At the jewelry show in Las Vegas, I Spied my next engagement ring. Which is really quite a scary locale to spy your engagement ring, because everything there is blingy and beautiful and big.
Was a simple 3-ish carat asscher cut diamond flanked by some lovely diamonds on the sides - but subtly on the sides, not showy and pretentious - so as not to steal the shine from the 3-carat showstopper in the middle.
As I said.
Like me. Just a down-home country girl, practically living off the land, growing my own foods, making my own soaps.
I bemoaned the fact that I didn't own that ring to the vendor who was walking around with me.
Me, whiny and plaintive: "Why couldn't I have gotten a ring like that when I got married?!"
Vendor: "Uh, because you married a policeman instead of a jeweler."
And this is a lesson all young girls must be taught. If you're going to marry, marry a giant ring because that will last far far longer than the marriage. In most cases, anyway. Or in my case, as the case may be.
Reader? Send your young ladies over, I'm happy to impart my teachings on the Important Things In Life, with only a little bit of Sour added.
Whatever. I yearn for that ring.
And now? I needs to find me a jeweler. Or have My Mister get into the diamond business. And not the ones on a deck of cards.