Birthdays, Debeers, and Consumerism with a Conscience

Z gave me an early birthday present Friday night (like 6 days ahead of schedule, but who is counting?). He kept asking me, "Do you want to open your card?" and "Charky helped pick it out, I think you'll like it". I just thought he picked out a really cool birthday card. With a Great White Shark on it or something.

I'm a little dense sometimes.

Anyway, he gave me a pearl necklace and bracelet. I like pearls. They come from the ocean, just like me. Sometimes if I sniff them I can pretend I just dove down with my knife to wrestle with an oyster, narrowly avoiding a shark attack. Yes, I am a freak.

But the present was really touching. Z and I have tried to make birthdays a nonevent. We're usually too broke to do much, and birthday presents are usually really focused sex. Not that there is anything wrong with that. In fact, birthdays with Z around are among the best birthdays of all time.

He's a sweetie and I gave him big hugs and kisses. I'm making a concerted effort to feel pretty so I'm wearing a wife-beater and my favorite ripped aqua-colored fwoofy skirt that shows my belly button. I bet this would look better with pearls.

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Z came back from pearl-buying talking about some humongous 2 carat diamond he wanted to buy and stick in his idea for an engagement ring. I was a little confuzzled. We already talked about engagement rings in depth, and kind of x-nayed the whole thing for a couple of reasons.

1) I don't wear rings, or much jewelry. I don't like the way it feels. Lately I've been wearing this turquoise strand that Z's momma gave me. It feels calming. And I have this thing for that color. Rings feel ultra restrictive, like I'm being bound. I don't like it. And I know you've heard that story about where the wedding ring came from, right? The cave girl running
away and all that?

2) I don't like diamonds. I don't care if they are my birthstone. To me, they look like little chips of ice. I have no interest. I don't really care if they're colored, either. Then they just look like little chips of ice dyed with Kool-Aid. Since childhood I've been frightfully jealous of my sister, whose birthstone is an emerald. My grandmother, who was also a lovely-Taurus- May baby, gave her gorgeous emerald jewelry. I'm stuck with
little chips of ice that are too expensive. Aaargh.

3) Debeers and the moral irresponsibility of diamond buying somewhat turn me off. I may not be very good at recycling, and I do have a minor fetish for leather, but I try to make my consumerism as socially conscious as possible. I don't shop at Walmart. I don't buy Mitsubishis, and I almost lost my catering job because I refused to cater to the Bank of Tokyo. I
don't use aerosol hairspray. I buy one water bottle a week and refill it. I don't wash my car because I think it's a deadly combination of vanity and excess water consumption.

So the idea of wearing a little chip of ice that I don't particularly like that has blood spilt all over it and binds me to my caveman Alpha male makes me a little nauseous.

I tried to tactfully explain this to Z, who seemed a little irrational due to his jewelry store experience. I think it was the 9-month pregnant salesgirl who helped him, who purportedly shelved her breasts on the jewelry counter while he was peering through the glass. He has this thing for pregnant women. I don't mind. But she knew what she was doing, that's for sure. His eyes light up like a kid in a candy store when pregnant women are around.

I didn't want to take all of his passion-filled ring buying steam out, but I did want to insert some realism into it. We had decided that having an engagement ring wasn't right for us. We're barely comfy with the idea of a wedding band. We've decided upon an eternity ring, because we like the continuity of the settings and they're much more zen looking on the hand.

If you don't mind, help him in the right direction. I tried to help him picture African atrocities by reminding him how much he hated "Hotel Rwanda".

Little chips of ice aren't worth it. And don't get me started on my Debeers-Rockefeller-Bush conspiracy theories.




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