Sunshiney Memories

Guy and I went to Cape Cod this weekend. Again. I know y’all are sick and tired of it—“You were gone? Where did you go? Massachusetts? You must REALLY like driving the Merritt. And, you know, being stuck in traffic.”

No, not really. But we do like the Cape. The twelve-year plan is to move there. (Or to Washington State. Or to Hawaii. Or possibly Scotland. One of those.) We have spent much time there—it was the first place we went away to together, our favorite restaurant is there (we ate at The Wicked Oyster four times in three days (and really if you count just getting coffee it was six times in three days)), and it’s quiet and wet and oceany and wonderful.

So we thought it would be appropriate to head on up to Provincetown on a rainy windy day and dodge the many Lesbosians* and browse some jewelry shops. The first one we went into was dark and dank and had some cheesy name like “Sunshiney Memories” and smelled funny and had a mildly crabby old woman behind the counter. It also had a ring, dated 1932, and etched all about with flower-fishes. (At least, that’s what they look like to me). It fit perfectly, looked lovely with my engagement ring, and looked even lovelier on its own.

The third one we went into was not an estate jewelry shop—it was a regular jewelry shop. Guy tried on several—your standard manly white gold band, the square-cut handcuff-looking band (um, NO), and a thinner rounded white gold band which he dismissed almost immediately as “too feminine.” We were about to leave, when I asked him to try it on again.

“Really?”
“Yes. You’re complaining that the others feel too big, so try that one.”

It was perfect. It was smooth and nonaggressive and not at all feminine. It looked right.

So we found both our wedding bands on Cape Cod.

Because I am, as has been stated many, many times before, a huge dork, I suggested we wear our wedding rings out to dinner. For, um, practice. But really just because it was pretty and new and I already have a dress that I can’t wear until next August, are you honestly asking me to do the same thing with jewelry, too?!

So we sat at The Wicked Oyster (of course) and lucky Guy even had a view of the Yankee playoff game. But he swore he would not look at it unless I asked him to.

This held true through the appetizers.

“No! It’s the first lie I’ve ever told you with our wedding rings on!” Guy wailed.
“Many more will come, I’m sure,” I said. “What’s the score?”

(That was the game we won, by the way.)

The food, as usual, was excellent. We always get exactly the same thing. Which isn’t as boring as it sounds because we only get there once or twice a year, and once or twice a year of having The Most Amazing Beef Tenderloin You’ve Ever Tasted is only natural. Mmmm, the duck and squash salad. Mmmm, the oysters. Mmmmm, that Bourbon magical mystery sauce they put on the tenderloin….

We went home after dinner, and we, um, “exercised.” We had planned to not exercise with the rings on and leave that bit of specialness until after we were actual married (not exercising period. Just exercising with the rings on. Guy would want that point made quite clear) but I spaced and left mine on.

And because much rich food and much strenuous exercise do not normally go hand in hand, I felt nauseous afterwards. And then I puked. A lot. With my wedding ring on.

WARNING: EXTREMELY GROSS OVERSHARING APPROACHING

I vomited so hard and so strenuously that I blew my nose afterwards and tiny chunks of steak were in the snot.

I also vomited so hard and squeezed my eyes shut so tight that I burst all the little tiny blood vessels around my eyelids.

Okay, they don’t look THAT bad. That’s my cellphone camera trying to make me feel like shit. Really it’s just a lot of tiny red dots.

I’ve been telling people Guy hit me. Much less humiliating.

(A better picture. Because I simply cannot post that picture of my eye without some redeeming picture after it).

*Trivial Pursuit Question we really did have this weekend: What do you call the citizens of the Isle of Lesbos?

Lesbosians.