It isn't something I planned. In fact, it was the last thing on my mind as I drove away from him on a harrowing May midnight. At that point it was stashed with my passport and favorite CDs, and I was only wondering if my sister really was willing to put me up for a while. But in the days that followed, as I bulleted out of L.A., I admit I dreamed of selling it to fund my return to New York. Or to buy myself a really good watch. Or to donate to a woman's shelter. (This fellow was from the occasionally aggressive line of fiancés. Not recommended.)

And in the wee Pepsi-and-Hershey's hours, I remembered old Aunt Helen, who pulled me and my sister aside at family dinners to hiss, "Get jewelry!" We were initially puzzled. "From mom?" She'd roll her eyes in despair, but kept up her campaign.

Sadly, I mostly got books from my men. My first two loves proffered heavy feminist tomes. (Yes, I turned out to be a writer, but gee.) Subsequent beaus migrated to novels and poetry, but it all added up to a lot of homework. As for my fiancé, the only thing he knew about feminists was the old light-bulb joke. (Q: How many feminists does it take to screw in a light bulb? A: That's not funny.) I liked it -- no surprise, since I told it first. All his friends had wives that were dripping with ice. Once, when his boring company was bought by a larger, even more boring company, he gave me a lovely pearl necklace. Aunt Helen would be relieved at last.

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