Putting A Big Shiny Rock On My Lady's Finger (Part 1): A Nevin Barich Blog Experience

(Nevdogg Note: On Saturday, Aug. 30, I asked my longtime girlfriend Ramona to marry me, and — no doubt blinded by the size of the ring I got her — she said yes. :-) But when it comes to proposing marriage, it’s not just about getting on your knee and saying, "Well?" No, there’s more to it than that. So much so that this is the first of a three-part blog series on how I officially put myself on the path to engagementhood.)

In mid-July, I had the following conversation with my mom.

Nev: Please, Mom?

Mom: Nevin, I can’t.

Nev: But I’m desperate!!

Mom: Honey, you’re just going to have to figure this out on your own.

Nev: But I need help!! Just a little bit, please?

Mom: I can’t.

Nev: You have to!!

Mom: I can’t.

Nev: But you’re my mother!!

Mom: Nevin, please don’t.

Nev: I’m your son!!

Mom: Oh God, honey…

Nev: I HAVE NOWHERE ELSE TO GO!!!

(and I throw myself at her feet, crying on her shoes and hugging her ankles)

Now, those who don’t know me might conclude that this conversation took place while I was coked out of my mind and begging my mom for a few bucks to score my next high. But in actuality, I just told her that I was planning to ask my longtime girlfriend, Ramona, to marry me, and I needed my mom’s help in figuring out Ramona’s ring size.

Now, I have a lot of female friends. And prior to asking my mom to assist me in this vital task, I asked various lady friends of Nev to help me figure out what Ramona’s ring size was (so that the thing actually fit when I put it on her finger). And these friends all had the same reply:

Just grab one of her rings and take it to a jeweler.

OK, guys are stupid. I admit that. Many of us are lacking in the brains department. But if it was as easy as grabbing a ring out of Ramona’s jewelry box, going to some jewelry kiosk and asking someone, "How big is this?" I’d of come to that conclusion on my own.

The problem was, Ramona doesn’t wear rings. And while God granted me with an uncanny ability to pick out jewelry — really, I’m quite good at it. Just ask any of my ex-girlfriends who still wear my bling while out with other, lesser men than I — that ability is null and void if the damn thing don’t fit!!

So I went to the one woman who could maybe help me: Mommy. And, as one can tell from the conversation above, she was loathe to do it. It’s not that she didn’t want to help, you understand. It was just that she felt she couldn’t give an accurate idea of Ramona’s ring size.

"But even your best wild guess is better than anything I can figure out," I argued.

"Maybe," she replied. "But I really don’t know anything."

My mom was right. She didn’t know anything that could help me here.

Except…

See Nev, my ring size is a 6, and I’m guessing that Ramona’s hand is probably a size or so bigger than mine. You also have to account for shape and texture, and remember that a woman’s hands sometimes grow at different points of the year. Then you have to determine fingers: Lean or round? If lean, go a size smaller. If not, go a size bigger. Then of course, there’s the setting, which can add to the size, and then of course there’s her knuckles and her palms…

She went on and on like this for a good 15 minutes, telling me all these things about a subject she didn’t know. Apparently, lack of knowledge ain’t what it used to be.

"So you’ll help me then?" I asked when she finished.

"Nevin, haven’t you been listening? I don’t know anything."

"Mom, you just spent almost 20 minutes telling me every little detail to consider on a thing you claim to have no concept of. Surely you can look at her hands and take a guess."

"But what if I’m wrong?"

‘But what if you’re right?"

(pause)

"Wait, why don’t you just get one of Ramona’s rings out of her jewelry box and take it to a jeweler?"

If there was a ledge right there in my mom’s apartment, I’d of jumped off it.

Finally, after once again going over the "Ramona doesn’t wear or own rings" routine, my mom agreed to help me.

It turns out, however, that her assistance wouldn’t be needed in this case.

About a week later, Ramona and I were watching television when she said:

Oh by the way, I stopped in a jewelry store a few days ago and got my ring size checked. I’m a 7.

Just like that. No warning. No preamble. Just…

I’m a 7.

And with that, obstacle 1 had been cleared. :-)

Next week: Shopping for the ring.

And now for this week's:

SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE

They've made animated films about superheroes, clown fish, ants, mice, ogres, lions, and a cute little robot named Walllllllllllleeeeee.

And recently, I found out that my oldest friend's brother's wife (try saying that three times fast) made a short animated film about a dollhouse.

Hey, why not?

You can view the short film (about 10 minutes) here.