Euros Ate My Dollars

Lowcountry Love

Brittany — Wed, 27 May 2009 16:30:04 +0000

“I need a vacation, please.” I demanded for the hundredth time that week.

“Mmm, yeah, that’d be fun.” Ben replied, distractedly.

“NO, you don’t understand.” I grabbed his shoulders and pivoted him away from the TV until he faced me squarely, our noses nearly touching. “Take. Me. On. Vacation.”

Maybe it’s because we haven’t gone much of anywhere all winter. Maybe it was the hint of crazy in my eyes. But somehow, a few weekends ago, I found myself whisked away to Charleston, S.C., for a long weekend.

Ben and I are born-and-bred Richmond, Virginians. As the former capital of the Confederate States, you’d think that Richmond would fiercely identify with its Southern heritage and everything that goes along with that title. And we do. Woo boy, do we ever. But truth be told, Richmond is a land divided. Flanked on one side by the small southern-traditional towns of Southeastern Virginia, and on the other by the D.C.-sprawl of bustling Northern Virginia, we’re torn between our Confederate heritage and our proximity to those damn Yankees that have been creeping their way down to warmer climates ever since the unfortunate conclusion to the War between the States.

But there’s no getting around it in South Carolina: you are in The American South. The rootin’-tootin’, chicken-fryin’, Bible-thumpin’ South. To wit: South Carolinians still spark debates over whether or not to fly a Confederate flag over the capitol building. South Carolina: the answer is no.

Any place where you can revel in balmy temperatures, thick, slow accents and loads of butter is a fine vacation to me.

Charleston has preserved its historic glory more than any place I’ve ever been, despite becoming a tourist hub. Once you step into the famous “below Broad” neighborhood, you are whisked away to the antebellum South: sitting on your porch swing, wearing a corset and sipping your mint juleps. We were walking through the historic district (the second-largest historic district in the world behind Rome!), when I stopped suddenly.

“It’s so..it’s so…quiet.” I said, incredulously. Not even the faint hum of traffic pierced the humid, honeysuckle-scented air.

Of course Ben didn’t respond. He was too distracted. By what, you ask? By this:

Yep. Someone actually lives there. And in the house beside it that’s just as huge and gorgeous. And in the one beside THAT that’s even more huge and gorgeous. And on and on it goes.

Of course, we did a little more than wander around the historic district and take carriage rides while in the heart of the Lowcountry. Okay, we did a lot more. And, let me tell you, it was DELICIOUS.

Oh, sweet, sweet, heavenly Charleston, how I long for thy tasty morsels.

Please, let me take you on a culinary tour of Charleston as I revel in the delicious memories. I’ll be brief.

Cornbread with honey and butter.
Shrimp po’boy.
Basket of pecan fried chicken.
Mac’n'cheese.
Fried okra.
Sweet potato pancakes (best pancakes OF MY LIFE. Get thee to Joseph’s, friend.)
Shrimp and grits.
Grits grits grits.
Fried green tomatoes.
Bacon bacon bacon.
Stuffed french toast.
…
STOP. I must end lest I drool on my keyboard.

In the midst of this shameless weekend-long gluttonfest, while shopping in the open-air market near the waterfront, we ran across a copy of the famed Charleston Receipts for sale at one of the stands.

This ain’t no ordinary cookbook, y’all. This is the original Charleston Junior League cookbook, and the oldest of its kind in print.

It wasn’t until the six-hour car ride home that I got a chance to take a peak inside, and, wow, was I ever in for a treat.

I opened the book up to find an entire chapter devoted to grits (also known as hominy, and apparently, grist):

Please note the line of Gullah that precedes each chapter. Gullah is creole language still spoken by many descendants of slaves in the region. From what I understand, it’s the language that evolved from the combination of English and African dialects. In case you can’t read it:

“Man w’en ‘e hongry, ‘e teck sum egg or cheese an’ ting an’ eat till e’ full. But ‘ooman boun’ fuh meck wuck an’ trouble. ‘E duh cook!”

Translation? “When a man is hungry, he takes some eggs or cheese and things and eats until he is full, but a woman is bound to make work and trouble. She cooks!”

Duh.

WHY is there a whole chapter on grits? How many ways could you possible cook grits, you ask?

Boiled, baked, pressure cooked, fried… and when I turned the page, I discovered, amongst even more grits recipes, a recipe for “Hominy Surprise!”

Please note how all of the women identify themselves by their husband’s name. She’s Mrs. Louis T. Parker! And a proper married girl.

I then flipped to the “game” section. This is the only cookbook I own with a chapter called “Game” that includes yummy recipes like this:

You can tell this book is from a different era. Excuse me? Brush with fat? What fat? Do they sell that at Kroger? How should I preheat my oven? Gravy? Where’s the recipe for the gravy?

It is also the only cookbook I own that gives me instruction on how to properly cook various wild meats. Squirrels, for instance, don’t need to soak, and skinning can wait until cooking.

Possum on the other hand needs to be cleaned as soon as possible after shooting, and hung for 48 hours. Who knew?

I was at first extremely confused by the first ingredient necessary for cooter soup: cooters? preferably female?

What. The. Hell.

I was even more disturbed by the first instruction: “Kill cooter by chopping off its head.”

It wasn’t until I turned to this page:

That I understand that cooter=terrapin=turtle. Ha!

And, finally, who can leave South Carolina without a large dose of…

Alas, we returned to Richmond with heavy hearts and heavier bellies. Here, I don’t keep vats of bacon fat in my cupboard or skin freshly-caught game. Yet.

The elusive sea koala…

Brittany — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 17:03:36 +0000

If you’ve wandered by our site in recent weeks, you’ve probably noticed a strange “sticky” post and a picture of a weird koala-mermaid gracing our homepage. I’ll explain.

A few months ago, the Australian tourism office announced they were conducting a worldwide job search for an “Island Caretaker.” This person would live on the Great Barrier Reef islands for six months, keeping a blog and making videos to promote the islands.

After three people independently emailed me the link to the job, and after I learned that another three people had emailed Ben about it, I became convinced that this was fate. I mean, HELLO? The job involved traveling, sitting on beautiful beaches, and BLOGGING. If you’re not convinced we are the best candidates for such a job, please refer to: this entire website.

We took a risk and applied together, as a couple, rather than as individuals, thinking that our quirky interaction might add a funny element to the video, and might set us apart from the crowd. It could’ve also been what disqualified us, but we’ll never know. We didn’t get the job. BIG MISTAKE, QUEENSLAND. BIG MISTAKE.

So our dreams of making $100,000 for six months of lying on a beach were squelched, and we’re back to the annoying and archaic concept of actually earning our money. Blech.

For your viewing pleasure, I present our audition video. If I post this, I don’t want to hear any, “WTF, of COURSE you didn’t make it, that video is STUPID and terrible and you’re the DUMBEST people alive,” okay? We didn’t make it. No rubbing salt in the wound. Instead, once you watch this video, please comment with: “WOW, Australia really messed up by not hiring you! You’re HILARIOUS. And really attractive! And super smart to boot!”

K? Good.

PS: Shout out to my sister Lindsay for filming us! She was quite patient dealing with our demand for dozens of takes of each shot. Another shout out goes to Allison for her awesome artistic skillz.

The Short List

Ben — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 03:28:32 +0000

Do you know what Brittany and I do when we’re bored?

1. Eat
2. Talk about what we should eat next

But this lazy Sunday afternoon we were pretty full from lunch, and we already knew what we would be having for dinner…so we found ourselves in unusual and unsettling territory. Of course, there do exist rarely employed alternatives for just such emergencies:

3. Talk about the places from our trip that we miss
4. Fight to the death

Oddly, there are no other options. Because I’m afraid of Brittany’s unusual strength, I quickly started asking her which places from our trip she misses the most. Before long, she was beautifully and safely distracted at the computer, reading our old blog posts and breathing sighs of reminiscence. And instead of fighting to the death, we talked about which blog entries are our favorites, now that we have the benefit of hindsight. We each have our own peculiar favorites, but it wasn’t hard to agree on the ones that make us both smile. For those of you who prefer to walk on the CliffsNotes side of life, please enjoy the following short list…our own hand-selected “best of the best.”

In no particular order:

A year ago I was in Thailand. Sigh.

Brittany — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 14:36:00 +0000

So I’ve had this project at work for the past few months. And by “this project” I mean a P.R.O.J.E.C.T. One of those life-sucking, eyeball-gauging, hair-pulling projects where you work non-stop at every single moment, and even in the moments you’re not actively working on it, you’re thinking about how you should be working on it, and you can’t sleep because you’re trying to solve the problems of the project as you lie in bed, despite having to wake up at 5:30am to work on the project, and because you’ve invested so much time in it you become obsessed with the perfection of the project, even though it’s impossible to achieve perfection, mostly because this project involves working with Internet Explorer.

Let me break it down for you: INTERNET EXPLORER IS THE SPAWN OF SATAN.

I won’t go into the technical/boring reasons why IE is the devil. Basically: you can work for hours on a website making sure everything pretty and perfect and functioning, and then open up the site in IE where it looks like you threw up all over the page. It’s time to lodge formal complaint.

DEAR the 65% of my employers’ readership that obstinately continues to use Internet Explorer for their web browsing needs:

You are putting me in an early grave. Get with the times. You know how Tinkerbell taught us that every time you clap your hands you save a fairy’s life? Well, every time you download and switch to Firefox, a shriveled-up, sleep-deprived, comatose web designer somewhere in the world can avert their glassy stare from the computer monitor, stand up from the office chair, and LIVE. Do your part, people.

Love,
Brittany

I haven’t had to work or think this hard since…well, ever. But, over the course of the past week, something has changed: I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can feel a faint breeze. Do I detect the slightest scent of roses in the air? A few more days’ hard push and maybe, dare I say, the worst will be over?

And once I’ve sufficiently recovered, I just might redesign EAMD. Because I hate myself.

Jon and Kate Plus Product Placement

Ben — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 03:59:02 +0000

I record the following shows on my DVR:

Lost
The Office
Flight of the Conchords
Jon and Kate Plus 8

Jon and Kate Plus 8 is the newest addition to the lineup, and even though I was late to this bandwagon, I jumped right on like the best of them. I’m not the least bit ashamed to sit down and watch four episodes in a row, but thanks to all those who have asked with one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. When I turn on the DVR and find episodes waiting for me, I have to stop everything and check in on to see what those little kids are up to, and whether or not Mady is finally going to get what she has coming. Seriously, that is one annoying kid, and this is coming from someone whose only interactions with her are tempered by the glorious mute button.

Because I am a late comer to the Jon and Kate party, I have mostly been catching up on old episodes from the past couple of seasons. And one night when I was out with friends, I mentioned how much I was enjoying the show to my friend James. He scoffed,

“That show is just one big advertisement now.”

Which confused me. Granted, I had only been watching old episodes, but I hadn’t really noticed anything like the uncomfortably forced product placement that seems to be permeating network shows these days. Until tonight. I caught a rare NEW episode tonight, which was exciting for me at first, because as I sat down on the couch, I felt like I was finally on the same page as all my fellow fans.

And then the show started with a big white moving truck backing up into the Gosselin’s driveway. Off the truck came boxes and boxes of appliances for the new house the family has apparently just moved into. The little kids were excited by the commotion and ran through the house screaming, and everything seemed like just another day on the best little show in the world.

But then, instead of simply installing the boring appliances and getting on with the show I was here to watch, the camera cut to Jon and Kate sitting in their chair and discussing the specifics of their new washer and dryer. That discussion went pretty much like this:

Kate: “I just love our new washer and dryer from Whirlpool! They look so beautiful sitting side by side in the laundry room.”
Jon: “Yeah, aren’t those the Duets?”
Kate: “They sure are, Jon! We had some in our old house and after that amazing experience, I knew the Whirlpool Duets were the ONLY washer and dryer I’d put in the new house!”

I kid you not, as this point the camera cut to ZOOM IN on the Whirlpool Duets logo on the washing machine.

Now cut to Kate in the laundry room with her newly installed Whirlpool Duets.

Kate, talking to…nobody?: “My Whirlpool Duets are so small that they fit perfectly in the room and they’re so easy to use, but they still have tons of options! I can even wash ALL of my kids’ jeans in ONE LOAD! What other washing machine can do that? They make laundry a joy! They’re like having little friends in my laundry room!”

I swear to you that she called them her “little friends” in the laundry room. And until that point, Brittany and I had just been sitting there asking each other if this was for real. But once Kate crossed the “little friends” line, that was the last straw. We turned off the TV. I want to watch Jon and Kate Plus 8, not some thirty minute commercial for Whirlpool Duets!

Sadly, it looks like James was right. Maybe the rest of the episode was better, I don’t know. It just wasn’t worth sitting through any more of that charade to find out. I realize that companies are sticking their products into shows in order to still get their message in front of people like me who DVR my shows and fast forward my way through the commercials. But my show is only thirty minutes long, people! Does the product hawking have to go on for SO LONG? Instead of all that awkward adspeak, allow me to offer a better suggestion:

Open the episode with the little teaser about what today’s episode is going to be about
Roll the opening credits and theme song
Now, before anything else happens, have Kate walk right up the camera and yell, “Buy a Whirlpool washing machine or I’ll send Mady to come live with you!”
Proceed with show

That would improve my life because it would only take four seconds of my show, AND I bet Whirlpool would sell a lot more Duets. Think about it.

Is this real life?

Ben — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 05:02:07 +0000

By now I’m sure you’ve seen the YouTube video sensation entitled “David After Dentist.” If not, then please go watch it because it’s far more entertaining than any of the things I ramble on about.

Anyway, my favorite quote from the video has to be, “is this real life?” I don’t know if I’ve watched the video too much lately or what, but I had my own “is this real life?” moment tonight.

I saw a story on Digg about Heroes star Hayden Panettierre doing whatever it is that celebrities do, and the reference gave an unexpected kickstart to a memory hiding in the back of my brain. My mind was suddenly flooded with images from a story involving Hayden Panettierre…but I had one problem. I couldn’t remember if I had seen this story on TV, online, or if it had all been a dream. The only way to know would be to ask someone.

Brittany was washing dishes when I walked up to her cautiously:

Me: “Hey…Brittany?”
Brittany: “Yes?”
Me: “Is Hayden Panettierre actually a man?”
Brittany: “WHAT are you talking about?”

Definitely a dream then.

Actually, I still had some reservations that the story MIGHT have been real life, but these were put to rest when a Google search for “is Hayden Panettierre a man?” returned no relevant results. Now that I’m 100% convinced the story was allll just a dream, here is how my dream went:

Hayden Panettierre is up for some kind of acting award, and when she shows up to the award ceremony, no one recognizes her. This is because she is actually a married man. He is short and balding with beard stubble and a wife, and the network filming the awards show explains that he puts on a wig and makeup each week to become Hayden Panettierre. He has obviously been doing this since the days of Raising Helen or whatever her first movie was, and he enjoys the unique ability to be a famous actor who is able to go out to dinner without being recognized.

I wish you could have seen the man in my head who is Hayden Panettierre. But even as shocking as the story was, I had clearly forgotten about the whole thing until a random Internet reference jogged my memory. Stranger still, now that the memory is back, I’m actually having a hard time accepting a world in which Hayden Panetierre is NOT a balding, stubby, middle-aged married man.

Are you SURE this is real life?

New York weekend

Ben — Mon, 09 Feb 2009 17:24:18 +0000

I spent this year’s Super Bowl driving on I-95, which means that No, I did not see “the best five minutes of football ever it was so awesome and I can’t believe you missed it!!!!!” but thanks for asking. Brittany and I were driving home from New York City, where we had spent the weekend visiting Greg and Yasmine, friends of ours from college. The drive from Richmond is about six hours, which wouldn’t be too bad except that we had to make it up on Friday and back on Sunday. On the bright side, the drive home on Sunday night was shortened by the fact that we were just about the only ones on the highway. Everyone else was at home watching this “bEst EvER!!! ahaghdghskdj!!!!!” football game I keep hearing so much about.

But hold on! We may have missed the game, but we had fun too! To let me feel like I am proving it, please enjoy the following highlights from our New York weekend.

Brooklyn Brewery
If beer were melodic vocal stylings, then Brooklyn Brewery would be the late Luther Vandross. Except Brooklyn Brewery is alive and well, innovating its way into your heart and mine. If you like beer when it’s full of rich flavor, fresh ideas, rainbow dollops, and molten Leprechaun gold, then Brooklyn Brewery is for you. It’s a surprisingly small brewery given that it distributes widely here in Virginia and beyond, but thank goodness that it does. Any given weekend, I may be found sipping a Brooklyn pint down at the local watering hole. Brooklyn Brown is my personal favorite, but I like the fact that the brewery is always good for seasonal and conceptual beers, which often make it alllll the way down South of the Mason-Dixon line. Where I drink them. Hooray beer!

Hooray beer!

Given that Brooklyn Brewery = Luther Vandross, it was clear that we had to pay homage to greatness during our short time in NYC. The brewery visit is unlike others I have heard about, because you don’t actually tour the brewery beyond two giant rooms. The first giant room contains tables, chairs, and a bar. The second giant room is off-limits unless you are accompanied by a tour guide. At the top of every hour, the tour guide collects all interested parties for the “tour,” and then brings you into the second room, which is full of shiny metal cylinders and scientific contraptions that, when combined, somehow yield beer. The tour guide stands on top of a platform and talks about beer in a loud voice for about twenty minutes, pausing every so often to remind the audience that the giant vat of brown liquid in the middle of the room is NOT beer, but in fact, iodine. Then the tour is over and you go back to the first giant room. Also, you might think that a brewery tour would include free beer sampling, but in this case you would be wrong. So why exactly is this worth visiting?

Because you get to try beers that DON’T usually make it all the way to Virginia. I think the Brooklyn Brewery bar is not legally allowed to stay open all day, selling tons of beer and no food. So they don’t. Instead, they sell tons of cork tokens all day, which can then be TRADED for beer. See how that works? We traded our cork tokens for beers including the mysterious Blunderbuss Old Ale (dark and smoky, 8.2% ABV) and the delightful Savoir Faire (a taste of bananas, 8% ABV). The first giant room with the bar was PACKED with locals playing cards on the tables, so we stood around double-fisting plastic cups until we had spent all of our cork tokens. We also used this opportunity to purchase souvenirs like bottle openers, coasters, and beer to take home. I think Brooklyn Brewery was happy to have us that day.

Wicked

NOT the wicked witch

Brittany and I took in our first Broadway show two years ago when we saw Rent. And since Brittany is STILL singing those songs on a daily basis, I was banking on this trip as my best chance to put some new songs into her head for once. We’d heard good things about Wicked from several sources, not the least of which our NYC-based friends Lois and Hadar, who have managed to see the show eight times so far. Eight times can’t be wrong, right?

Right! The show was an amazing spectacle. I can’t get over the production value of Broadway shows: from the talent level of the very last actor to the gigantic twisting, growling mechanical head of the Wizard of Oz to the monkeys who flew right over our heads. Where Rent was intimate and personal, Wicked is blow-your-mind theater magic. We loved both.

Eating
It wouldn’t be us if we didn’t attempt to spend every waking hour of our trip stuffing our faces! Greg took us and his brother on something of a “meats of the world” gastronomical excursion on Saturday. We shared a mountainous plate of corned beef and sauerkraut at the Carnegie deli for lunch, followed by an afternoon snack of German sausages at a Biergarten. Pork sausage, veal sausage, venison sausage…all with more sauerkraut, lots of beer, and even more groans from Brittany. During the meat and beer-filled hours we spent between both restaurants, I think she ordered a hot chocolate. Sorry Brittany!

Look familiar?

All was not lost for her: we ate a fun brunch at the diner from Seinfeld! Well…sort of. See, it’s the diner that they used for the outside shot on Seinfeld, but walking inside is kind of a disappointment because it looks nothing like the show. No booth for Jerry and the gang and no cranky old cashier lady. Just a huge crowd of Columbia students, a harried waitstaff, and some Seinfeld magazine covers on the wall. Oh well. Brittany says the shots from inside the diner were probably filmed on a “set,” but whatever that may mean, I don’t understand it and I won’t respond to it.

Until next time, New York! Which will probably be just about the moment I can’t take hearing Brittany sing the Wicked soundtrack one more time…

The Ultimate Bar Arm Wrestling World Championships New York City Woot!!

Brittany — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 22:16:38 +0000

We sat around a cramped table in a crowded Lower East Side bar, where Ben and I had met up with some old school friends. We were tired and sore from a full day of exploring NYC. We’d just ordered our last round of beers. The night was winding down. Our friend Greg, however, was determined to keep it going.

“Hey, you guys,” Greg said, pointing a finger at my friend Yasmine and me. “Arm wrestle.”

My initial reaction to pretty much any suggestion Greg makes is more along the lines of “go away” but I was too tired to argue. Leaving the inevitable protestations up to Yasmine, I laughingly propped my elbow on the table and opened my hand.

Of course, I forgot that Yasmine is the type of girl that would TOTALLY GO FOR IT. A barely-five-foot-tall curly-headed bundle of sass and energy, Yasmine is at one moment dragging you out on the dance floor against your will, at the next delivering a highly-opinionated diatribe on any given subject, and at the next laughing at your fart jokes.

So while most of my girlfriends would scoff at Greg, Yasmine laughed and grabbed my hand. She then beat me handily. A fact that should embarrass me, but I’ve always been admired more for my mental fortitude than my physical fortitude. Right? Guys??

Years of torment at the hands of his older sister
vindicated with this one sweet, sweet victory.

What happened next is obvious: a full-fledged arm wrestling competition ensued. Sweeping our pile of coats and scarves to the side and clearing away the empty beer glasses, an unofficial bracket formed. In the end, Greg emerged as the bar-arm-wrestling champion OF THE WORLD.

That is, until his brother returned from getting a beer. Now, while Greg got the height, Andrew (his brother) got the beef. Plus, he lifts refrigerators for a living. Clearly, it wasn’t even necessary to include Andrew in the bracket until the championship round. Andrew was kind enough to let Greg feel like he had a chance before dominating him completely.

We emerged from the bar red-faced and sweaty. Not from mingling or dancing or anything normal. From arm wrestling.

I love visiting college friends.

An engagement story: Brittany’s point of view

Brittany — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 19:53:18 +0000

I’ve always been kind of wary when it comes to this whole “getting married” thing. For one, how in the world are you supposed to make a decision regarding who you want to spend the rest of your life at this clueless age? I’m supposed to determine who I want to spend the next sixty years with, when I haven’t even been alive for half of that? Pretty much at any given age in my life I’ve always considered myself the Smartest Person Ever. A couple of years later, however, I inevitably realize just how stupid I was, and how much I’ve changed since then. Oh, ps: now, of course, I am the Smartest Person Ever. And clearly capable of making decisions regarding lifelong commitments.

Ha! Would a person who is capable of making such decisions open up her cabinet this afternoon to find a carton of orange juice? And then turn around to find a half-full glass of orange juice in her fridge? And last week, at work, would she unzip her laptop case to find a sock, but no laptop, and have no idea how that happened? Who, later, after a day-full of wedgie-picking, realize she had her underwear on backwards?

Clearly, this is not a person you should trust to make Very Important Decisions.

And even if we disregard my utter inability to make good decisions, about 0.000000001% of people who get married are 1. still married and 2. happy. A sad fact, but a true one.

So I dismissed my sister the morning of Dec. 20th when she voiced(/shrieked) her convictions that tonight is THE NIGHT. I was looking forward to our date, though. Thanks to the trip and subsequent job hunt, we hadn’t had a proper date night in…well, in a dismally long time.

I took advantage of the opportunity to get all gussied-up, even though the effort is often not worth it. Girls, listen: men do not notice. Trust me. Unless your boobs are in their face they will not pay a lick of attention to what you’re wearing. So stop obsessing in front of a mirror about whether you should go with the boots or the strappy heels. Over the last five years, Ben’s tried to shed light on the oblivious nature of men. He’s usually right.

La Grotta was Ben’s idea, and a good one it was, because the food is melt-in-your-mouth fantastic. I spent dinner 1. remarking on the amazing food, 2. stealing as much food as possible from Ben’s plate, and 3. reveling in our conversation—conversations that, despite having had such conversations every day since we were 14, are still the most interesting discussions I have.

On to the gardens: my favorite parts were the oversized light sculptures (a giant web full of giant spiders, all made of lights, spanned the length of a pond!) and the food stand serving warm mochas. ‘Cause for some reason I decided it’d be a good idea to add coffee on top of my garlic-fish breath.

And then, as we were about to leave, Ben pulled me down one more path. I can’t say exactly what I was thinking then, but it went something like this:

Why doesn’t he want to leave? We’ve seen the entire garden. This is weird. Wait, why are we stopping here? Oh, sweet words and kisses, okay, I love this. More sweet words and kisses! I love this! Holysh*t,isheproposing?ISHEPROPOSING? Wait… I’m supposed to say something?

So “flustered” is a good way to describe my reaction. I mean, what do you say when one of these life-changing moments comes along? I can tell you that you aren’t supposed to stammer “I—I do!” That response (hopefully) comes later.

In the end, despite all my fears about the m-word, the decision was probably the easiest decision I’ve ever made.

Because as we walked through that tunnel of twinkle lights and he stopped and pulled me towards him, he took my face in his hands and kissed me in that way he has that’s both gentle and firm. The way he’s kissed me every day for the past five years and still every time makes me feel weak and tingly. Because I knew exactly what he would order once I heard the night’s specials. Because he can still make me laugh until I cry. Because he’s my home. Because whenever we’re together, the rest of the world vanishes. Which is why, even though the proposal happened in the middle of a public garden on a weekend, I couldn’t answer people when they asked if anyone else was around: I honestly have no idea.

Plus, he has a really cute butt.

An engagement story: Ben’s point of view

Ben — Mon, 26 Jan 2009 20:39:12 +0000

I made an off-hand reference in my last post that Brittany and I are now engaged (hooray!), but shortly thereafter began feeling guilty that our engagement story equaled little more than a footnote here on the blog. To set things right, please allow us to officially present our engagement story. Because the tale probably differs depending on which one of us you hear it from, we will be attempting to illustrate the FULL story by giving you both a his and hers point of view. As with any good set of conflicting stories, the truth probably lies somewhere in between.

I proposed on December 20th, but I started educating myself on diamonds back in August, which was a good thing because it turns out that diamonds are serious business. At that time, I had a vague awareness that there was something called “the 4 C’s” and I knew that only a diamond could cut my car’s windshield. I knew this second bit because I once worried out loud in front of my dad that I was going to cut my windshield by using a metal ice scraper, and he chided me by saying that only diamonds can cut glass. As if everyone is born knowing that. Anyway, this was the extent of my diamond “knowledge.”

Thank goodness for Pricescope.com. We all know that the purpose of the Internet is for people who are obsessed about a peculiar topic (Pokemon, ShamWow, radishes, etc.) to be able to talk about that topic with similarly obsessed people on a dedicated message board. It’s like group therapy. Well, Pricescope is THE place for people who are obsessed with diamonds. In search of answers, I created an account and started asking my silly newbie questions on the message board.

As luck would have it, it turns out that most Pricescope members’ favorite thing to do is share diamond buying advice, and in no time, they had me up to speed with all the things I needed to know. Standing on the shoulders of giants, I knew where to buy a diamond (online! not in a marked-up brick-and-mortar!), which of the 4 C’s was the most important (cut!), and what those multi-colored 40x enlarged crazy diamond X-rays really mean. This is sort of turning into an advertisement for Pricescope, but I really owe a lot to the members there and I would recommend it as a starting place for anyone with no more diamond knowledge than the belief that it might be able to cut your car’s windshield.

So I found the right diamond on a site called Whiteflash, and after a wee bit of trouble getting my bank to properly wire the money for my purchase (I may or may not have used the words, “you’re trying to ruin my engagement!!!” over the phone) the diamond arrived just in time for our night out. Brittany and I had planned to eat out at one of our favorite Richmond restaurants on December 20th, and afterwards go to admire the Festival of Lights at the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden. I knew this would be the perfect night to propose.

The only real problem with the plan was the question of how to bring along the ring in an inconspicuous fashion. The box it sat in was kind of…boxy…which meant that it stuck out like a sore thumb no matter which pocket I tried to stuff it in. I wanted to surprise Brittany with it, rather than have her ask about the strange bulge in my pocket when I picked her up at her door. I tried on every coat I owned, searching for one with a pocket suitable for concealing ring boxes. No such luck. I’m not a patient man, and soon I was frustrated enough to give up on the entire idea, cancel dinner, send the ring back, break up with Brittany, sell all my belongings, and move to a deserted island where nobody could ever talk to me or bother me again.

But then I noticed the hood on one of my coats. It’s the kind of hood that rolls up into a special pocket in the back collar of the coat, where it seals on the inside with Velcro. Could I roll the ring box up in the hood of this coat and seal it safely (and inconspicuously) away? Yes! Strangely enough, I COULD do that! And so it was that Brittany was picked up that evening by a handsome gentleman wearing a weather-inappropriate coat with a barely noticeable box-shaped bulge in the back collar.

Amazingly, we had the server to ourselves at the usually bustling restaurant (thanks economic crisis!), which left us even more time for Festival of Lights fun afterward than anticipated. Did I seriously just thank the economic crisis a week after losing my own job with Circuit City? Perhaps my new diet of bread crusts and filthy water is taking a toll on my mind after all…

We saw lights and trains and trains made of lights at the botanical garden, but I was distracted by the looming proposal. Where should I do it? When should I do it? Am I going to be able to remember all the things I’ve practiced saying? Mercifully, these thoughts were eventually broken by the sight of a a brick path underneath a tunnel of hanging yellow lights. When I saw it, I knew exactly what I needed to do. And by that, I do mean go to the restroom, since the ring was still tucked away in the hood of my coat and impossible to retrieve without making myself look like a clown.

After a successful ring recovery mission in the men’s restroom, I led Brittany to the brick path with the ring snugly in my coat pocket. I’m happy to report that I did remember the things I wanted to tell her (most of them) and when I got down on one knee, she gave me the answer I hoped for. At least, I THINK she did. When I popped the question, I distinctly remember her responding with a flustered, “I do! I mean…I will!” Do those count as a yes?

If you’ll excuse me, I should probably go clear this up sooner rather than later.