it. They are a surprisingly strong relationship, though both will protest. Tigger can also become depressed, and his saddest moments make Eeyore look like a clown. He gets along with Pooh and Owl but is easily bored with their rambling. He and Piglet often end up toe to toe because Tigger has carelessly offended another character, a wrong which Piglet feels compelled to right. Tigger is brave and will try anything. He responds to dares and bets and sometimes he talks bigger than he can follow through on, which again results in conflict between characters. Tigger loves to take care of others, but can’t usually think outside of his own tastes and preferences, and has difficulty providing needs that aren’t similar to his. His energy is infectious and for all of the damage he inflicts accidentally, he is usually a welcome part of anything going on in the woods. Tigger can also be a work-horse, and is far from lazy. He can be a good multitasker when he is healthy and mature.

“Just because an animal is large, it doesn't mean he doesn't want kindness; however big Tigger seems to be, remember that he wants as much kindness as Roo.” 



Rabbit: The Effective Perfectionist

"'Rabbit's clever,' said Pooh thoughtfully.
'Yes,' said Piglet, 'Rabbit's clever.'
'And he has Brain.'
'Yes,' said Piglet, 'Rabbit has Brain.'
There was a long silence.
'I suppose,' said Pooh, 'that that's why he never understands anything.'"


While it’s true that Rabbit is somewhat of a worrier, no other character in the hundred acre wood is as productive and logical. Rabbit is one of the only characters that makes things happen. Rabbit is also one of the few characters that can save the others from the brink of disaster and recover from most catastrophes. Rabbit thinks ahead. He sees logical solutions very clearly, and operates mostly in black and white. He is usually extroverted, an excellent multi-tasker, and gets along well with most characters. Tigger tries his patience to no end, but also give him a perpetual project. An unhealthy Rabbit can become very manipulative, and with his keen tongue and intellect, can easily accomplish his goals at the expense of others. A healthy Rabbit reaches these goals by using cynergistic and cooperative methods. Rabbit is the only character that can really pull the whole crew together to make an absolute success. He is detail oriented and very observant. He cares for others and will bend over backwards to provide for them according to very formulaic and logical needs. He can be very good at controlling his emotions, but he feels things very strongly and is good at expressing himself. He is vociferous and very much a take-charge type. While he doesn’t care about being the center of attention, he is very much concerned with being effective and productive, and will dominate the group to make things happen. He can be smart almost to the point of manipulation in getting the ear of Christopher Robin to coordinate plans. Rabbit has a very tender side that is nurturing and selfless. But for Rabbit, everything must be done in the right way, the correct order, and meet all of the rigid standards he has set for himself and everyone else. Rabbit goes through occasional burn out, but always bounces back to keep the group functioning. Kanga is one of his biggest supports, but they often disagree on implementation tactics. 

"'Ah!' said Rabbit, who never let things come to him, but always went and fetched them."


Owl: The Meandering Reasoner

“Owl explained about the Necessary Dorsal Muscles. He had explained this to Pooh and Christopher Robin once before and had been waiting for a chance to do it again, because it is a thing you can easily explain twice before anybody knows what you are talking about.”

Owl’s strength is his knowledge retention and perpetual quest for information. While he may lack self and others awareness, he can usually make up for it by providing necessary information to the people in his life. Often detached from the bigger picture, Owl gets somewhat preoccupied with his own interests and forgets that everyone around him doesn’t share this preoccupation. Many Owls become specialists in a specific field because they are keenly interested in something, although some become general knowledge hounds and might be drawn to teaching or other information-based work. Whole Owl is very intelligent, common sense and basic things like spelling sometimes escape him. He is more brilliant than practical, in many cases.
  Owl’s concern for others is manifest in helpful ideas and suggestions usually rather than actions. He often provides direction (which may or may not be practical and useful) and instruction for the doers around him. He can be an effective leader, but won’t generally be a great follower or employee. Owl has a sensitive ego that needs to be stroked, but is also fairly good at self-generated confidence, based on his objective knowledge of his own skill level or useful contribution. Owl is not highly emotional or easily swayed but misfortune of his own or that of others. He’s fairly pragmatic and practical, if he’s not too much in his own head.

“‘Well,’ said Owl, “the customary procedure in such cases is as follows.’”
“Owl, wise though he was in many ways, able to read and write and spell his own name WOL, yet somehow went all to pieces over delicate words like MEASLES and BUTTERED TOAST”

Kanga: the Intuitive Caretaker

“'I don't know if you are interested in Poetry at all?'" 'Hardly at all,' said Kanga"
Kanga is everybody’s mother. Always in tune with the needs of the people around her, she can also project forward and anticipate future needs. She’s meticulous and thorough in her administration, but organizationally she operates according to a very personalized system. Kanga is a planner and does not like to stray from the designated pathway. She is reticent to relinquish control or follow blindly without explicit understanding. Kanga is usually a homebody - not adverse to socializing, but not seeking it out. She cares deeply for the ones closest to her. More in tune to the needs of those around her, whether they agree or not, Kanga is more empathetic than Rabbit, with whom she has quite a bit in common. Fastidious and something of a worrier at times, she is happiest in a world that she feels in control of. Extremely focused and not easily distracted, it takes quite a bit to get Kanga to engage in frivolous behaviour except very occasionally.

"She knew at once that, however big Tigger seemed to be, he wanted as much kindness as Roo."

“Now it happened that Kanga felt rather motherly that morning, and Wanting to Count Things—like Roo's vests, and how many pieces of soap there were left.”




Authors note: The Roo personality is a questionable standalone. Originally, I considered Roo the representation of childhood, a follower-type persona (see Stage One of Mark Manson’s four life stages) that we all eventually grow out of. That being said, I am re-examining the Roo character and am including him in the lineup for the time being.
Roo: the Effervescent Follower

Roo is the one you want on your team. Perpetually enthusiastic and courageous, his curiosity about life is contagious. What he lacks in organizational skills he makes up for in zeal and willing participation. Arguably the universal embodiment of childlikeness, some Roos never grow up. He might make a great employee, but is dangerous in a leadership position a he is usually not in tune with the bigger picture or very good and thinking or planning ahead.

































Things About Thoughts



The thing about the human mind is it's a closed loop. I mean, things get in. Lots of things, all the time - we are introducing new information into the little speed track in our head. But once something is in there, it never leaves. Even when you think it does. Even when you can't remember and you want to... it's still in there. Even the things you want to get out of your brain, they circle around and around and around. Like that time you saw your great uncle in his maroon underwear. Or that Selena Gomez song. It's there for keeps. Sure, you can practice real hard at filing those undesirables away and make a habit of repressing them. You might even be successful at forgetting most of the lyrics, but it will ALWAYS be there, somewhere.

I am not a bible thumper, usually, but there are a couple verses that I memorized as a kid that still surface in my thoughts at semi-useful times. One of them is the verse from Second Corinthians (yes, that's a real book in the bible, you heathen) that talks about taking every thought captive. Sure, it goes on to talk about obedience, blah blah, and in context it's about vain thoughts that are irreverent, which might be the thing in the world that I am best at, but the practice it refers to is a useful one.

"...Casting down imaginations, and every high thing that exalteth itself against the knowledge of God, and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ..." 
2 Corinthians 10:5 (KJV - because I may be a rebel, but I am an orthodox rebel)


This is one of my antidotes to anxiety. To grab the thoughts swirling inside my head, sit them down and try to filter them through an objective lens. It doesn't always work, but sometimes just the exercise of it gets my mind into a different rut than the panicked frenzy that it was prior to the attempt. And when you think about it, it's pretty much a rephrasing of what the great stoic philosopher Seneca said, that we suffer more often in our imagination than in reality.


“We are more often frightened than hurt; and we suffer more from imagination than from reality”

Seneca

If I had a nickel for every time some random thought crept into my mind without any real basis and wrought havoc on my soul, I'd be a zillionaire. We all do it. At least I think we do. Or maybe I am just fucked up beyond all recognition. Thoughts like "nobody even likes me." Or "I'm such a dog," (welcome back, 1988). Or "the way he said goodbye - he was so happy to leave me..." or "my kids can't even stand me" - that's a good one. Where do these thoughts come from? If I knew, I would have the thought generator fired. But I can't, so there they are, forever in my mind. I can grab them one at a time and have a Reasonable Conversation with myself about the fact that they are erroneous. I might even be able to convince myself, but after awhile, a new wave of trauma, real or imagined, will wash them all out of the places where I have them neatly filed and they will slam into the walls of my mind with new ferocity.

And the waves never stop coming. Sometimes it's a tsunami after a break-up, or the death of a loved one, or when Hannah Montana quit being available on Netflix. Sometimes it's the gentle persistent lap of repeated hurts over time that erode the banks where we have stored those useless, baseless thoughts. Sometimes it's a hurricane of stress and life changes that leave everything in your mind topsy turvy and disheveled. Sometimes there are just SO MANY THINGS on your mind that it begins to pile up like an episode of hoarders and the bad thoughts are all mixed in with the good ones and the necessary ones and the memories and they begin to tarnish everything. 

How do we keep that shit cleaned up? I guess it's one thought at a time, just like a recovering hoarder, or after a hurricane. One by one, taking them captive, looking at them, putting them back where they belong. I guess trying to be prepared for the waves, trying to catch them when they're falling out of the vault, before they impact the serenity and stability of your day, of your imagination. Before they become worry and anxiety. Lock that shit up. It will never be completely gone, but you can see it for what it is and file it away and keep an eye on it so it will have a harder time escaping next time. 

There's no perfectly beautiful solution, because there is no perfectly beautiful mind - except Russel Crowe's, of course. But there are steps, there is a pathway to being less crazy. I've been walking it for awhile, in my own meandering and imperfect fashion. The bible talked about it to the Corinthians. Seneca said it before Jesus was an itch in the Holy Spirit's toga. It's a thing. 

Human minds have been inventing fear and trouble with their minds since they've began using them. Check out the wild imaginations of the earliest cave artists if you don't believe me. Our minds are the monsters that haunt us. Our mission is to conquer them. 




Things About Spilled Milk

Today I am teaching high school. Today, some jackoff in the high school thought it would be funny to put a bag of rotten milk (yes, our milk comes in bags here) in another kid's locker for him to discover. I don't know how, and I don't know why, but the milk, WELL past it's prime, was discovered and aerosolized somewhere in or around the school and the smell has persisted for HOURS. The sickly-sweet-sour smell of rotten, solidified milk. Smashed into the carpet, thrown out on the sidewalk, tracked by dozens of careless feet through every classroom, rotten milk.

This is EXACTLY how bullying works. You think you're picking on one dumb kid. You think it's funny. Then you find yourself staring down the barrel of inescapable stench that YOU CAUSED. Think about this. Every practical joke you played. Every blind eye you turned on the other kids that were being unkind... guess who gets to enjoy the aftermath? We all do.

We teach our kids to be kind to others. We model this behavior. We call them right down on the carpet if we catch them not being kind. Cause if we don't, the next thing you know they're shoving rotten milk in That One Kid's locker and then when That One Kid comes back in two years and shoots everybody in his class, everybody will say, "but why?"

Milk. That's why. The rotten stench of milk. For days. Lingering. Milk on top of all the other practical jokes and mean names and unkind words and just plain heartless behavior. There's always milk behind the why. Just because the smell isn't always there doesn't mean the repercussions won't be.

Even if there's real mental illness, which there might be. Even if they have good parents, which they usually don't. Even if they're smart, or dumb or ugly, or weird... look back in the lives of all of these murderers who are taking innocent lives and you will find milk. Some people find inspiration in the milk and go on to create beautiful things. Lucky for us, only a few of them come back with their rifles. Lucky only a few just kill themselves. But it's a few too many.

Just because it's not your locker. Just because you didn't put the milk there. Just because you weren't involved... you're still smelling the milk. You can't get away from it. Your friends can't. They'll wear the stench home on their clothing.

Actions have consequences. Spilled rotten milk is worth crying over when it's used as a weapon. When it's used to communicate rejection and hate. It's not funny. It's not kind. It's deadly.

We have to see the milk for what it really is, the first symptom of a lethal condition.

Kids will always be kids. That's why we're here, to remind them, to chastise them, not to make excuses for their behavior or justify their poor choices. We're here to help them learn from the spilled milk before it becomes spilled blood.

After all, we're all in this together.


Things About the Whelm

"I know you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but can you ever just be - whelmed?" - Chastity, 10 Things I Hate About You 

it's a long road to... somewhere. 


I am some level of whelmed right now.  I am overwhelmed with the amount of mental and emotional energy that I'm supposed to be putting into a lot of things right now, but I am underwhelmed with the payoff of said things in the near future. Sure, they're investments in the bright and beautiful down-the-road, or whatnot, but being an instant gratification kind of a girl, I find myself making up for the over and the under whelming by avoiding it all and throwing tantrums. Does being caught right in the middle make me just whelmed? Or is it cabin fever? I feel bad calling it that since I get out to do more cool things than a lot of people I know, and I really can't complain. Even so, here I am, discontent as always, complaining.

All the energy goes out, nothing comes back in except some piddly paychecks and well meaning criticism. It's frustrating. I'm not even sure what to look forward to because nothing is certain, nothing is guaranteed. It's Friday. For some people, the weekend means a break. For me it means more work and instability than the other days. I've grown to distrust weekends with their shiny attractiveness and poor followthrough. They're just like every other day of the week. Disappointing. They just keep coming and going and I am stuck running in place on the slimy log of time as it rolls in the sludge, trying not to fall off into the pit of despair.

The problem I have, according to some of the self-help books I am reading, is two fold. 1) I give too many f***s about things I shouldn't (i.e. everything), and 2) I bought into the bull crap that life is supposed to be good, or pleasant, or that happiness actually matters. I'm trying hard to give less f***s. But I still can't understand why we're here if we spend the few years we have just being miserable so that we can die. And here we circle back to the meaning of life and ages-old rhetoric of "bringing glory to god" "being a good person" "making a difference" "earning a mansion in heaven along streets paved with gold and choruses of angels lining them - but no dogs because animals don't have souls" kicks in. Blagh. Meh. Poop the duck.

I want a life full of happiness like warm crusty sourdough bread with way too much butter and swirling glasses of dry red wine. I want dogs. I don't want to be a 'good' person. I want to make people laugh. I want to be a memorable person.  I want to be making moments that make the meh days manageable.

For awhile, I was on the 'no bad days' band wagon. But I've realized that that ideal is just as unrealistic as streets of gold or being a good person. There are bad days. And bad weeks and bad months and bad years. Like my brilliant baby brother says, if all days were perfect, there would be no perfect days. It's ok that some days are bad. As long as some days aren't. I am trying to focus more on the 'no wrong turns' philosophy, that tells me that even meh days are serving some purpose down the road. Even if it takes EONS of suffering to get there. Meanwhile, here I sit, in The Whelm, with my bad days and my misguided ideals and misplaced f***s, waiting for something that I haven't quite identified yet. Probably sourdough bread.


Things About St. Valentine

Before you write off Valentine’s Day as another invention of American corporations in the quest for perpetual revenue from mass produced greeting cards and several thousand tons of seasonal candy, take a moment to consider the long, if not convoluted, history behind the holiday. Long before it was chocolates and diamonds and fancy dinner dates, Saint Valentine’s Day became a celebration of enduring love.

Valentine of Rome was a Christian saint in the 5th century who was martyred in 496 AD for his faith. He was buried on February 14th, and the anniversary of his death was observed by the Catholic Church after he was canonized. According to legend, Saint Valentine wore an amethyst ring embedded with the image of cupid. He officiated at the illegal Christian weddings of Roman Soldiers, who were forbidden to marry, as the Emperor Claudius II believed that married men did not make for good soldier material. It was said soldiers would recognize him by his cupid ring and request the performance of his secret nuptials. The amethyst later became the birthstone for the month of February, and is said to bring love. St. Valentine is said to have cut hearts out of parchment and given them to the soldiers that he ministered to, beginning the tradition of heart shaped cards.

Eventually Valentine was imprisoned for his Christian ministry, and while in jail, he is said to have healed his jailer’s daughter, Julia, from blindness. A letter sent from his jail cell to the girl was signed “from your Valentine”, perhaps the first Valentine ever sent. After his death, Julia planted an almond tree with pink blossoms near his grave. The almond tree is still symbolic of undying love and friendship.

The Catholic Church removed St. Valentine’s day from the General Roman Calendar in 1969, but the holiday was well rooted in tradition across the globe by that time. Speculation has tied the holiday to the ancient Roman feast of Lupercalia, a three day celebration of fertility in mid February, but there has been no traceable connection to this observance and the later resurgence of the romantic theme appointed to February 14th by poets and lovers who were far removed from Rome’s pagan roots.

The first romantic association with the church holiday of St. Valentine’s Day wasn’t until nearly a thousand years later, when Geoffrey Chaucer, the English poet, penned the verse: For this was on seynt Volantynys day, Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make. ["For this was on St. Valentine's Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate."] Later, scholars would argue that the Valentine he referred to was not Valentine of Rome, but the feast of St. Valentine of Genoa, who died nearly 100 years before Valentine of Rome, which was observed in early May, a time more likely for the mating of birds in Britain.


Whatever the reference really meant, Valentine’s Day was securely established as a celebration of love on February 14th by the beginning of the 15th century. Following Chaucer’s lead, French and English poets latched on to the theme and over the next 200 years, references to Valentine’s day, featuring birds and romantic love surfaced across Europe. The oldest surviving Valentine came from Charles, Duke of Orleans, referring to his wife as his  “very sweet Valentine” while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London in the 1400s: Je suis desja d'amour tanné, Ma tres doulce Valentinée… Even Shakespeare gave a nod to the holiday in Hamlet in the early 1600s.

Mass productions of romantic poetry, cards and love notes was well underway in England by the end of the 18th century, and in 1847, the first commercially produced Valentines were available in the United States. It wasn’t until the late 1900s that the traditional note giving escalated to chocolates and jewelry. This became a trend in the United States when the candy and diamond industries saw potential for growth. It is estimated that over 190 million Valentines were sent in the United States in 2015, not including homemade exchanges between school age children. The average amount spent on a Valentine’s day gift in the US last year was $131.

However you choose to observe (or not) the festival of love that is Valentine’s Day, the story of St. Valentine, perhaps embellished over the years, is a good excuse to let the ones we love know that we are thinking of them. It’s also a good chance to break out the scissors and glue stick and show our love with a little bit of creativity and personal attention. Maybe we don’t need diamonds and puppies to tell our Valentine’s how much they mean to us, but since the middle ages, we’ve been using poetry to get our point across. The cliche “Roses are Red” rhyme began in 1590, with Edmund Spenser's epic poem The Faerie Queene, but was adapted into a nursery rhyme in 1784 from Gammar Gurton’s Garland:

The rose is red, the violet's blue,
The honey's sweet, and so are you.
Thou are my love and I am thine;
I drew thee to my Valentine:
The lot was cast and then I drew,
And Fortune said it shou'd be you

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