"You know what I want? KFC," she said.

"Really?" I asked. "Because we could probably go someplace a little nicer."

"No. I'm in the mood for KFC."

My marriage proposal was preceded by a three-piece order of regular crispy, mashed potatoes with gravy, and two biscuits. Utensil of choice for the most important night of our lives: the spork.

Now that the moment is upon me, the combination of nerves and four thousand calories of secret herbs and spices is exacting a very specific toll on my body in the form of what I will delicately refer to as an "ass geyser." After a painful and rather effluvial half hour, I sneak into our bedroom to retrieve the ring. Martha is still in the living room when I return, the ring box hidden behind my back. How to do this? The whole "on bended knee" thing has always struck me as kind of corny. Who am I, Sir Lancelot? Instead I just sit down beside her and present the box. Inside is the one-carat, classic-cut, "Tiffany style" platinum diamond ring I ordered from the Internet.

(Yes, I ordered my wife's engagement ring off the Internet because it was so much cheaper than Tiffany's. I think Tiffany's is such a rip-off. I hate that place. It is, of course, Martha's favorite store.)

"You know what? There was something else," I say, presenting the ring. I don't know how else to say it, so I just say it: "Will you marry me?"

She takes a deep breath and gives the answer every man wants to one day hear: "I don't know."

I am overjoyed. Wait. What? What did she just say?

"I don't know," she stammers, "I just need to think for a second."

She needs to think? Think about what? For a year now she's been saying she wants to get married. "Mmm, ice cream, let's get married." "Yay. We're having sex. Let's get married." "This is a good TV show. Let's get married." Now I'm proposing and she needs to think about it? What the fuck?

Maybe I really did catch her off guard. Maybe she didn't see the diamond information on the computer screen. Maybe this is all a complete shock to her. Maybe I just made a huge mistake.

Finally, after what feels like a long silence, she says, "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll marry you."

But now I'm a little freaked out. "

Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Because it seems like maybe you're not sure."

"I'm sure. Yes."

"Because if you're not sure . . ."

"Yes!"

She's sure. We're getting married. I leap on top of her and kiss her on the hardwood floor. "Ow," she says. "You're hurting my back."

Which utensil will accompany the most important night of your life? The spork? Chopsticks? The first step to finding out is to sign up for Nerve Dating.

Text copyright © 2012 by Hot Schwartz Productions. From You're Not Doing It Right: Tales of Marriage, Sex, Death, and Other Humiliations. Published by Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Printed with permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.