peacoat, diamond in hand.
This is how Sid set the standard for future generations of Brewster men. Sid’s son, Oliver, managed to measure up. He rented a catamaran, packed a fancy picnic lunch, and asked his wife, Katherine, to marry him while calmly drifting on Lake Tahoe. Sid’s grandson, Jordan, was much more showy. Four and half hours into the New York City Marathon, nearing the twenty-six-mile marker, Jordan slogged toward his future fiancée, slightly weighed down by a small, virtually colorless stone in his back pocket. Barely catching his breath, he took Abigail’s away when he stopped running, bent down, and proposed. She said yes and the crowd went nuts, pulling out premade signs that said stuff like “Congratulations” and “Now the Race to the Altar.” Jordan’s stunt even got a mention in the
Daily News.
To remain in Sid’s good graces, I, too, need to be faster than a marathon runner, more powerful than a catamaran, and able to propose on a tall building in a single bound.
The engagement story is important—all men know this. Women put your engagement story right up there with how you met and your first date. You can’t tell your children
I met your mother in prison.
You can’t tell your family your first date was at the dentist. You can’t tell your friends you proposed in the Burger King drive-through.
I’ll have a Whopper Jr. and your hand in marriage.
“Our engagement story is still in the planning stage,” I assure Sid.
“Of course it is, but how about a taste? Indulge a poor old man,” he says, smacking his lips. “Just a morsel.”
“Fine,” I say, wishing he’d drop the whole matter.
“Hey mamacita. What do you say you and me get hitched, shack up, and squeeze out a few pups?”
“Fan-tabulous!” Sid cheers with two raised fists. “Short, simple, and honest. You’ve got your short-term goals in there and your long-term ones. But that’s the payoff. Where, when, and how do we arrive on such poetic genius?” He sighs and gazes out across the bay. You can tell the warm breeze feels good on his face.
Before I can say anything, Sid butts in: “And seriously, kid, no food,” Sid demands, patting down a flyaway. “None of this malarkey where you drop the ring in a fancy drink or plant it on a cake.”
“Totally,” I agree quickly, mentally purging any and all food-oriented proposals. “What about one of those propeller planes with a banner? I did some research and it only costs, like, three hundred bucks.”
“No! No propeller planes! No electronic billboards, no ticker tapes, and no JumboTrons! No professional sporting events! You need to light up a blimp or shoot off fireworks without lighting up a blimp or shooting off fireworks.” He gathers his thoughts. “The key to a good romantic engagement story is
creativity
A little creative flare and the romance will pay off in spades,” he insists.
THE MUNI bus takes us from the Ferry Building to downtown San Francisco. From there, Sid and I embark on foot. San Francisco doesn’t have an official diamond district. No sketchy side streets where vultures swoop in on unsuspecting future grooms only to swindle away their life savings. All San Francisco really has is Union Square, where the crooks wear Armani suits and stand behind counters at upscale chains, ready to take pity on you and your paltry credit line.
But if we intend on finding a deal, we won’t find it at the likes of Shreve’s, Cartier, Bulgari’s, or Tiffany’s. We need a back room. We need someone on the inside.
Enter Igor Petrov, Sid Brewster’s personal go-to-guy. The Petrovs have been supplying Brewster men with diamonds for generations. Sid bought his first diamond from Petrov’s father, Dmitry. More recently Igor hooked Sid’s son and grandson up with gorgeous stones.
“What sort of engagement ring would Paige like?” Sid asks.
“I’m not sure.”
All I know is what I have to spend. Between both my credit cards, some emergency funds
This is how Sid set the standard for future generations of Brewster men. Sid’s son, Oliver, managed to measure up. He rented a catamaran, packed a fancy picnic lunch, and asked his wife, Katherine, to marry him while calmly drifting on Lake Tahoe. Sid’s grandson, Jordan, was much more showy. Four and half hours into the New York City Marathon, nearing the twenty-six-mile marker, Jordan slogged toward his future fiancée, slightly weighed down by a small, virtually colorless stone in his back pocket. Barely catching his breath, he took Abigail’s away when he stopped running, bent down, and proposed. She said yes and the crowd went nuts, pulling out premade signs that said stuff like “Congratulations” and “Now the Race to the Altar.” Jordan’s stunt even got a mention in the
Daily News.
To remain in Sid’s good graces, I, too, need to be faster than a marathon runner, more powerful than a catamaran, and able to propose on a tall building in a single bound.
The engagement story is important—all men know this. Women put your engagement story right up there with how you met and your first date. You can’t tell your children
I met your mother in prison.
You can’t tell your family your first date was at the dentist. You can’t tell your friends you proposed in the Burger King drive-through.
I’ll have a Whopper Jr. and your hand in marriage.
“Our engagement story is still in the planning stage,” I assure Sid.
“Of course it is, but how about a taste? Indulge a poor old man,” he says, smacking his lips. “Just a morsel.”
“Fine,” I say, wishing he’d drop the whole matter.
“Hey mamacita. What do you say you and me get hitched, shack up, and squeeze out a few pups?”
“Fan-tabulous!” Sid cheers with two raised fists. “Short, simple, and honest. You’ve got your short-term goals in there and your long-term ones. But that’s the payoff. Where, when, and how do we arrive on such poetic genius?” He sighs and gazes out across the bay. You can tell the warm breeze feels good on his face.
Before I can say anything, Sid butts in: “And seriously, kid, no food,” Sid demands, patting down a flyaway. “None of this malarkey where you drop the ring in a fancy drink or plant it on a cake.”
“Totally,” I agree quickly, mentally purging any and all food-oriented proposals. “What about one of those propeller planes with a banner? I did some research and it only costs, like, three hundred bucks.”
“No! No propeller planes! No electronic billboards, no ticker tapes, and no JumboTrons! No professional sporting events! You need to light up a blimp or shoot off fireworks without lighting up a blimp or shooting off fireworks.” He gathers his thoughts. “The key to a good romantic engagement story is
creativity
A little creative flare and the romance will pay off in spades,” he insists.
THE MUNI bus takes us from the Ferry Building to downtown San Francisco. From there, Sid and I embark on foot. San Francisco doesn’t have an official diamond district. No sketchy side streets where vultures swoop in on unsuspecting future grooms only to swindle away their life savings. All San Francisco really has is Union Square, where the crooks wear Armani suits and stand behind counters at upscale chains, ready to take pity on you and your paltry credit line.
But if we intend on finding a deal, we won’t find it at the likes of Shreve’s, Cartier, Bulgari’s, or Tiffany’s. We need a back room. We need someone on the inside.
Enter Igor Petrov, Sid Brewster’s personal go-to-guy. The Petrovs have been supplying Brewster men with diamonds for generations. Sid bought his first diamond from Petrov’s father, Dmitry. More recently Igor hooked Sid’s son and grandson up with gorgeous stones.
“What sort of engagement ring would Paige like?” Sid asks.
“I’m not sure.”
All I know is what I have to spend. Between both my credit cards, some emergency funds
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