It turns out not every member of the Pea household was thrilled to have their picture in a tiara on the blog yesterday.  It occurred to me after the fact that even though, “I promise not to publicly humiliate you on my blog,” wasn’t one of my wedding vows, it probably should have been.

So today my goal was to somehow makeup to Pea Daddy for my transgressions.  I’m noticing a trend here…a six year long trend.  I looked for inspiration by getting in touch with my masculine side,

Playing with cars:

(Nevermind that it was in tutus and the cars were getting ready to go to the ball),

Reading men’s magazines:

(Nevermind that they had topless men on their covers),

Eating pizza straight from the fridge:

(Nevermind that there wasn’t a smidgen of real cheese or meat on it),

Chasing girls:

(Nevermind that they were two and four year olds).

Still, nothing came to me.  I decided to bite the bullet and do what I always do when I’m in the doghouse…I made Chocolate Frozen Bananas (what did you think I was going to say?!?)!

Problem was, I’d used the last of the peanuts earlier in the week after I tried to suck up for shirking all parental and marital duties by making out with my bottle of Nyquil.  Then, much like I’m sure Benjamin Franklin felt with that key tied to his kite, genius struck!

I sliced the bananas AND smeared them with peanut butter,

then I dipped them in chocolate,

then I froze them.

Wowsa!  I’d post a picture of my nine month pregnant belly, my 3-inch thick glasses and my frizzy, natural hair texture on a blog for some of those Chocolate Dipped Peanut Butter Bananas.  Oh wait.  I already did that.

As if that weren’t enough, I did something else that Pea Daddy has been begging me to do for a long time.  No, not that (seriously, what kind of sick person are you!?!), I prayed to the Root Beer Gods!

Pea Daddy and I have an ongoing debate about who the Virgil’s Guy looks like.

He says Kevin from Top Chef,

I say Zac Brown.

Ever since I started this blog, Pea Daddy has enjoyed the many perks and has asked me to contact Reeds, Inc., the company who makes the root beer of his dreams, and beg for some love from the bearded man.

I constructed a little email in which I confessed my blogging wife sins, from implying that Pea Daddy would be competing in the Miss Oregon pageant to taking too much liberty with Photoshop.  I begged, trying to convince the reader that the very foundation of our marriage could only be rebuilt by some coupons, stickers or any other root beer paraphernalia hanging around their headquarters.

Shortly later, I received this response from Reed’s Inc. Chief Operating Officer:

You’re too funny.  What’s your address?

To add a little cushion to my apology, I offered to make Pea Daddy whatever he wanted for dinner.  His choice: Chili dogs and fries!

(Nevermind that it’s vegetarian chili, veggie dogs, whole grain buns, organic cheese and sweet potato wedges)

Now I’ve just got to stay out of trouble over the weekend.  I’m not about to grovel to Tommy Bahama and I’m all out of bananas.