So I was listening to Bob & Sheri this morning on the way in..

.. and sidenote: I LOVE THEM.  Y’all know I’m picky as hell about my radio dial, ESPECIALLY when it comes to morning shows.  I get so tired of hearing the giggly female cohost be vapid and airheaded on air, which is why I never fit well in the morning.  But Sheri?  SO FREAKIN’ FUNNY, SMART, AND QUICK WITTED.  OHMYGOD.  She would totally be in our Book Club.  Bob’s okay too.

.. oh, and I was sipping the Starbucks new signature hot chocolate blend, Salted Caramel Hot Chocolate, and let me just say THIS IS THE MOTHERLOAD OF KICK-ASS TASTE.  Seriously.  Fall is the time for salty and sweet foods (think: candy corn and peanuts, kettle corn, pecan pie with potato chips.. what, is that just me?), and this hot chocolate?!  OHMYDEARLORD.  Every sip makes me do the happy food dance.

.. anyway, the discussion in today’s Chat Room was about some might-be-fictional Guide to Being a Good Wife from the 1890s or something (I was too busy singing the praises of salted hot chocolate to really hear the intro), and one of the “tips” was to “crush the man’s spirit after the act of sex so he wouldn’t desire it anymore” and “try and start fights early in the evening as to be off-putting when it comes to sexual relations”.

(I put that in quotes, but I am totally summarizing.)

Of course, men were calling in left and right to say that OH-EM-GEE, their wives were doing that, too!  And they would actually FEIGN EXHAUSTION to get out of sex!  These women!, they’d exclaim.  With not wanting the sex!  Alas and alack!

I realize that, by penning this post, I open myself to a counter attack by some ignorant blogger as to how I’m just not doing the marital relations correctly and am making STUPID decisions and whatnot, but you know?  S’alright.  Because, DUDE, try walking in my Nine Wests for awhile.

One caller was just agog that his wife was pretending to be tired.  “She just stays home with the kids all day,” he complained.  “It’s a six year old and a four month old.”

Sheri, my hero, jumped in with, “Well, GOD, she is probably tired!  She just had a baby!”

The caller said, “Okay, but tired four months after the baby?”

And that’s when my head exploded.

DUDE.  Bryan and I went to bed at SEVEN-FREAKIN-THIRTY on Sunday night and we have a 10 month old.  Who is not even a handful.  The exhaustion I have at the end of the day is not even fully captured in the term “epic”; I can’t IMAGINE staying home with two kids.  It takes me a good three hours to shake Mommyness from me when I’m out on a date, and you just can’t be wearing Mommyness when doing the nasty.  There is a certain adjustment needed when you’re a mom, one where you have to learn to switch from Mommy to Sarah the Sex Kitten and back again as need be.  And when you’re tired?  Yo switch don’t work.

I’m sure Bryan would tell you that the frequency of our rendevous would definitely be worth improving, and I would agree. (Old joke: What is the one ingredient that will kill sex drive?  Wedding cake.) But there comes a point when you cuddle and play with hair and just generally LOVE eachother and that gets you by.

Also an interesting point brought up on today’s show: men are rejected countless times in the bedroom for exhaustion or headaches or whatever, but the ONE TIME a woman is rejected, she begins a downward spiral of self-esteem deflation.  Why is that?

In order to accurately celebrate our two year anniversary, I shall bequeath upon you some completely awkward pictures of my husband marrying my sister.

BEHOLD, THE STRANGENESS.

For those of you not in the know, like moi about two years ago, it is considered bad luck for the bride to participate in her own rehearsal. I don’t know why. I don’t make up these kinds of rules. Because, in my head, it is REALLY DAMN AWKWARD FOR MY HUSBAND TO MARRY MY SISTER.

But, she looked stunning. And he looked pretty great, too.

Here I am, watching my sister marry my husband.  Ddidn’t she look damn cute?  And why did I think plaid was a good choice for my ass? (On a sidenote, I would give both kidneys and an ovary to have that ass back.)

And while they’re working so hard, Kevin and I are goofing off.  It’s why I insisted he be in the wedding party, after all.  I needed someone to goof off with.

Alright, so, my bridal party was an awesome group of ladies.  They totally goofed off, too.  God love our minister for putting up with us.  Of course, God does love our minister.

It really was gorgeous.  And we knew the weather was going to hold till the next day.

But we didn’t mind asking for a little help.

Tomorrow, in our typical fashion, Bryan and I plan to cavort around the city and take pictures of how we spend the day.  We’ve talked about having a picnic lunch in the park, on the bench where he proposed; about me getting some writing done for MY NEXT BIG BLOG ADVENTURE; and us heading to the YMCA for some family exercise time.  I know those sound like riveting pictures.  But it’s just how we roll.

Two years ago.  It seems like ten, and yet still seems like yesterday.

So, through two years of marriage and several more of dating (or “putting up with eachother”), I can count on one hand the amount of times Bryan has enjoyed my cooking.

One time was when I made him “Dump Cake”.  Apparently, his mother used to make this, and when he’s sick, it’s my comfort food for him.  The bold flavors and tenacious sweetness of the dish makes him feel normal again.

The other time was last night.  I pretty much have become Betty Crocker, as cooking has turned out to be the only time in my day that I get to concentrate on ONE thing and then have a successful product at the end of it.  So even if I’ve felt like crap, I’ve still made a few things.  And from scratch, I feel the need to say.  I’ve done well.

This week, I made a peach cobbler crisp for dessert.  He was kind of wishy-washy about it.  I mean, he ate it, but he wasn’t ecstatic about it.

Last night, while he drove The Boy around creation searching for a youth jock strap (I’m SOOO not a part of that outting), I threw together some made-from-scratch banana pudding. 

Or, as Nashville calls it, “nanner puddin”.  I think he had a stuffed animal by the same name.  Was that Nashville?  Some guy.  That I knew.  Once.

So, anyway, I made the custard and threw together some meringue, and threw it in the oven.  And when it came out, it was perfect.  The meringue was just brown enough, and it was warm and oozy.  See?

But it looks.. well.. I just knew Bryan wouldn’t like it.  Or try it, even.

But I was tired and laying on the couch when he got home, (OH, AND HE ADMITTED HE HAD GONE TO CHICK-FIL-A FOR A MILKSHAKE.. BASTARDO!) so I made him make me a bowl.  And from the kitchen, this is what I heard:

“Smells good in here, honey.  Wow.  Oh.  Wow, honey, this looks and .. my God, this smells sooooo amazing!  Honey, THIS is what banana pudding should be!  I may have to have some of this!”

Ladies and gentlemen, my husband had a food orgasm over banana pudding last night.

Ta da.