Whether I was slinging bagels at Panera or entertaining kids as their full-time babysitter, I always considered my high-school self to be a solid employee. I was driven—started working the summer of my fourteenth year and never stopped. I was great at being fake cheerful, even if I didn’t really want to rip movie tickets or ring someone up at the cash register. And when you asked me to show up at 2:30, I was in the bathroom at 2:20 dutifully changing into my uniform, every single time.

Well. There is one stain on my employment record, one that I should divulge if I’m to be truly honest here. One summer, I signed up to scoop ice cream at Homer’s, one of my favorite hometown institutions. The place was decked out in bright red and smelled pleasantly of charred burger patties; they were known, though, for their legendary ice cream (the peppermint stick was unreal). On my first day of work, patrons were lined up out the door past 11 p.m., and my weak forearms and wrists struggled to scoop fast enough. On the second day, I could barely lift my sore arms, and had one too many fights with the ornery milkshake blender. On the third day, I quit.

It was really a shame. They had such good peach ice cream, and I really wished I could’ve shown my face there again.

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I’ll admit, being a perfectionist can be a useful thing: my bills are always paid on time, I never miss a work deadline, and my meticulous measuring skills usually lead to successful batches of cookies and brownies. On the other hand, there are plenty of times when that perfectionism is problematic, such as when I refuse to buy furniture until I find exactly the right thing to complement the blue shade of the walls, and the other furniture I already have, and no no no, that chair is too boxy and that one’s seat is too deep!

Are you exhausted yet? Care to sit down on a comfortable reading couch? I am, finally. This oversized chair arrived today, and I’m so excited to sprawl out under a fleece blanket and just read. Here’s what’s on my must-read list right now.

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Since Valentine’s Day is traditionally a recognition of romantic love, many people rightfully have strong feelings about the day, based on whether they’re single or coupled. But I enjoy thinking back to my elementary school days, when the holiday recognized platonic affection too. Surely you remember buying little valentines for everyone in your class, and receiving about twenty-five others in return? I do. Back then, Valentine’s Day was a pure, sweet, childlike celebration of love — and it needn’t have to change as you grow older. This year, even as I celebrated with my boyfriend, I made sure to recognize all the other kinds of love present in my life.

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Visiting animal shelters can be dangerous.

I’m not measuring danger in accidental flea infestations or bitten fingers, since in my experience, the critters at my local shelters have always been clean, laid-back, and polite. No, I’m talking about the danger of falling in love there — the kind of love that leaves you imagining your new friend curled up on the sunny bed in your apartment, or sprawling warmly on your lap during a lazy Sunday of reading.

It’s happened to me before, when as an eleven-year-old I refused to leave one without the scrawny calico kitten mewing plaintively in my arms. So when my boyfriend suggested last weekend that we go to a nearby shelter “just to look,” I knew what I was getting myself into.

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