America the Blingiful

HOLY CRAP SUE.

The only thing that would interrupt me from my Obama Victory Party (by which I mean eating peanut butter straight out of the jar and crying with joy and relief and probably the extra dose of hormones in my new birth control pills - I mean WHY can they not make low-dose pills in the UK?! Come on people! - while watching his victory speech online) is this miraculous news that you have seen the light! Well, either that or you have been blinded by the rays emanating from your mumsy's fake diamond ring. Either way, this is tres exciting.

So do tell! What does your mom's ring look like? Do you like it or do you want a different style? Are you sure you want moissanite (which, honey, you really can't call "moissanite diamond"...unless you insert "fake" between the two words, dear) or perhaps does a wee part of your hot Asian self want The Doctor to splurge on a real diamond? Surely he can find a way to splurge now that you are seeing a financial advisor/therapist.

Though I must caution you, Sue. Make sure this is just not a whim! Don't get my hopes up that you will soon be sporting a blingalicious domestic partnership ring only to dash them and decide to wear that ring you liked that looks like a gift my 6th grade boyfriend gave me.

Not that this is about me.

But before you ask, YES, I am still sans Ring of Dreams. However! It's now November which can mean only one thing (to moi, anyway): bonus season is almost just around the corner! Which means my Ring of Dreams draws ever closer to becoming a Ring of Reality... 

Though I must say, I find it interesting that many of the married girls in my program are sporting neither diamond engagement rings nor diamond wedding bands. Kind of horrible, I know. But apparently diamond engagement rings are not the worldwide obsession I so naively and Americanly assumed they were.

But before The Lawyer should breathe a sigh of relief, let me confirm the fact that I cannot WAIT to blow my classmates away with the gorgeosity of my Ring of Dreams.

Not that this is about me.

So we need more details, stat!

And ladies out there, I second Sue's motion - post pics of your rings and link to us! Or send us pics of your rings and we'll post them! Sue needs our input ASAP!

xoxo,

DomestiGal Jen

This is about YOU, Sue.

Oh Sue,

I do not even know where to start with you.

First of all, please tell me you only forgot to blog about your anniversary, but that you did in fact remember to celebrate it with your beloved. And if you did forget to wish him a happy anniversary, I don't want to know. I mean I have been planning The Lawyer's second anniversary present since, like, the week before our first. But this is not about me.

Also, you got the correct season and year of our wedding, but the wrong month, my dear. Not that I am prepared to spill our actual date into the blogosphere, as I fear the sans-ring-jinx-potential, but I just want to make sure you are properly preggo at the right time.

Aha! Bet you thought the vision of you with The Good Doctor's spawn in your womb and no wedding ring on your finger presiding over my dream nuptials would scandalize me! Alas, no.

What is slightly unnerving, however, is that it seems you and Jewish George are starting to veer in quite different directions when it comes to turning the DP into a big M. I thought you were both cool with being in a post office worker-sanctioned Domestic Partnership. I mean, you're like my token alternafriend. All my other friends are or want to get married. I need someone in my life who adds a little diversity (and I don't just mean your half-Asian hotness).

But this is not about me. I just want to make sure that you are continuing to be true to yourfabself and that the lines of communication between you and Save-the-Children-Man are open and functioning as efficiently as Michael Phelps' freestyle.

I have enough things in my life to worry about right now, from starting my MBA to picking out wedding favors. Please do not add to the load.

(Not that this is about me.)

Love to you,

Jen

Confronting the Pap - as in Smear, not Arazzi

Dearest DP,

First of all, I must clarify the following: I would not qualify my crush on Michael Phelps (and possibly Channing Tatum, and, okay, Colin Firth too) as adulteress! Or even adulterous! Crushes are healthy. They keep life interesting. Besides, you should feast your eyes upon The Lawyer these days. Colossus has him looking waaaaay hot. So. Just wanted to clear that up, you pheisty Phelps phanatic you!

Now then. In the interest of TMI, I would like to fill you in on how I spent my morning (now that Mr. Phelps is no longer gracing our big screen TV with his mile-long abs).  Today marked my first foray into the world of British private healthcare.  'Twas time for my annual physical, so now that I am a dependent on the Lawyer's Insurance of Dreams (For real! Everything gets reimbursed! It's so much better than the crap insurance I had when I was actually employed.) I made an appointment at a local private clinic.

Going to a private doctor in the UK is like going to a hot tapas restaurant (and apparently much more palatable than the alternative: the National Health Service). You pick and choose from their menu of services, each of which comes with its own hefty price tag.  Today, besides the usual dishes, it was necessary for me to indulge in a pap smear, which - I was rather gobsmacked to discover - was conducted by the general practitioner himself. Um, awkward! 

My doctor was perfectly nice - very British, very proper. His wedding ring shone handsomely on his ring finger. He was wearing a gorgeous bespoke suit with a pink and blue striped tie. His office had big windows and a beautiful fireplace, with nice art on the walls. I felt like I was in his living room. Pretty darn swankified.

Also in his office? The examination table. 

Dr. Proper took my family history, checked my height, weight, blood pressure, and listened to my chest. Then he left the room as I dropped my pants and put the loveliest, softest towel over my legs. Upon his return, I spread 'em as he requested, and the deed was done swiftly. No stirrups (woohoo!).

But still. I am a little weirded out by this, you know? I miss the linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, paper gowns, and general sterility - both literal and figurative - of my NYC gyn's office. I felt bad for having to drop trou in the middle of this guy's gorge digs. He seemed fine with it, but afterwards I had to fight the urge to apologize for exposing myself to his collection of ancient Roman coins and plush furniture.  Not to mention sullying the silky-soft Egyptian cotton towel. 

Still feeling a bit sheepish, but I know I'll recover. Maybe I'll go watch some creepy stalkerish vids of Michael Phelps on YouTube. Not that I would know how to find them.

Love from papland,

DG