A few weeks ago Sequel asked me if I would like to go take a look at engagement rings. We had talked about what I liked and what I didn't like, on various occasions. He summarized on conversation by saying, "So basically - if this were a car - you would want an eight passenger SUV that is also a hybrid with a sidecar that also has a hard top convertible."
Translation: I have no idea what I like, and every time I see something that I do like it is just a bit different than what I had said previously.
The next Saturday we wake up with plans to head to the pumpkin patch with some dear friends and the loveliest baby in the world - followed by some engagement ring shopping at the family jeweler. We wake up nice and early, coffee on the balcony, beautiful morning in Phialdelphia, then get dressed.
Sequel puts on his "third tier" jeans - not the fancy ones, not the second most fancy ones, but the ones he wears when he's shoveling snow. He adds a college hoodie and his favorite lime green, black, and red sneakers. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction.
Me: Where are your nice pants?
Him: These are nice pants.
Me: Yes... but where are your nicer pants?
Him: I look fine.
Me: You do. You look fine. But we're going to the family jeweler to talk about spending lots o' monies. I'd rather you looked a bit than fine...
Argument and shouting ensues. We're going. We're not going. We're going over my dead body. We're going even if I have to carry you into the car and drag you into the store. Your clothes reflect your attitude about the situation - wearing clothes you don't care about means you don't care about the situation.
I begin huffing around the apartment, cleaning (as I do when I'm just a bit annoyed). I yell "I'm going to take out the trash you said you'd take out yesterday. Meet me by the elevator in five minutes or I'm leaving without you." I grab my car keys, purse, and go. Can you guess where this is headed?
I also slam the door for added emphasis on just how serious I am about this whole thing.
I toss everything down the garbage chute. Bathroom trash, kitchen trash, old chicken, beer bottles. My car keys.
My car keys slip slide down the trash chute, mocking me. They know that my spare set of keys resides with my parents in Suburbadelphia. Because that's the best place for them.
With no other option I head back down the hall to our apartment door (shut, of course, because I just had to slam it) and I knock. Sequel answers the door, dressed impeccably in his first tier denim, nice shoes, a gorgeous sweater and oxford. He apologizes for being such an idiot (was he in the wrong in the first place? I forget...).
Which is when I tell him, "Guess who threw the car keys down the trash chute and into the trash compacter... ten stories down?"
I'm not even kidding, that boy just laughed at me. He laughed and then we went downstairs and he CLIMBED INTO THE TRASH CHUTE with the bathroom trash and the kitchen trash and the old chicken and the beer bottles and all of the garbage of the many, many people who live in our building. I held the iPhone flaslight and stood just out of range of the dirty dirty. Because I'm helpful like that.
And then we went ring shopping.
And we found out that a guy who I used to make out with in High School works for our family jewelry.
And was our consultant that morning.
Because that's how my life works.
P.S. - Don't forget to enter my Tiny Prints giveaway!