Prince is coming to the Showbox in Seattle in mid-April, and I was super set on going until I heard the news that tickets are $250 a pop. What??? I know this quirky little man who avoids eye contact is a musical genius and all, but I'm starting to think he's one sexy greedy mothafuckah. To be fair, the Showbox is a smaller venue and the law of supply and demand applies, I guess, which means I probably shouldn't get my hopes up for a Living Social deal on this one.

Before I was disappointed by the ticket cost, I was talking enthusiastically about the possibility of seeing Prince to the fword as we walked out of Red Mill the other night. I was all, "I feel like if I get to see Prince, this year will really mean something." As the words were coming out of my mouth, my engagement ring caught the light of the setting sun and I hastily added, "Also getting engaged." The fword started laughing and said that aspect hadn't even crossed his mind. He was too busy thinking about what a low bar I have if Prince was going to make this year meaningful for me.

What can I say? It's been a dream.

At the end of last week, the fword was terribly sick for a couple of days with a very bad cold/flu. He had body aches, a fever, stuffy nose, and persistent headache. I lovingly made him chicken quinoa soup and hot toddies, and forced him to inhale steam from a boiling pot of water. Now I appear to have the cold (so far without the horrible flu symptoms) and in talking about the possibility of it getting worse, I asked fword if he would make me soup if I became bedridden.

Me: Will I hear the whir of the food processor?

Him: What you'll hear is the whir of the microwave as I heat a can of soup from the store for you.

This is betrothed bliss.