I heaved a melodramatic sigh and rolled over in bed.

“I guesssss. But what have you done for me lately?”

“Offered to marry you?”

The Dork Lord and I have been engaged since Wednesday (try keeping THAT a secret for a few days!) and ever since he produced the ring, he’s been attempting to use it as leverage. Like, say, if I give him a wet willy while we’re watching Mad Men, he’ll threaten me with a 30-day return period. Whatever. He’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead finger.

It happened rather unceremoniously, which will be the answer to your first question. I was home from work, post-migraine, looking about as lovely as one looks after 12 hours of sweating and mini-pukes, when he showed up in the middle of the day. Acting totally effing weird. I asked if he came home for lunch. Nope, he’d eaten. Then he wandered around the apartment until I almost lost my mind.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re home in the middle of the day acting like a weirdo and it’s freaking me out.”

The somewhere in the middle of all that weirdness, he took a ring from his pocket, dropped to one knee and asked the question that got him a “Duh!” response. And thus, we are affianced. But not that I was allowed to tell anybody. See, everyone I know, they love the Interwebs. And since we were having dinner with his folks on Friday night, and we didn’t want them finding out from some enthusiastic and misguided Facebook comment, the secret was going to have to keep until then.

The secret keeping? It was not fun. The rest of it? Lots of fun. But I’ll tell you, being engaged feels an awful lot like being hungover. Oh, man. So much celebrating. In fact, there’s still champagne in our fridge and if you adios it while I’m at work, well, I would probably kiss you right on the mouth. Turns out, I don’t have a lot of self control when it comes to merry making.

Also on pain of sounding like a codger, a meanie and a gigantic party pooper, I hate (HATE!) April Fool’s Day. The jokes, for the most part, seem to fall into two categories: the what about that is a good joke kind or the damaging kind. I have a really rich interior life. I make up stories and fibs and half realities all the time but – and here’s the key – I keep them to myself. Or, I write them down as fiction. But mostly, I keep them to myself. Because when you go public with those kinds of untruths and tell perhaps, Facebook, that you won a MAJOR AWARD! or eloped with a handsome stranger! or just got some horrible news! only to reveal that ha ha, it was all a big lie, it just makes you look sad. Like you shoulda kept that story for you and your imaginary friends and basked in all the imaginary congratulations/sympathy in private. Because now you are exposed. We know how your brain works and that’s like knowing details about your underwears.

There’s something really wrong with me, isn’t there?

So I spied with my little eye through the cloudy peephole in our door until they revealed themselves. And they were not gamers. Phew. They were a family with multiple young children. In a two bedroom apartment. With walls that touch ours. Ree ree ree!

Gamers and little ones. What is, groups of people who make a lot of noise doing almost nothing, Alex?

I already know how this is going to go, because Sarah is currently living out this magical dream in London. The tykes that share her bedroom wall have kazoos. I probably don’t have to tell you how awesomely I’d take to that bit of musical exploration. In fact, it’s through Sarah’s twitter feed (sorry, she’s got it all privatized or I’d link) that I’ve been able to participate in the joy of having wee young neighbors without actually having wee young neighbors. What I’m saying is, I didn’t need any of my own. All set.

Stuff I Don’t Need that I’d be Okay with Getting Anyway Because I’m Adaptable
More black shoes
A piece of chocolate cake
a la mode
Presents
Is it redundant if I list Oreos after we’ve already covered cake? No? Okay, then, Oreos.

See how nowhere on that list is three small children living in a two bedroom apartment adjacent to the place where I get precious, precious sleep and routinely participate in activities the sound effects of which are not appropriate for small ears? Yes, well. Got it anyway. And seeing as we have a lease renewal sitting on our kitchen counter the next two weeks are going to be used for research. Which reminds me, I need to google “apparatus which measures how loud stuff is. In decibels. Or whatever,” because if those new little fellas are louder than the disappointment of missing the Really Big Coin on Level 2, I won’t make it.