Engagement Ring, December 2006-March 2007 (Part 3 of 3)

Days after Deborah's engagement ring disappeared into thin air like Osama bin Laden on the Afghan-Pakistani border, I was still seriously bummed. Then I read about the unluckiest man in the world.

This jaco in London apparently put a $12,000 engagement ring into a balloon so his girlfriend would "pop" it as he "popped" the question. But before the proposal, a gust of wind rolled by and the balloon, with the ring, went up, up and away. "I had to tell her the story – she went absolutely mad," Leffkos Hajji told Reuters. "Now she is refusing to speak to me until I get her a new ring."

Or, he could tell her to go eff herself, but that's neither here nor there. Bottom line, I read that story and felt slightly better.

But that's not all! Click here for the exciting conclusion to the Ring Saga.


Engagement Ring, December 2006-March 2008 (Part 2 of 3)

When Deborah came home from Washington, DC last weekend, it took a few minutes before I felt her bare ring finger. And then things went something like this:

"Babe, did you accidentally leave your ring in DC again?!?"
"Oh, okay. Good."
"I actually lost it."

Silence. Nothing. We were both sort of speechless. If you've ever spent any time around either of us at any point, you know this must have been quite a remarkable moment.

Deborah explained that after she realized the engagement ring was gone, she spent hours looking for it at the two apartments where she had spent time over the weekend. I wanted to ask her if she left it on her other boyfriend's bedside table, but I was so bummed I wasn't even in the mood to drop B-level infidelity jokes.

Deborah said she had spent so much time worrying about my reaction that she toyed with some ideas about how to tell me what happened, including the following diddy [a name has been omitted]:

"Listen, Matt, I gotta tell you something. Our good friend, -----, has AIDS."
"Oh my God! Really?!?!?"
"No...But I lost the engagement ring."

To find out more about my alternatively mature and self-righteous reaction to the end of the ring, continue here.


Engagement Ring, December 2006-March 2008

Please pour a drop of your morning coffee on the office or kitchen floor today as we sit shiva for Deborah's engagement ring, which disappeared last week.

Oh, ring. You were good ring, ring. Yes, that pearl did sort of stick out a little--a lot, actually--and you sometimes ended up banging yourself against doors, people and pets. You occasionally fell on the floor or behind dressers, which was annoying. But you looked dope on Deborah's hand, and even our wedding DJ, who is considerably cooler than we are, called us the coolest couple ever after seeing you on Deborah's finger.

How did the ring disappear? We'll get to that. In the mean time, this losing-the-ring thing is the most exciting thing that's happened on the Engaged Guy in years, and you know it, so you'll excuse me if I gorge myself on this topic this week...

That having been said, you can find a little background on the first moments of my 15-month relationship with the ring at here, at mattkatz.tokoni.com. Tokoni is a new social networking site based on the idea that we are all connected by our stories, and they've invited me to do some writing for them. Check 'em out!


Blonde Over Blonde

I've been growing my hair recently under the theory that after a guy gets a haircut, everyone thinks he looks good just because it looks different. So if my hair gets really shaggy and I cut it right before (or during) the wedding, then I'll be the handsome groom no one expected I'd be.

These new long-ish locks prompted my boss to suggest I lighten my hair. Possibly she said this as a joke. Either way, I mentioned it to Deborah, and before I knew it she was envisioning this yin-yang thing at our wedding with me in a dark suit and light hair and her in a light dress and dark hair. I have always harbored secret curiosity about dye-jobs, so I listened intently. The next thing I knew, she was in the hair aisle at CVS.

I stripped to my skivvies, we listened to Bob Dylan's brilliant "Blonde On Blonde" album and Deborah began painting my hair. It took a few minutes before the pain in my scalp set in; those were a good few minutes. Then the pain became embarrassingly unbearable, so I showered and emerged from the bathroom...a redhead.

The red soon dissipated to something resembling strawberry blonde, as you can see above. As I gazed at my new doo in the mirror, Deborah said: "It looks better in the mirror than in real life."

What am I supposed to do with that, exactly?

At work, women said they liked it, but they're preprogrammed to say that to anyone with a dye-job. It's a female law of nature, like childbirth. The men, meanwhile, compared me to one of the following: Ellen DeGeneres, Martina Navratilova or David Spade. I'm pretty sure those weren't compliments. Most didn't make any comment whatsoever, but one told me that the next time we were out drinking he'd "tell me how he really felt."

Anyone know how long I'll look like this? Will people talk smack about my roots during the wedding? And should I alert the Human Rights Campaign about the friend who declared this "the gayest thing Matt Katz has ever done"?


Is My Mom Trying To Tell Me Something By Sending Me This Email Forward? If So...Awkward

This is a true story about a recent
wedding that took place at Clemson University.

It was in the local newspaper and even Jay Leno mentioned it. It was a huge wedding with about 300 guests. After the wedding, at the reception, the groom got up on stage with a microphone to talk to the crowd. He said he wanted to thank everyone for coming, many from long distances, to support them at their wedding.

He especially wanted to thank the bride's and his family and to thank his new father-in-law for providing such a lavish reception.
As a token of his deep appreciation he said he wanted to give everyone
a special gift just from him. So taped to the bottom of
everyone's chair, including the wedding party was an envelope.

He said this was his gift to everyone, and asked them to
open their envelope.
Inside each manila envelope was an 8x10 glossy of his bride having sex with the best man. The groom had gotten suspicious of them weeks earlier and had hired a private detective to tail them.

After just standing there, just watching the guests' reactions for a couple of minutes, he turned to the best man and said, 'F---you!' Then he turned to his bride and said, 'F--- you!'

Then he turned to the dumbfounded crowd and said, 'I'm outta here.' He had the marriage annulled first thing in the morning.

While most people would have canceled the wedding immediately after finding out about the affair, this guy goes through with the charade, as if nothing were wrong. His revenge--making the bride's parents pay over $32,000 for a 300-guest wedding and reception, and best of all, trashing the bride's and best man's reputations in front of 300 friends and family members.

This guy has balls the size of church bells.

[I looked it up -- it's a bogus email circulating since 1995 and based on a December 1985 Weekly World News article...Email forwards are seriously the single worst thing to come out of the www revolution. From now on, I'm too busy looking at something awesome on YouTube to open another FWD.]


Let's Hope The Marriage Thing Works Out Better Than The Fantasy Baseball Career

As you can see from these standings, my fantasy baseball career has been less than successful. Just twice in five years, my team Broad Street Butter finished in a position that wasn't last place or second-to-last -- but in both cases the last place team owner died midway through the season and, therefore, stopped playing.

Not me. Death won't stop me from checking my lineup, making bad trades, researching endless baseball sites, dreaming about Peter Gammons and otherwise doing as complete as possible a job as a fantasy baseball owner. Nonetheless, I fail. (I also finish in last place in fantasy football every year, but I actually understand baseball.)

It doesn't make sense, and it has the potential to ruin my marriage. News that another fantasy baseball season is around the corner (draft in 10 days! already one bad trade my belt!) left Deborah's eyes rolling yesterday. My sheer shittiness at managing Broad Street Butter genuinely seems to disturb her, as if my inability to run a fantasy team says something larger about my luck, my business acumen, my earning potential, my ability to produce strong male offspring and my general lot in life.

Unfortunately, I tend to agree with her. As Broad Street Butter goes, the theory goes, so does Matt Katz. That's why the best part of every baseball season is now, before the season begins, when my record is still .500. Hope is unlimited, and the bitter failures of yesteryear don't mean shit.


These Boys In The Basement With The Pecs And The Facial Hair

Several questions came to mind as I watched Deborah clean out her parents' basement this past weekend:

  • Why did Deborah paint so many paintings of her boyfriends?
  • Why are they so good?
  • Why are the boyfriends often in various states of undress?
  • Do I have smaller pectorals than these guys?
  • More to the point, does Deborah think about the fact that I have the smallest pectorals?
  • Are my lack of pectorals related to the fact that there are 0 paintings of me in the basement?
  • Or is it the lack of facial hair?
  • And why is Deborah looking at me weird as I take pictures of these boys in the basement?

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