THE FUNNY PAGES: II: TRUE-LIFE TALES; No Laughing Matter
By SAM APPLE (NYT) 942 words
Published: February 26, 2006
No jokes. It became my mantra as I thought about how I would ask my girlfriend, Jennifer, to marry me.
The jokes were out of control. They were taking over our apartment, bouncing off the walls and seeping into the nooks and crannies of our romantic life. Even saying ''I love you'' to Jennifer had lost its earnest punch after I fell into the habit of adding that the ''you'' in question was not Jennifer but rather a Chinese woman named Yu.
I wanted the engagement to be different. I wanted Jennifer to know it was she and not Yu I loved.
I couldn't help having a few absurd proposal fantasies. In moments of weakness, I thought of floating the ring in our toilet in a boat made of wooden tongue depressors. I would paint ''U.S.S. Engagement'' on the boat's side and perhaps drop rose petals in the surrounding water. I also considered burying the ring, diamond and all, in a jar of peanut butter and letting fate play its hand. If Jennifer never craved peanut butter again, then perhaps it wasn't meant to be.
But it was meant to be, and allowing Jennifer's taste for peanut butter to determine our future was crazy. I made reservations at a bed-and-breakfast in Saratoga Springs, N.Y. Jennifer and I would spend the day taking in the small-town charms, and then in the evening, on the banks of a shimmering body of water (for reasons I can't explain, I was convinced that shimmering water would magnify the seriousness of my intentions), I would ask her to be my wife.
The plan did not go smoothly. In pursuit of a lake I had located on my map, I led Jennifer on a meandering, hourlong trek. I grew increasingly lost, and Jennifer grew increasingly confused. In the seven years we had known each other, I never once suggested taking a walk. Nor had I ever expressed such great interest in a lake. The trek involved three life-threatening sprints across the same Interstate.
''Maybe we should turn back,'' Jennifer said.
''I just think this lake is going to be really amazing,'' I said.
When we found ourselves on a dark road with no signs of civilization in sight, I admitted to having no idea where we were. We hiked back to a gas station off the Interstate, where the seemingly stoned attendant told me that the lake I was looking for did not exist.
Stranded at a gas station on the outskirts of Saratoga Springs, the diamond ring loose in my right front pocket, I felt my resolve to be earnest beginning to wither. I would request that the attendant hide the ring in his thick hippie beard and then ask him to ask Jennifer to scratch his chin. I would buy a miniature Drake's Coffee Cake and pretend to choke. When the attendant Heimliched me, the ring would fly out of my mouth amid a spectacular shower of coffeecake crumbs.
No jokes! We took a cab back to our B-and-B, and at a nearby park, I found a small pond. There was no shimmering, but it would do. I got down on one knee and asked Jennifer to marry me. She said yes. It was wonderful.
We still had a day left to enjoy the small-town charms of Saratoga Springs. The next morning we headed to a horse show and llama-jumping contest at the racetrack. We arrived moments after the last llama had made its last jump, but our disappointment was overwhelmed by the dizzying array of kitschy horse paraphernalia for sale. We admired the collectors' plates adorned with mustangs running free. We bought bumper stickers for friends that said things like ''I Brake for Horse Shows'' and ''My Husband's Paycheck = New Horse Equipment.'' It was great fun, but then it began to feel wrong. We were still enjoying our engagement weekend, and yet already irony was returning from its exile.
I decided to call my grandmother Bashy. Bashy was 91 and suffering from Alzheimer's. I wasn't sure if she would absorb the news, but she had played a huge role in my life, and I wanted to share my happiness with her. Besides, no matter how senile she was, I knew that at some primal level, Bashy would hear and appreciate that I had found a Jewish woman to marry. In her better days, this would have been by far the most important detail. I could have brought home a mass murderer, her dress dripping with blood, and Bashy's first question would have been whether she kept a kosher home.
Bashy's attendant, Marta, answered and put Bashy on.
''Bashy, it's your grandson Sam,'' I shouted over the noise of the crowd. ''I'm getting married to a Jewish woman.''
''Yes, yes,'' Bashy said.
I wasn't getting through. I raised my voice as loud as I could. ''Bashy, I'm getting married to a Jewish woman. A JEWISH WOMAN.''
The heads of horse-show patrons began to turn.
''Bashy, can you hear me? I've found a Jewish woman to spend my life with!'' Suddenly, I saw that I was inadvertently creating the comic scene I had wanted to avoid, but it was too late.
''I'M GOING TO MARRY A JEW!'' I screamed.
The horse enthusiasts were now openly gawking, and when I hung up, the Jewish woman in question was nowhere to be found. Maybe I should have gone with the gas-station guy Heimliching me after all.
