It all started beautifully:

Even Stella got into it:

This Valentine's day, I planned an elaborate three-course meal for my boyfriend Chris and I to eat together. I thought I was being super-impressive by cooking oysters in butter with a champagne vinegar mignonette, "beeting heart" salad with roasted beets cut out with a heart-shaped cookie cutter on a bed of watercress, asparagus and steaks. And to be fair, while we ate and enjoyed champagne, it was delicious. What sucked was later.

No, I'm not talking about later as in one of those epic Valentine's Day fights couples have that involve violent drunkeness, broken dishes and an ever-after aversion to the day, I'm talking about when my stomach started to feel like a long car ride between Mitt Romney and that gay Vietnam vet he denied partner benefits to. Slowly it dawned on me: it must be the oysters. Cautiously I asked Chris how he felt, and he felt lousy too. So there you have it. I accidentally tried to kill a man on the day of love. Whatever, God.

Most likely, this was the result of red tide, and after doing a little research I discovered that only the ignorant and mentally ill buy oysters from B.C. Our mild coastal climate results in frequent algae blooms, which means you're playing Russian roulette with your intestines. I'm certain you can get safe oysters in BC, I'm not saying that, but I am saying that all it takes is one to make you wish you'd never been born and wonder why you don't always sleep on your bathroom floor because it's so nice and cool.

So, yeah. We're still together but yeesh. Talk about your all time worst fuck-ups. I guess the moral of this story is don't get creative on V day. Because if you do get creative in the kitchen you might not be able to be creative in other places. Eh? Ehhhh? See what I did there?