Roses are red, violets are blue- is this the year my luck comes through?

Valentine’s Day is a magical holiday full of romance, sweet gestures, and grand declarations of love. At least, that’s what the greeting card industry tells us. For me? It’s an annual exercise in cautious optimism—hopeful that this year will be the one that finally breaks my streak of lukewarm Valentine’s Days. 

Then again, given my track record, that’s not saying much.

Let’s start with a simple fact: I have always been a flower girl. I adore fresh bouquets, the sweet scent of roses, the charm of a well-arranged bunch of sunflowers (my favorite) or daisies. And yet, despite my evident enthusiasm for all things floral, I have never received flowers from someone I was dating on Valentine’s Day. Not once.

Oh, I’ve received flowers, sure—just not in the way you’d hope. A few years ago, I was thrilled to find a bouquet with a cute little card waiting for me. Overcome with excitement, I immediately texted my then-boyfriend while he was finishing a shift at work: “Thank you for the flowers!” His response? “What flowers?”

A slow sense of dread crept in as I opened the card. My heart sank. The bouquet wasn’t from him—it was from my aunt, as a thank you for helping her clean her windows. It was a lovely gesture, truly, but not exactly the sweeping romantic moment I had envisioned.

I spent the first Valentine’s Day with a boy when I was 16. He took me to McDonald's, which, okay, not exactly fine dining, but I wasn’t picky. Then he presented me with a necklace—hidden in my dipping sauce. My BBQ sauce. A sweet thought in theory, but no amount of scrubbing will ever fully remove the smell of old McDonald's BBQ sauce from jewelry. 

I tried for years. Eventually, I just threw it out. No lady should have to walk around smelling like expired fast food condiments.

Then, there was the time I went on a Valentine’s Day date with a guy in Detroit, where I lived before moving to Lincoln County. He took me to a sushi restaurant, and everything seemed fine—until I noticed a server staring at me—a long, hard, uncomfortable stare. Turns out, she was his ex. Yes, his ex worked there. And not only did she work there, but she looked exactly like me.

I don’t mean just vaguely similar—same build, same eye color, same hair color. And, to make matters even weirder, we shared the same first name. It was like staring into a bizarre parallel universe where I suddenly became a server at a sushi restaurant in Detroit. This guy had a particular type, and needless to say, I never saw him again.

After that, I decided to take matters into my own hands and ditch the traditional Valentine’s Day in favor of “Galentine’s Day”—a day to celebrate with your best friends. And let me tell you, it was the best Valentine’s I had ever had. No awkward dinner dates, no mistaken identity crises—just good food, great company, and a whole lot of laughter.

But, as life goes, my Galentine’s crew eventually went their separate ways. I joined the military and moved to Washington State, and the rest either found “the one” or got jobs in different places. 

So, here I am again, staring down another Valentine’s Day with cautious optimism.

But this year? This year, I have my eye on a local rancher—one you may recognize from previous columns I have written. 

And now, my nerves are soaring, knowing that he’ll probably read this embarrassing synopsis of my past. I could have played it cool and kept things mysterious, but no. Instead, I’ve chosen the path of absolute chaos and printed my feelings for everyone, including him.

So, Happy Valentine’s Day to me and to my readers! And if you need me, I’ll be hiding under my desk, waiting to see if this rancher brings me flowers or a restraining order.