the one ring

I lied, last entry.

Meet the real one ring. Accept no substitutes.

Hurrah!!

"You know you could've just bought me one of those lollipop sucker rings and I would've married you anyway."

"Yes."

"But if you were going to do it, I'm glad you did it thoroughly."

"Heh. Happy?"

"SHINY!!!!!!"

"That's what I thought."

"Ooooh."

"Now you're mine."

"I love you. Shiny! And now I'm hungry."

The Guy presented the ring to me when I got home from The Cow. He'd called me last night to tell me it wouldn't come in until Thursday, and bewailed the delay. "It's okay," I consoled, rather inattentively. "I don't care. I won't be back until Wednesday anyway."

"I care," he said sulkily.

This afternoon, it was a completely different Guy on the phone. "Come by my work on your way back from the Cow," he coaxed.

"Will you come with me to the thing?" I asked him. One of the hotels we're considering for our wedding reception has a Wednesday evening open house, during which event coordinators give tours and visitors can sample the in-house catering. Just thinking about it made my brain ache; I was two hours into a three and a half hour drive, and the open house would be starting in another two hours.

Given this threat to his peace of mind, the Guy instantly backpedaled. "I'm feeling sick," he announced smugly.

"I'm tired. I think I'll just skip visiting you at work and meet you at home. I'll go straight to the open house thingy. If you're not going, I'll just see you at the apartment anyway."

"No!" the Guy interjected, hastily. "You have to come visit me at work!"

At the other end of the phone, his tail was beginning to wag.

Like I said, the Guy is constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret. After our initial post-trip reunion in his company's parking lot -- a revolting display of public affection witnessed by two middle-aged Indian men doing shots of espresso and a pigeon with a severe weight problem -- we settled down for a spot of hasty catch-up.

"I'm feeling sick," the Guy said again, when the subject of the open house resurrected itself. "I'm thinking I'll go home early, maybe stop by the Diva's place. I promised to help her with some software."

"Good idea," I congratulated mildly.

At which point the crafty Guy, laboring happily under the impression that he was being subtle, asked, "You want to go out and get some dinner? Maybe we should go out somewhere. Someplace nice."

I eyed him. He was already starting to chortle, apparently believing that this phenomenon would somehow slip by without my notice. "Did the ring come?" I demanded. And the Guy dissolved into mirth. That's my Brit. Stiff upper lip, my plump right buttock.

He came home with the box tucked in his pocket, where it had been warming his thigh all day. Supremely pleased with himself, preening contentedly, he dragged me to the first clean, relatively uncluttered space he could find, and went down on one knee. He giggled. I giggled. He presented me with the ring. We giggled some more.

We're not good at romance, the Guy and I. We try, but somehow our senses of humor always seem to get in the way.

I'm going to get married!

(Heh.)