On preschool nights Ellie has the worst time falling asleep. So many thoughts and conversations are swirling around in her little head and she just can’t shut them up.

I’ll read her a story (hopefully one that does not include Barbie) and get her all snuggled in bed and she’ll keep popping her head up, remembering a mermaid Katie brought in for show and tell or how the new boy didn’t know the rules (“He got up when we were in the circle, momma!”).

By the time her eyelids start drooping, I’m pretty sure she has given me a play-by-play of her entire school day.

I came downstairs one night, particularly exasperated at the length of time it took for her to fade and my husband just stared at me, smirking.

“Apples and trees, my friend.”

I looked at him in exaggerated horror. “What are you implying?”

My husband and I met in 2001 in my first college class. By “met” I mean, he walked in late in an over-sized hockey jersey—blue eyes sparkling and sarcasm flying. I was already seated, quietly, with a fresh notebook open and pen ready for note taking. It should have been obvious from that very first second that we couldn’t be more different, but he looked like trouble and I immediately decided it was the kind of trouble I was looking for.

At first, I meant it in a broad sense. I had a boyfriend at the time, but my friend and I agreed that Tim was the perfect crush to serve as a distraction from tedious lectures and awkward professors. We knighted him with a nickname and the seeds of obsession were planted.

It’s pretty safe to say that neither of us would have guessed that within five years we’d be raising a newborn in a basement apartment in the Bronx. Life is kind of interesting that way.

Thrirteen years later (um, that just made me feel old) we went back—this time with our two daughters in tow. It was kind of like entering the Twilight Zone.

Ellie wanted to play with the Barbie Dream House. I was all for it because it meant she would get lost in her own little world, singing and playing and being generally cute while I had the opportunity to get a sweet chunk of work done.

I went over to help her pull the mammoth thing out and set it up in a place that made sense (as opposed to the corner she was trying to drag it to where she would have to sit squished against the couch and the side of the house to get any playing done). I opened it up and was immediately furious. The middle piece was there, but the pieces on the side that folded down to complete the (very essential) top level of the house were gone. Gone. Disappeared. Nowhere to be found.

I immediately grabbed my phone and angrily poked at it. I used more force than usual in creating my text, hoping my husband would feel the anger (and obviously not reading it to check for autocorrect-induced typos [suing = playing]):

Since I talk so much about the ways in which my husband and I don’t work well together (like his snooze button habit, my control freak issues, and the date ideas that could never work), I thought Valentine’s Day would be a good day to talk about the ways we do.

We’re an unlikely pair.

Since Valentine’s day is tomorrow and there is an overabundance of lovey dovey ooey gooeyness going on in the blogosphere, I thought I’d seize the moment and give you the opposite.

Believe me, I love lovey dovey ooey gooeyness as much as the next girl. If you’ve got a rom com, I’m so down to watch it. I’ll even bring the chocolate if you’ve got a cozy blanket.

Still, with so much romance floating around out there I thought I’d give you three date ideas you shouldn’t try–well, more like three date ideas I wouldn’t be caught dead trying. I don’t know what your relationship is like, but I know these would not work for me and my hubs.