Sometimes I decide to take a trip down memory lane and look through our old digital photo albums. Sometimes I come across something I intentionally blotted from my memory. Sometimes I have a little too much red wine and decide to make a blog post about it. This is one of those times.
So, Dom proposed to me a little less than a year ago, although we were living in Kentucky at the time and didn’t want the occasion to be tainted by… well… Kentucky. So, it was a romantic yet spur of the moment, low-key affair. Now that we’ve moved she’s decided to “do it right” and plan out a whole big thing I can’t know anything about. I think it’s sweet that she wants to do it the old fashioned way, getting down on one knee and all that, but even if she didn’t, I’d be perfectly content with our engagement the way it is.
I’m not really an “event” person. In fact, my childhood left me with a very deep rooted hatred/phobia of events, holidays, parties and even lengthier-than-usual shopping trips. But that’s a post for another day. I’m not a big jewelry person, either. For me to wear a piece regularly, it has to be really special and on top of that, I’m extremely picky. So, Dom wisely decided to save herself the headache and let me pick out my ring to order online.
It took me a couple of days, but I found the one I wanted. Pretty, simple and blue with opals instead of diamonds. Call me a hipster, but I hate the idea of someone somewhere in the world dying for a fashion statement. Especially when I can’t even tell the difference between the real thing and the $19.99 Walmart version.
I’d be lying if I said the ring was my first choice, though, or that I picked it out on my own. I’m not ashamed to admit that my first pick was vetoed both by Dom and my best friend. Um. You see, I wanted this:
Take a moment and reapply whatever respect or esteem you may have had for me as a human being to someone more deserving. Finished? Okay.
I know what you’re thinking:
1. It’s $14.99
2. There’s a rainbow in the fake diamond shaped like a heart.
3. Why are there hands?
All valid questions/statements with perfectly valid answers.
1. No, it was on sale for $12 at the time. Does that make it worse? Oh.
2. That makes it, like, 33.3% classier than a normal fake diamond. And also, rainbow stands for gays. Why do you hate the gays so much?
3. To hold the heart-shaped fake rainbow diamond. Obviously.
So, yeah, I basically have no taste but, in my defense, I was still on Vicodin for my wisdom tooth surgery. Lesson learned: Friends don’t let friends pick out engagement rings under the influence of heavy duty painkillers. It will be tacky and you will lose all your respect for them.
So, yeah, that’s the ring that I could have ended up with. Instead, I got this:
I’m not gonna lie. There’s still a little tiny part of me buried deep in my horridly tacky heart that misses that hands giving a rainbow heart a happy ending ring.
Anyway, the ring was a little big so we decided to get it sized down. Before that, though, I went to visit a friend who was moving back home for the Summer. We hung out in her dorm and watched the new BBC Sherlock series on DVD. It was a hall-style dorm, meaning she shared a public bathroom with about 20 other girls and their guests.
I’ll leave out the details, but the ring slipped off my finger and went down the toilet right as it was being flushed. To understand the magnitude of what’s about to happen, you must first understand that I was diagnosed with severe, clinical OCD at age 3. I take medication as prevention against an alphabetized spice rack and germ-induced panic attacks.
In a panic, I reached into the communal toilet and grabbed for the ring. It slipped through my fingers into the watery abyss and I proceeded to power wash my hands for the next ten minutes.
I finally trudged back to my friend’s room in a haze of shame and certain resignation to the fate of toilet AIDS. I didn’t say much. I tried to enjoy Sherlock, knowing it might be the last time I saw it before my newfound disease claimed me. Would they name it after me? Would it be called Lana’s Hand?
I returned home, immediately went into the bathroom, and soaked my hand in rubbing alcohol while I thought of a way to break the news to Dom. Needless to say, when I finally told her, she laughed her ass off.
The conversation went something like this:
Me: So… I flushed my ring down the toilet at Mya’s.
Dom: …wait, you what? *stifled laugh*
Me: I flushed my ring but don’t be mad, I tried to reach in and grab it but it was going too fast!
Dom: You what? YOU reached into a dirty public bathroom to get a ring?
Dom: Oh my God. That’s disgusting. I’m kind of flattered.
Me: I’m glad you find this funny. I’ll just be over here, dying of toilet AIDS.
She was laughing too hard at that point for any real conversation to continue. She finally managed to reassure me that I probably wasn’t going to die of any toilet-related disease, and promised to buy me a new ring before she proposed again. We got a place holder ring in the meantime, but every time I happen to glance down at my left hand, I remember.
Hey, it could have been the Claddagh ring down there. Now that would have been a sight for all the sewer alligators and mutant gold fish. I have a feeling they would’ve built a cult around it or something.
And there you have it. The story of how I flushed my engagement ring down the toilet or, if you prefer, “How to get not one but THREE engagement rings out of your fiancee.” Pay attention, ladies. I might start teaching online workshops.
There’s probably some anti-gay marriage message that could be drawn from all this, but I’ll leave that to Fox and Friends. Instead, here’s another picture of that dead homing pigeon I got Dom to draw for me.
Cracks me up every time.