The Key to Marital Bliss: Bedlam in the Bedroom

Yesterday was our 9th wedding anniversary. Mike and I uncorked a bottle of white wine, cooked some shrimp in it, poured the rest down the sink and toasted our commitment with some frosty Goose Island Summertime Ale. That's the way we roll in our hizzouse.

I told him it didn't feel like nine years had gone by.

"Because every day with me is special and I'm easy like Sunday morning."

Whatever, Mike.

But, I wondered why that was. Nine years is a long-ass time. (No, not as long as 15, 25 or 50, but it's the longest time I've done anything for except grow hair and nails.) How did we survive nearly a decade without any major issues or fights? (Not counting when he refused to erase Celebrity Apprentice off the DVR and the finale of American Idol didn't record. Oh, don't get me started.)

I think the key to a happy marriage is bedroom bedlam. No, not the $1,500-inspired Pure Romance sort of bedroom antics some of all y'all are so fond of. What I'm talking about is 100% natural. No additives. No preservatives.

I'm talking about snoring and how I combat it.

Mike snores. He snores a lot. As a result, I don't sleep. A lot. He snores loudly. And, he weighs twice as much as me so I can't just get him to "roll over." As a result, I've perfected what I call the sleeping sidekick. When he starts sawing logs, I wind up and deliver a karate kick to the ass that would make my Sensei proud. He stops snoring. I get my aggression out and he never wakes up. It's perfect. If it's been a really tough day where, um, let's see, maybe a certain TV show didn't record and I'm irked beyond belief, I might deliver some foot fire in rapid succession.

And, that my friends, is why this marriage works. I never yell at him or nag him. I just wait until he falls asleep and starts snoring to deliver some sleeper kicks to the arse. Problems solved!



Mike and I doing our incredibly queer and incredibly choreographed wedding dance.
While learning the steps the CD would continue playing past our song and we'd have
to keep dancing to "The Bitch is Back." Talk about foreshadowing.


Mike shoves cake in my face and ruins my self-applied Clinique make-up.


My Dad in a wig. C'mon. This doesn't need a caption.


Friends, family, wigs!


And they lived happily ever after because Mike's ass became a target.