I don’t really know how it happened, but I can finally say that we’ve made it. We’ve moved on up to the East Side and a de-luxe apartment in the sky. We’ve arrived, baby!

Not that we’re livin’ large.

We make a decent family income, live in a modest house, have nice cars, get to do things, but no one would look at us and say we were rich, let alone wealthy. Let alone a part of the Wealthy Elite.

And yet, apparently, we are.

I was a wild party girl and I dated a LOT before I got married. My husband is nice, intelligent, witty, handsome and supportive. He’s also not a jerk off, moron, loser, weirdo. So, you know, he stood out from a lot of the guys I dated.

What finally convinced me to choose my husband over all the other qualified applicants? (WARNING: All lines and incidents are true. The names have been changed because I’ve blocked them out.)

I’m not much of a girl for topical events. They bore me just a little. But there are still things I’m quite passionate about.

Aerosmith was, is, and will always be better than the Rolling Stones.

Vanilla is fine, but chocolate is better.

Nothing, not even chocolate, however, is better than sex.

Sleep is awesome. But, nope, still not quite better than sex.

I care a lot more about Brad and Angelina than I do about spotted owls. Is that wrong?