I’m watching Sweet Home Alabama, and even when I saw it in the theater, when he takes her into Tiffany and tells her to “pick one” engagement ring, I got anxious. That’s too many choices, I’ll be here for 14 hours. YOU pick one. I’m-a go get a pretzel.
(And by “YOU pick one,” I mean pick one at Kohl’s and use the rest of the money to take us to Italy.)
(OK, fine, not really Kohl’s — I’m not THAT bad. But he’d know which friends to call.)
I’m listening to Michelle Obama’s audiobook, and she’s describing how Barack proposed to her in a restaurant. The server brought the dessert plate and lifted the fancy lid, and there was “a dark velvet box where the chocolate cake was supposed to be.”
And, OK, fine — yay, congrats, mazel, etc.
But also, um… You’re still gonna bring my cake, right? It’s just backstage somewhere?
I feel like she really glossed over the important part.
This is the greatest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. This woman is my new spirit animal.
But I need to go to Canada and show her what real pizza — and thus true love — is. That pizza doesn’t love you, Nicole. That pizza will betray you.
P.S. I didn’t even notice it said “shero,” because it was just too gloriously much at first, but really, that shit needs to stop. She’s a hero. That’s the word. Knock it off.
Friends of mine got engaged at Disney last night.
But, you know… I didn’t talk to anyone OR wear pants last night. So, really, who had a better evening?
Smug Singleton 