Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Giving thanks: for finding my wedding ring and not marrying a pothead

I'm thankful that my wedding ring decided it missed me enough to be reunited with my finger.

I 'misplace' my wedding ring regularly. But there are only so many places that I places it so it always manages to show up eventually. But this time was different. This time it disappeared for like THREE MONTHS. And we were getting nervous.

And by we I mean Walker, who around day 15 started the nightly, "Have you seen your wedding ring yet?" to which I flippantly flipped my hand (I can do that) and say Pshaw, It Will Show Up Eventually. But then 15 days turned to 30 and then like, 45 and I really, really wished that I had gotten it appraised like our insurance agent told me to do back in May.

So then I called my mom to make sure it wasn't at her house and called my mother-in-law to make sure it wasn't at her house and at my mother-in-law's advice, made sure my sister-in-law Laurel knew that it was missing because turns out Laurel has this amazing talent of praying for lost things and voila, eventually they show up. Apparantly I am married to the brother of the Presbyterian St. Anthony and I never even knew it. But now that I now that I know, you betcha I'll be texting her daily to pray for my keys and my iPhone. And the remote. Lots and lots of could-you-pray-for-the-remote texts.

So the grandmas were on it and St. Laurel was on it and I was on it and Walker was on it but it still did not turn up.

My wedding ring is kinda big. Bordering on obnoxious even. Walker actually borrowed from his 401K to pay for it. That's when I knew he loved me, when he became a financial slave in order that I be properly accessorized. We bought the diamond from my dad who got it from A Guy because my dad's got connextions cause he makes jewelry as a hobby (WINNING) and so he showed Walker several diamonds once we were engaged and my husband was wise enough to choose the one that my dad had nicknamed Big Boy. Then about a year later my dad made the setting for Big Boy (way, way better hobby than golf.) It's very modern and at the time it was not me, I was more a white-gold-filligree-surrounded-by-lots-of-pretty-little-stones type girl. And as I recall I had a thing for baguettes. Not the bread, the diamond cut. Although I'm quite fond of the bread as well. But my dad said (put on your best North Carolina accent here) "Hell naw Melissa, when you have a good diamond you don't clutter it up with a bunch of pissant stones, you show that baby off" and honestly I was just so thrilled to FINALLY HAVE A ROCK ON MY FINGER WITH A MAN TO MATCH that much to my surprise I discovered I could care less what it actually looked and had no input whatsoever in the setting my dad chose.  Voila, I became a yellow-gold-modern-simple-one-big-rock type of girl.

But I also had this other fake wedding ring I wore. It was a James Avery man's gold band with a cross in it similar to this one.  Who's James Avery? That's right, you're not from Texas. Anyway, the ring was not mine, it was this other guy's, so when I did not feel like wearing Big Boy I wore another guy's wedding ring instead.

I'll explain.

When I was in college I very, very briefly dated a guy - I think his name was Lance? - and one time he left his ring at my house or something. I don't recall the details. All I knew is his mom had given it to him and it was very special to him. She probably hoped having a big gold cross of Jesus from his mommy on his finger would entice him to behave in college...but alas.  Her maternal Jesus accessorizing was futile.

Because on about our third date he took me to a party where I knew no one and he disappeared for like an hour and left me with a bunch of strangers and when I finally found him he was smoking pot in a back room and That Was The End of I Think His Name Was Lance. Afterwards, I called him four or five times (or maybe one or two, whatever, I did my part) to say, 'Hey, I have your very expensive ring your mom gave you that is very special to you' and he said 'yeah yeah I'll come get it' but he never did. But it was way, way too big for my dainty and delicate fingers so it just languished in my jewelry box.

For twenty long years. Then, I married this guy who never disappeared to smoke pot and had kids with said un-pothead and by the third of fourth baby my fingers sadly were so undelicate and undainty that often times it was a struggle to put Big Boy on. Then one day I noticed that cross ring sitting there being all ignored like a girl on a date with a pothead so I slid it on and voila it fit.

Both Pothead Who I Think Was Named Lance's ring and Big Boy were missing together. Which reassured me that they weren't both lost, just missing.

I hoped.

Summer turned into fall and Pothead and Big Boy were still missing. Walker still asking. St. Laurel still praying.

Then yesterday, my daughter committed a grievous sin and left purple nail polish out within reach of a very girly toddler. Girly toddler got into purple nail polish and gave herself and the floor and the chair quite a sloppy manicure.

So I went to get the nail polish remover and a cotton ball to clean up both girly toddler and now girly chair and floor.

Now, cotton balls. If you were to ask me, how often do you use cotton balls? I would guess, once a week? Once every two weeks? Cotton balls and I, we seem to have a good, solid, continual relationship.

But apparently I have been neglecting my cotton balls like a pothead on a date. Because when I went to the thing where I keep the cotton balls - a very organized thing, thank you,

brought to you by a third trimester nesting/labeling/organizing frenzy brought to you by aforementioned un-pothead, guess what I discovered? All safe? And nestled?


I told you he'd turn up!! Eventually!

I guess I had hidden him there. Hidden him so, so well. Now you know where to hide your jewelry. In the cotton ball thingy. Because you and cotton balls? Not as close as you thought.

I immediately - well, after cleaning up the purple toddler - I slid...pushed...forced...grunted Big Boy down on my finger which thanks to three Diet Cokes was swollen up like a third trimester nester. Then I took a picture of my finger to put on my husband's facebook page.

Except in the photo my finger was so red and bordering-on-gangrene

(I assume, having never actually experienced gangrene) that I didn't use it, but I waited a few minutes to see if the blood would return to my heart. When it didn't I just photoshopped it to a decent shade of flesh then posed my finger over my bible like the UnPothead I am

(I'm kidding. I actually was doing my bible study which is sort of another miracle. When I realized it made me look holy I giggled because, well, you know.)

Having missed me so much, Big Boy stayed on my finger for a full two days until finally some shampoo coerced it to slide off.

Pothead, however, is still on the loose.

Time to text St. Laurel.


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