I recently had a life changing experience. It's a positive life change - has nothing to do with bad turbulence on a flight, bad dealings in a business plan, or bad Mexican food near a co-ed bathroom. This experience is one that most of us go through in a lifetime if you're lucky enough to find someone that you can tolerate, or more realistically, they can tolerate you for longer than a week and a half. I decided, after 8 years, to propose to my wonderful girlfriend.
My lady and I had been together for eight years. Most people (i.e. my parents, her parents, every aunt/uncle/cousin we have, friends, acquaintances and outward strangers) all thought we were bat-shit crazy to be together without "putting a ring on it." They would say very cliche things like "Shit or get off the pot" which, while I understand the metaphor, isn't exactly how I'd explain my relationship with my lovely gal. Is marriage some sort of grand situation where you'd never have to empty your bowels again?
The first step in the journey to "off the Pottsville" would be to find the perfect ring. I'm not exactly a jeweler so I wasn't sure where to begin. Should I hit up Kay or Zales at the mall? Is there a Robbins Bros. nearby? Maybe she would appreciate it if I "went to Jaryd!" After conferring with her best friend and "The Bachelor" watching co-hort, I was informed that, "if she finds out you got her something at Zales, she'll shove that ring right up your ass!" That didn't sound like a very good proposal, although it did sound like an interesting honeymoon.
I found a ring at a boutique jeweler and gravitated towards a beautiful piece that seemed to fit my gorgeous life partner's unique taste in jewelry and my "Jew-ey" taste in prices. As I was buying this beautiful testament to my undying love for my one and only, I realized that I have no idea what her ring size is, so I had to abort the mission. I wasn't sure how to find out the dimensions of her ring finger so I once again called on the help of her best friend/gay bar dancing associate. I was informed of said friend's ring size and then told that mi amore's finger is at least one size bigger. At least one size bigger is what I assume my girlfriend is thinking about during copulation with me.
I proudly purchased the ring, clapped my hands together and thought, "the hard part is over." As it turns out, the buying of the ring is the easiest part to handle. Now I had to figure out the best way to ask for hand in marriage without doing something too unoriginal, stupid or flamboyant. My girl is not the kind that would want to be proposed to in a crowded place like a trendy restaurant, a public place like a sporting event's Jumbo-tron or a glamorous place like the "Glitter Gulch" in downtown Las Vegas.
I decided to make my plea for her hand in marriage at a rarely visited dog beach in Malibu, California. This was great for a few reasons: There will not be many people out there so I can find a secluded place away from the action and not embarrass her too much. The golden sand and crystal blue water will be a beautiful landscape to remember as we look back fondly on this momentous occasion. And our two canine companions will be present which means she'll have to say yes - otherwise I'll take the four legged members of our household, swim to Catalina Island and send a ransom note in a bottle back to shore. The best way to get someone to spend the rest of their life with you is through some sort of peculiar dognapping scheme.
I told my roommate with benefits that we should take our pooches to Malibu on December 30th, 2014 for no reason in particular. While she was in the bedroom getting ready to go, it dawned on me that all I had was a ring and no other celebratory accessories. It might seem anti-climactic to propose and then not be able to continue the momentum with some libations. I grabbed 2 champagne glasses and a delectable $8 bottle of Wilson Creek's Almond Champagne that we were saving for the next day and snuck it into our traveling beach bag. We made the 25 mile drive to Malibu through windy, one-way, hillside trails and arrived - pooches, ring and champagne in tow - to the desolate and gorgeous dog beach. As we exited the Toyota Corolla and made our way to the spot that will be remembered forever, our little dachsund/min-pin mix decided that would be the best time to start vomiting like he just attended his first frat party. That little bastard has always been a cock blocker but now he was taking it to new levels.
Now, I don't want to worry too much about the little bugger. He was fine, but my almost fiancee assumed he was inches from death and must be rushed to the hospital ASAP. I didn't really have much of a choice in this matter - it's not like I could've said, "Hey, why don't we at least chance our puppy's demise and check out the ocean for 2 minutes or so?" We rushed back to the car and I realized that I must call an audible. There were three things I had decided: 1) Proposing in a car while speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway might be a tad dangerous. 2) I wanted to be engaged in 2014 and not on New Years, which left that day as the ONLY day left on the 2014 calendar that wasn't designated for Ryan Seacrest's toothy smile at midnight. And 3) I wasn't going to fucking propose at The Los Feliz Small Animal Hospital.
Our little bundle of fur was fine so we took him home. We were told to monitor him at home which means I had no choice but to take care of my "bidness" at the apartment I share with my true love and our pesky, four legged friends. I had to think fast because I know I couldn't just plop down on one knee in the living room while she cradled a pretending to be sick mutt and watching DVR'd episodes of "The Shah's of Sunset." I excused myself from the residence so I could get some flowers and a nicer bottle of champagne. I mean, she deserves more than an $8 dollar bottle of sparkling vino... my baby's getting a bottle of the nicest $17 bubbly that Alberston's has to offer! I grabbed the champagne and a dozen red roses and headed back home. I didn't want her to see the flowers so I snuck through the backdoor... which maybe I'll do again on the wedding night. (OH NO HE DI'N'T!)
I layed down the flowers in the hallway leading to the bedroom and called for future bride to help me out with something. She begrudgingly left the couch to find out what her lazy boyfriend needed help with. I had secured myself in the room with a chilled bottle of champagne ready to be opened and an engagement ring that may or may not fit on her finger. I heard her make her way down the hallway and had a five second panic attack where I literally had no idea what I was supposed to do. Should I have the ring out of my pocket? Should I be on one knee already? Should the ring be behind my back? Should I stand and then take a knee like I'm on a junior high football team? I decided to be on one knee when she entered the room and I would calmly ask her to marry me. She opened the door and said exactly the loving words you'd expect someone to say when they see their life partner on one knee with an engagement ring raised towards her. Those words were, "Whoa, dude!"
I would love to say that I was very manly and calm and asked for her hand the way a suave leading man would in a romantic movie starring a younger Richard Gere. Instead, I blubbered through a cheesy speech that sounded more like something from "The Elephant Man" than "Pretty Woman." To everyone's shock, she said yes and now we get to start our life together as an engaged couple. I look forward to our future wedding, our grand life together and a brand new set of silverware that one of our seldom seen cousins in Arkansas buys us off-registry at Wal-Mart.
