A few years ago, I was lying around watching tv with the man who was then temporarily serving in the capacity as the love of my life when I saw a celebrity I don’t like wearing a ring that I did like. I blurted out the obvious: “She’s too trashy to have jewelry that nice.”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Well, you’re not rich enough to have jewelry that nice.” Of course I told him to fuck off, but the truth is that we were both right.

By the time Christmas rolled around, I had found a replica of the ring, of that ring, and it could be mine, mine, mine for the low, low price of just $400. I showed him the picture and he dismissed it with a “hmm” and the obligatory belch, then went back to his thoughts of girl-on-girl porn, imported beer, box scores, and whatever else it is that guys think about. A few days later, after I had done the subtle things like printing a picture of the ring and then taping it to his bathroom mirror, I knew exactly how to answer his question of what I wanted for Christmas: “Remember that ring?”

He laughed. “No, Ann, I mean, what do you really want for Christmas?”

Well, um, gee….the truth is that I was the one at fault. I had forgotten that, as a man, rule #1 when it comes to gift-giving is that the gift-giver (i.e. THE MAN) is always somehow the beneficiary of the gift itself. That’s why, as young girls, our mothers trained us to smile when we feign gratitude and say things like, “Why yes, honey, I always did want a pasta maker. And how thoughtful of you—that new vacuum cleaner is just the right color for the hall closet.” And then they taught us to go out and buy ourselves what we really want and burn the credit card statements when they come in.

But that Christmas he surprised me with a really nice gift: a trip to Austin, Texas. I mean, we went to see the bands that he wanted to see, but it was still a wonderful trip. And to make up for missing one of my favorite bands (Slobberbone) while we were out there, he said, “When we get back to Birmingham, we’ll go see a movie. You pick.” After I hesitated for what couldn’t have been longer than two heartbeats, he said, “Okay, let’s go see Lord of the Rings.”

I laughed, thinking he was joking. But he wasn’t. So, well, you have to know that I said it, that I told him that if I wanted to see short, thick-bodied, hirsute people who talk funny and who walk around barefooted, I’d go to Wal-Mart. And there, they have folks with goiters too. And you can smell them without having to simply imagine their mustiness. And, as if that wasn’t enough, they don’t even charge you seven bucks to walk in the door to witness the spectacle thereof.

Alas, we did, indeed, go to see the movie when we got back to Birmingham and, in all honesty, I really do hope that my snoring didn’t disturb anyone.

A few months later, we went our separate ways and, by then, I had forgotten all about the ring that, at one point in my life, I was so sure would kill me if I didn’t have…until a few weeks ago when I was ever so actively fueling my fantasy life by filling my online shopping cart with thousands upon thousands of dollars of boots, perfumes, teas, and jewelry and then deleting it all--when I happened upon that replica again. It was now just over $100. Hmm. We were getting closer. I bookmarked the page.

This morning, I went back to the page and, VOILA, it was discounted again. $50. And when I saw that there was an additional 10% discount for all orders placed before December 11^th, I knew it was a sign, a sign that I, too, should, or rather, must have it. And so I did it—I bought myself a Christmas present.

Most of you wouldn’t like it—it is big, heavy, perhaps even clunky. I know my mom will love it when I show up wearing it, though, in spite of the fact that she, herself, has never really worn much jewelry. And Christine will reach across the table for it when she sees it and I will laugh, laugh, laugh, because, no matter how much we agree on jewelry, my fingers are still so much smaller than hers. So yes, Virginia, it is true—there are so very few of us who really can wear rich and trashy.