This past weekend, Mr. How Sweet and I went for a little Sunday drive because why not waste gas when the economy is tanked and one of you is unemployed? for our anniversary.

I have said it before and I will say it again, but I love fall.

If there is a place where the fall air is blowing, the leaves are always golden and a cinnamon spice candle is always burning, I must live there.

That is my utopia.

All I really wanted to do was drive somewhere and take pretty pictures of fall scenes.

So we did that.

And then I uploaded the pictures and thought… “Well, that’s kind of boring.”

Then I just decided to ramble.

I wish I could tell you that Mr. How Sweet is the perfect gentlemen when he drives.

But I can’t.

Mainly because I’m still scarred from the obscenties he screamed and the way he smells after 2 hours in the car.

We really took this drive to go to the Seven Springs Autumnfest, but that turned to mush once we got there and realized the festival was really great if you have children.

And even though sometimes I feel like I have a 37-year old child of my own, Autumnfest wasn’t holding our attention like it should. It was full of crafts – which are great – but not my thing. You will learn why tomorrow.

Perhaps the most significant thing I learned on this car ride, while celebrating 2 years of marriage, is that if you want to hear your husband really shout obscenities, you should try taking pictures with a large camera at different angles out his front window.

I think the only thing Mr. How Sweet really learned on this sweet, little Sunday drive is that he should have invested in a muzzle.

And we don’t have a dog.

See, when I write really long, boring posts am on a really long car ride, I like to talk.

A lot.

About major life issues. Like what pair of black stilettos I should buy next.

And Mr. How Sweet isn’t quite the… talkative type.

But that’s okay.

I can just see us 40 years from now going on a Sunday drive, eating at the early bird special, and heading to bed at 9pm.

Oh wait… that already happens. Oh well. We’re old souls.